Description: A young woman meets a peculiar Lampmaker...
Nighttime in Victorian England, the streets are dark, and wet.
Walking alone in the dark night, a Lampmaker calmly strides over glistening cobblestones.
In his hands is an intricate gas lamp. The glass is thick, and brown, hand-blown, and made with care. The glass of the lamp's bulb is shaped like a woman, kneeling in prayer. The details are precise, intricate, and flawless. Made by an artisan of otherworldly skill.
The man himself walks wearing a heavy raincoat, his eyes are obscured. A haggard wrinkled face beneath the hood, his thin lips take labored breaths as the lamp lights his way.
Approaching from the other direction is a woman, walking out from the darkness. From her elegant hat and umbrella to her frock, she was a woman of class and privilege, walking the streets in the evening without concern.
As she approached the Lampmaker, the glinting fire behind the glass of the bulb caught her eye.
"Pardon me," she addressed the Lampmaker cordially.
The Lampmaker stopped, lifting the lamp to illuminate the pair in the dark street. He did not speak, merely casting the lamp's light on the young aristocrat.
"Where did you find such a unique lamp?" she asked with extreme interest.
"This lamp?" he said softly, approaching her, "I made this lamp myself. I am a Lampmaker, by trade.
"The woman looked over the lamp, examining the fine details of the woman's face in prayer. She appeared to be pleading, on her knees, her hands clasped together in desperation. The emotion captured on the glass was powerful. So much so that the flickering light behind her face made it appear as if she were crying. The aristocrat half expected the bulb to begin to sob.
"You're quite the skilled artisan," she said, "how much do you sell these lamps for?"
"There is no price," the Lampmaker said, "which I can name." He offered her the lamp, "please, tell me what you think it is worth.
"The woman reached out for the lamp, and as he handed her the handle, it slipped from her gloved hand.
The woman heard a shriek, which she dismissed as her own, as the lamp crashed down and shattered on the cobblestone road.
Rather than the oil bursting into flame, the flame vanished in a puff of white smoke, leaving the woman and the Lampmaker in darkness.
"Oh my! I am so sorry," she looked to the Lampmaker, "I will replace your beautiful light! Name your price."
The Lampmaker smiled an eerie grin, his teeth brightening the darkness around them. "That's fine love," he said, his hand reaching out for the woman before him, "I'll just take yours."
...
Walking alone in the dark night, a Lampmaker calmly strides over glistening cobblestones.
In his hands in an intricate gas-lamp. The glass is thick, and white, hand-blown, and made with care. The glass of the lamp's bulb is shaped like an upper-class woman, standing in the road, an umbrella in her hands. The details are precise, intricate, and flawless. Made by an artisan of otherworldly skill.
For the Lampmaker has no light of his own, he merely uses the light of others for his craft.
Credit: Devlin Riptide
0 Comments