The Battle for Monksville
The Battle for Monksville first began long ago, a great deal of time before The Giant baited his second tip-up and sent Arguinos the eel on his final swim. The battle first began in the third cycle after the filling of the Monsville Res’, the battle waged on for four torturous seasonal cycles of pain, death, and famine felt by all and missed by none, and now on this arctic winter day, as the great shine sets and the moon illuminates the heavenly starpool like The Gleam illuminated the murky waters between the pair isles all those cycles ago, the battle will finally be decided.
There can be only one true victor; though the Mighty Mother Monksville bows presently to no king, she kneels before two gods, one false and malevolent, one true and pure of heart. That is not to say The Giant is a true god – goodness no, he’s a simple giant very much like you and I – and neither is it to say The Beast is any sort of higher being – do not dream of it, he’s just a lost soul, a monster from another realm displaced and ripped from his home, never to return again – but such things are clear to us and us alone, small giants, for we walk upon this world with an infinity spinning inside our skulls, we are capable of seeing things not necessarily for what they truly are, but certainly for something close to that truth. At least, that’s what I’d like to think, but I do so very often digress; to us and the other giants the difference between a god and a denizen is a simple one to discern, but to the denizens of Monksville? To the likes of lakebreathers such as Senvir the walleye who swam swiftly for murkier waters while The Beast howled forth and ripped through the Southern Expanse en route to Lure Cove, such a difference may not be as clear. Nay, it may not be as clear at all, it may in fact be murkier than the cloud of muck Senvir whipped up to shield himself from impending doom; to Senvir, two gods wage war in the waters of Monksville on this day, and the valley in which those waters sit trembles under the strain of the conflict.
The Beast took the snakefish in one foul gulp. He did not harm Arguinos, he did not puncture the eel’s slick and slimy form with his jagged teeth, he merely swallowed the eel whole. If another giant were to spin you this yarn they may spare your feelings and say Arguinos still lives, that the eel swims in the belly of The Beast as The Beast swims enraged in the belly of Monksville, but I cannot in good conscious tell such a lie. When The Beast consumed the eel, he did so with such a force as to tear the eel’s body clean off the barbed hook. As the dying eel fell into the blackest pit any denizen should ever have the misfortune of knowing, the hook writhed about in The Beast’s maw until the barbed point lodged itself firmly into The Beast’s bottom jaw, impaling the monster’s gums and striking his jawbone like a rattlesnake may strike a stupid ‘munkie. This pain, entirely unlike the pain of the buzz inside The Beast’s head yet just as sickeningly painful, chucked The Beast into a new state of insanity. Even monsters have their limits, and for this deranged scaly bastard that limit was not just reached but broken, shattered, set to a new height, a height which, if whatever gods watch over The Beast are willing, will never be reached again.
The moment he felt the metal hook chip his jawbone, The Beast screamed out in a way that forced The Dome to cease the broadcast of its buzzing for a short while, a few minutes or perhaps merely a few seconds, but it was long enough. With a clear head, The Beast realized this was his chance for escape, possibly the only chance he will ever get, and there is only one way out – through the spillover gap of the beavers’ dam.
Then the short while finished out. The Dome resumed its broadcast, The Beast resumed insanity, and the never-ending cycle spiraled on with the continued presence of The Beast, the pet of those beings who inhabit The Dome, in the waters of Monksville.
What was once a straight line and a foolproof plan of escape is now a tangled mess of bent and knotted wire, a psychotic weaving of The Giant’s solid metal fishing line around rocks and boulders, through great forests of sunk driftwood, under sunk corpses of fishing boats made with mismatched cuts of wood warped by overuse until leaks sprung and they were claimed by Monksville. The Beast trailed the line every which way he could, the pain of the hook blinding him while the roar of the buzz tore him further and further from the safe beaches of stable mind. When he finally finds the dam and realizes what he was made so quickly to forget, the metal line is pulled tight, the tip-up’s spool is spun out, and The Giant’s right arm is submerged up to the shoulder in the hole he drilled into the ice.
The ice which is now beginning to crack.
This has been the seventeenth subchapter of the third chapter of the book The Monksville Chronicles. Here is everything you need to know about it:
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