Tenebrae Manor Read Online Free PDF Page A

spiral stairwell entering the room. Up and up he went until the curtain of black ascent was peeled away and his eyes fell upon his nook with blissful nostalgia.
    “There is something in Libra’s words,” he muttered.
    He shook his head though, for he was well aware that were he to adopt Libra’s languid disposition, Tenebrae Manor would swiftly fall into chaos.
    Bordeaux removed himself from the confines of his burgundy coat, further revealing his slim frame, wrapped as it were in his grey waistcoat. The shirt beneath, streamlined in elegance, was of a red so dark as to put even his fine coat to shame. The passion of the most violent primary colour shone from his clothing as the very definition of the word. Were blood to have soaked the fibres of it, it would appear insipid by comparison.
    The demon carefully draped his coat over its rack and placed his shoes beneath it with precise pedantry. His wrists turned outwards as if to absorb the very feel of his room in all its creature comforts. They were comforts of simplicity. His room was decorated with meaningful ornaments acquired throughout his extensive life. On his writing desk, a set of panpipes tied with feathery tassels, a skull of some long dead human being, its eyes dripping with the tallow of a candle placed upon the scalp like a pointed hat. Pendants of sincere craftsmanship displaying the care and love that went into their creation. Within a pearly clamshell, Bordeaux plopped ring after ring of brilliant silver as he removed the ten that he usually wore. One on every digit, each engraved with patterns of paisley or intricate ivy. Inks and paints sat orderly placed upon a drawing board covered in unfinished sketches and manuscripts. Crimson curtains swayed like ghosts in the open window on the northern facade, their movements drawing Bordeaux to the ledge where his extravagant telescope was assembled. A wind was concocting its gusts in the atmosphere beyond and for a fleeting, exciting moment, Bordeaux thought it was the signal of a long awaited cold change in the weather. Alas, the currents were a scalding variety, churning up the torpid air from its stagnant hibernation.
    “A change of sorts,” Bordeaux reasoned with himself. The heat was still sapping, sweating out its wild fever but at least there was movement in the air. The pond had been disturbed, a current created, no longer did it sit like static tarn.
    He placed his ruby eye against the eyepiece of the telescope and scoured the watercolour canvas of the night; there were no stars. The clouds were indistinguishable wisps of grey, appearing as brush strokes of some masterful deity’s hand.
    With a flick of his hand, Bordeaux sent the sepia globe next to the telescope spinning on its axis. Continents and seas blended into each other and the demon let out a sigh.               Gathering his pan flute in his claw, Bordeaux sat on the windowsill and deftly blew upon a note of somber tenor, the beauty of its echo drifting off outside with a tribal husk. The flute swayed beneath his pursed mouth like a metronome as his eyes transfixed themselves onto the large painting hanging on the eastern wall. It was a favourite of the artistically inclined demon, a piece of vibrant impressionism. A seaside scene of serenity leapt from the canvas in a burst of light and colour. The waves that crashed onto the grainy shore snaked into the horizon in serpentine curls of gold and blue, reflecting the sun as it rose. It was all Bordeaux remembered of the day. The sun, the celestial orb of brilliant fire, was still intense on the morning backdrop of the colourful painting. The brushstrokes were jagged stabs, as though the painter had vented all fury upon the work and conjured the exact opposite of the aforementioned emotion, a scene of pristine contentment. Its intensity threatened Bordeaux, though he felt exhilarated to gaze upon it. It was a world he had known once, so very long ago. A world so different to the