"Agreed." Monroe turned her stern gaze upon the other woman. Meredith looked nervous, as if she didn't know what to believe, but she made no move to go upstairs. Her eyes went to where blood had spilled by the fireplace and main work bench. Had she seen what they were fighting? Saw how Monroe was thrown back? What had she seen in the dark, from the safety of the front door?

"You said bodies." The peppered teeth of the Guard could be seen in flashes, turning towards Monroe. She figured they had written off Trevor, probably thought him insane and Syr Cathmore could not fault them for that assumption.

Why hadn't she thought of that to begin with?

"A family. A creature, near humanoid, attacked us here in this room. It escaped upstairs, broke through the window leading to the back alley..." Monroe casted a hand around the area she had attacked it, but there was not much evidence to show any sign of fighting done here. That part wasn't as important. "The bodies looked to have been torn apart with an instrument. A meat hook, to be exact. That one you can find still stuck in the —"

Monroe stopped herself, flicking her gaze back to Meredith. She looked pale, terrified, and it gave her a moment of wondering how much shit she had to see in order to not be so affected anymore. When was the last time she had reacted the way Meredith had?

"So if he's Trevor, who the fuck are you?" Asked the other guard. He withered under the slow turn of Monroe's hardened stare. "Sorry..." Came his meek apology.

"Syr Cathmore, Knight Sworn of the Sanctum of Dawn."

"From the Order? Aren't you supposed to travel in twos?"

Her lips pursed. "I am on leave." She waved her hand towards the stairs, both dismissal and invitation. "Go outside, get some fresh air if you wish." Her gaze flicked to Meredith. She wasn't sure if the woman would stay in this room, meat all around and keeping the room stale of fresh scent. Her eyes went to Trevor next.

The subtle jerk of her head went unnoticed by the guards. She wanted him to go up with her, to look around while she took the Guards around to see the corpses. Something was not right in this house, and their clues would be found here.
 
Well, that worked.

Perhaps Trevor should start saying he was from the Order when he got into trouble. Seemed cheaper than the alternative. But no. Would only fuck up their name. And each man was supposed to have a chance to drag his own bits through the mud. Best not to take that from anyone. He’d spent enough time being Trevor to understand the gift of a normal name.

So he did his best not to fuck these people further. They were getting plenty already.

“Right, you heard her.” Reluctantly got up and placed the nearly finished bit of meat in front of Fuckup. At least the little guy would appreciate it. Them other fuckers weren’t even trying to eat. Downright disrespectful to Vin, that.

“Oh, and maybe we keep it zip about the whole creature bit.” It was more advice than memory. “You don’t want to see what shroudfiend panic looks like.”

Wiped the greasy hands on his thighs and followed Monroe upstairs.

“Don’t fuck with the cat.” Sounded like a joke, but he really hoped they wouldn’t test him.
 
Last edited:
"Fair point." Monroe murmured. She had seen her fair share of hysteria and chaos; the unknown always had a way of forming it's own monster.

The guards gave both Monroe and Trevor looks of disbelief, but the Knight met their stares unwavering. "If seeing a dead body makes you ill at the thought, then perhaps you should fetch someone who could be of use to me." She challenged. Both glowered at her, but made to move up the stairs. She had seen bodies before, but seeing that of kind faces of innocents so bloodied and torn, Monroe had to steel herself before moving the follow.

This time, she did not slip on blood. It still coated her boots, where the scrape a few steps from the stairwell showed just where she had fallen. Fuck. She had been tracking blood into the rooms, but her trailing had been accompanied by another set of blood. Large drips, leading into the hallways before getting lost.

"Fucking hells." Swore the scrawny guard. He turned his head, lifting it upwards as if that was where he could find reprieve. The other guard strode on ahead, taking in the details of red.

"He was dragged." A hand pointed out the path, right up to the point old man was left in the hallway, obstructing the doorway to a bedroom.

"There's a meat hook..." Monroe nodded to the body. The guard took a step closer and peered, seeing it lodged in the shoulder. "The assailant escaped through the window. I slipped in the blood right there, had to burn my old jacket and borrow a new one just so Meredith didn't have to see."

"Ay, I know Meredith." The guard sighed, moving onto a bedroom. "Works with my sister at the haberdashery."

Monroe now cut a look at Trevor, jerking her chin to the room Old Man Vincent was blocking. Start looking. The room was half bedroom, half office. A desk littered with papers, it almost looked as if those papers and ledgers had bled to the floor. Drawers had been pulled out, rifled through. The room looked as tidy as careful chaos. It had been searched through in a hurry, but the living quarters looked untouched. No wrinkle was spotted in the made bed, but where dust had collected on that side of the room, it showed there had been disturbance.
 
He was ready to catch Monroe should she slip again, but the knight was more surefooted this time. They shuffled up, and he left them to examining the bodies. What had the killer been searching for?

Never understood saying goodbye to bodies – not even when he did it himself. Might as well burn the things and then talk to the ashes. No one left in there anyway. And if you talked too long…well, it wasn’t a pretty sight when you were forced to pacify them all over again.

Who even hurt people with a meathook? Wasn’t a very efficient way to do it. Perhaps they were interrogated…but why the copious amounts of blood everywhere, then? None of it added up.

Trevor caught her glance and nodded.

Borrow was a funny way to put it. Was she planning on burying the jacket later? Burning it, perhaps? All seemed terribly wasteful.

Stepped over the corpse of Vin, what was left of him anyway, and took that side of the search.

And what the hoofbastard missed, Trevor literally stepped on. Below the long burntout candle, a smaller piece of partially charred paper. Only three words escaped the flame:

“…knows I talked.”

Hint of a signature at the very bottom. Nothing he recognized.

“Uh…guys!”
 
Monroe was there before the guard.

"Hells." Words Monroe would have echoed if her eyes had not looked about the room. It was a far better change of scene of the death and violence that hung in this home; disarray and neatness all in one room seemed to alight something in her.

"Disturbed dust." She noted, being careful not to touch anything now.

"We need to report this, Garren." Said the scrawny guard from the hall.

"Aye, go on." The other guard sounded distracted, honed in on his work before him. Monroe turned her back to him and rolled her eyes. Why had they not alerted earlier? The news of several dead bodies warranted only two of this town's best? The sound of the stairs creaking under slow footfalls could be heard, and Monroe turned to face the room.

"Did Vin have a son?" She asked, a hand indicating several personal items that suggested a young boy or man slept in this room. Books littered every shelf, sketches of greenery, flowers, mountains, all the types of landscapes one would see from this town. The thought of having forgotten where she decided to stay was still lost on her, but Monroe knew Altalusian vistas. Whomever occupied this room traveled these lands.

Travel cloak, field jacket, large boots. Meticulously kept in place on the living quarters side, and opening the small wardrobe revealed nothing out of place.

"Yes, Gregg. He doesn't work with the family business..."

Monroe frowned. If she had her dusker counterpart, she knew Saskia would ask the questions that would help set the scene. Help Monroe form ideas and patters. So what would Syr Kerraelas say? Something about shadows. They always talked to the bubbly knight, spoke in whispers and secrets.

She lowered to one knee. Leaned onto her hands braced again hardwood flooring. Beneath the bed was nothing. It was dark, no natural light able to find it's way down here. And so her arm stretched beneath and searched, finding nothing but a loose board that almost splintered at her sweeping hand.

From below, Meredith's voice carried up the stairs. "I checked down here but found every window and door was sealed shut!"

"I'll... uh, go check on that." Garren nodded to them both, exiting the room.

Monroe cursed beneath her breath, her exhale disturbing the dust that collected here on the floor. She pried the board loose, pulling it out and feeling. Her fingers touched a hessian pouch, the unmistakable clink of coin as her hand wrapped around it and pulled it free. "There's another one in there I think. Trevor, come help me move this bed." She was too old to have to crawl beneath such spaces.
 
Watched them get pulled away one by one – and whether it was Meredith, Garren, or the bed – no one bothered with what he’d found. Perhaps that too was an omen. Trevor pocketed the charred bit of paper and wondered why he was investigating the reason at all. Murder was murder. And while it would be quite lucky to find the thing that did it, he was appropriately afflicted.

The clink of coin only confirmed what he already knew. This wasn’t a robbery. Too much good stuff had been left behind. And while thieving sometimes turned to bloodier affairs, it sure as shit didn’t turn to corpsesitting.

His thoughts needed a settle as he put his back to work at the opposite edge of the bed.

Wondered what she was hoping to find.
 
What they had uncovered was a small chest, unable to close due to how many letters were stuffed into it. Some parchment had been crumpled and folded carelessly, squashed and unruly, but Monroe had no hesitations in withdrawing the contents and spilling them onto the pristine floor between herself and Trevor.

When she had entered the room, she had seen him rifling through papers, had held one up, but her vigilance turned to the rest of the room. Seeing the letters, all carefully written with a penmanship that leaned on towards feminine lettering, Monroe frowned.

"My dearest Gregg," Monroe read, unable to hide the near sneer to her tone and expression, "I hope to see you soon. Meet me at the fallen aspen tree at the waning crescent moon. You know which one."

She turned the parchment over, wondering if there was more to the message, but only saw a signature. "Gods, I cannot begin to even think about reading that." It had too many swirls and loops, the cursive lettering more hurried than the rest of the letter. "Perhaps a lover?"

Her eyes flicked up to Trevor, handing over the chest to him. Why else keep all of this and hide it away? Pouches of coin hidden along with it.
 
Plucked the letter from her fingers.

“We won’t be mocking every soft thing.” Sounded tired. “Just cause you’re bleeding.”

Wasn’t even sure he had any right to be angry. But he was. Even if he’d said worse. Done worse.

Fished for the burned piece in his pocket and overlayed the two. Looked to be the same hand. The signature looked better on the full letter.

“Hey… doesn’t that look like an M?” Like fucking Meredith. Looked to the door and realized it’d been a while since he’d seen or heard the mousy woman.
 
Last edited:
She should have denied it, told Trevor he was dropped as a baby to even think that assumption so quickly, were it not for the piece he provided now set beside the clean signature. The swirls and loops, her eyes mapped every stretch of ink and could see the name come forth.

"Fuck me." She sighed, stuffing her hands with the letters and shoving them into the many pockets the new coat she wore had. "We can't sit here and prove it, but we need to look for this Gregg. I'll take these with me, leave the coin. It ain't ours."

Monroe exhaled through her nose, rubbing it with the back of her hand. She stilled, a moment enough to feel the air around them warming. It rose from beneath, a distant crackling she was unsure if she was hearing right. Her head whipped to the door, seeing a haze that had not been there before.

"Fire." Her entire face turned to cold. Not out of fear, no. That was something she learned to swallow down. What tried to come forth was rage. Fire had that effect on her, knew how to sing to her underlying rage, to coax it out of her. It became a problem for her, one she hoped to fix before showing her face back at Astenvale. She didn't want their worries, or their concern.

Her boots thundered across the room, sensing the fire. "My fucking jacket." It had been roaring by the time they came upstairs, feeding the fire. Monroe had made sure that fire knew it's purpose in life before sputtering out. Was rather good at telling natural elements how to behave.

This was someone else's influence.

"We can't go down there. We practically set up this place to burn." Between her fire weaving and him laying a trap to ensnare the fucked figure that came at them in the dark, they didn't have much time before this place was entirely engulfed in flames. Monroe couldn't count on her own weaving's falters to control such hungry flames. "Out that window. In the hall."

The one the fucker escaped through.
 
His first thought was to fight her on the coin. Nobles, even former ones, often spoke like that. Like coin was some foreign whatever, and it could just be randomly left behind to the ground. Like it wasn't a thing this Gregg fucker would need after they burned his house. Like it wasn't a thing they could drink if the son dropped dead too. Waste was for people with more options. They weren't it.

But a deeper worry had caught up.

There were three of them below. Whoever had set the fire up had clearly gotten past them – but either way, they could still be down there. Could still be alive.

Fire licked up the stairway.

If there was a type of Luck that left you unburned, hadn't met her yet. So he stood there, scared shitless. Because most people didn't really die to the fire. Some suffocated. Others... well, you had to finish the job.

„Monroe, can you pull that shroudshit again?“ Remembered her stilling the fire. Making it obey.

„Please...“ Quieter now.

Fire or no – they weren't walking away without checking. Not again.

Needed to wrap himself in something wet. To cover his face and move. Needed many things.

But legs took some convincing.
 
Refusal was at the tip of her tongue, but that quiet please drew her gaze to him.

He didn't look like a brute. Didn't look like much as he was thin and about the same height as her. Trevor didn't pose much threat, and yet there was something haunting in those eyes of his. She could have been adamant, to trust if anyone else was caught below, they would know where to escape.

But his hesitation made her remember what Meredith had called out before. That nearly every window or door had been sealed.

Having one exit...

Put your shit aside, Cathmore.

"Fine." She went back into the room, hands gripping the soft linen sheets tucked into the bed and pulled it off. The pillow cases, she took those too. Holding one out to Trevor, her brows furrowed. "It will help with the smoke. If I say we need to leave, then you better fucking leave. Fire is the most destructive natural element."

A reminder that needed to be said. Monroe tied her own pillow case over her face, covering nose and mouth. The sheets were to protect anyone they came across, or themselves. The heat could be unbearable, but Monroe used to warm herself with fires in the coldest of winters.

He isn't right, Cathmore. Fire isn't your rage. You can wield other elements just as equally.

Her uncle had two days before he died, two days to tell Monroe every bitter thing his sickness feasted upon him. Blamed her for the tragedies that befell the town Cathmore. Had made the motion to change the name on every map. Had told her that the fire that destroyed their town was her doing. To weave from the shroud had a cost.

"Ready?" She asked Trevor. Monroe needed those two seconds between question and answer, two seconds to convince herself that she could do this.
 
Smaller linens awkwardly tied over the nose and behind the ears. Stuffed the dangly bits into the sweaty collar, tightened the shirt.

Pulled the bigger grays over himself like some kind of cloak. Looked ready to rob coaches on a rainy road, or scare kids to eat their greens – both even.

Nodded like he'd obey – and maybe he would. Really depended on what they saw down there.

„Ready.“

Stepped out with a certainty that the stairs would hold their weight.

Everything else was out of his hands for the moment.
 
As luck would have it, the stairs had not given way to lick of flame or the destruction of it's fire. Smoke was not heavy either, but the heat was near unbearable.

Monroe saw the fire, how it reached for every accelerant in the room. The air seemed to shift, weaving now calling to the Knight of Dawn.

Fire was a force that reared in anger, a language Monroe was sure was her mothertongue.

These flames were coaxed back into the world by her own influence, but it was now it's own being. Monroe got close, closer than any sane person should. It lashed at her, trying to sink their grip into any part of her, but the woman stood steadfast. Reached for the flames and curled her fist around it like a hand going to press at the airways within a neck. Choking out the fire, trying to find it's heart.

"Find an exit!" She yelled, unable to turn her attention from the red blaze.

By the front door, the cat yelled it's protestations. It sounded as if it were making complaint, that their peaceful feasting had been rudely interrupted.

"Find fucking Meredith." Monroe called. She was already a suspect on her list, and Monroe was not going to let someone fool her.
 
Hot air was supposed to go up. But what awaited them below wasn't in a rush. Trevor's head felt heavy as blood rushed and ears mimicked a heart. Nearly keeled over right there. But they'd come too far for him to croak on some stairs in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Not nearly the smoke of Barrow. Not half the smell. But the heat was worse as it funneled. That was good – at least it wasn't flesh burning. Yet.

Pushed himself off the wall at the bottom step. Habit. Surface quick to remind him of his poor choices. Sucked his dirty fingers, but didn't cry out yet. Mmm...still tasted nice enough. Dust and grease. Decided to focus on the latter.

The cat was crying by the front door. Little guy made it this far. But why not escape? Cats weren't widely known for burnt tails.

Then he saw it. The hand halfclutched behind the little creature. Rushed there as Monroe...grabbed the fucking fire. It only further confirmed his belief that weavers were all mad, to a man. Well, woman. But same difference.

Trevor wasn't ovenborn. Each painful pulse ticked his head closer to bursting.

It was the guard with more teeth. The one whose name he was trying not to remember. Whoever bashed his head lacked the strength to do so in one go. Might mean there was still life between those ears. Also meant he'd likely wake up changed. Perhaps Monroe could help heal the guy – he'd heard the Knights did all sorts of crazy stuff.

Nearly knocked Monroe over, trying to squeeze himself through the gap by the cutting table. Balance was becoming difficult.

They needed to go.

Couldn't see any hint of Meredith. Only more things knocked over and one of the knives from the table missing.

Tapped Monroe's shoulder on his way back. Didn't have it in him to speak. Everything felt so dry. Skin refused to sweat at the heat. Eyes refused to cry through the smoke.

Where the fuck was Meredith?

He didn't have the strength to carry the watchman back up the stairs. Doubted the wood would hold them both this time around. The front door had been unlatched. So that's where they were going. Grabbed the handle faster than clever and pulled back with a sharp suck of smoke.

Coughed as he wrapped the linen around his better hand. The door wasn't very motivated in staying closed when properly pulled. Reinforced wood twonked the distracted cat in the head. Trevor stepped onto the unconscious man's hand. Fire flared brighter at the new air.

What a mess!

Threw the cat outside too quick for balance. Fuckup skipped the cobbles like the thing they did with stones in the creek back home. Frogs and dogs, was it? Might've cost a life. Figured burning would've cost at least three. Good math.

Made a fat linen caterpillar between his weakening fingers. Went over to the laid out guy and pulled the fabric under both of his shoulders – ends firmly wrapped around Trevor's hands.

Only needed to pull a short way.

Just a bit more. Just like back then.

But as he moved from kneel to stand, wasn't sure he had it in him.

Turned to where he'd last seen Monroe – unsure if it was a hope or a plea.
 
The flames were claws as they were teeth; desperate attempts of sinking into her flesh and burning through her with such a bite, Monroe began to let a slight of panic pool in her thoughts. She had never felt fire this destructive for it's size, nor could she recognise what fueled it.

Emotions, that was all she could feel trying to turn flame small, to pull them under her control.

Was she not accused of letting her emotions feed the flame? Did she not feel ashamed for wielding such a clutch?

There was no use in trying to understand what went into these thoughts, but rather find a way to make it stop. Make it bend to her will.

She called on water, could sense droplets from a tap somewhere in this home. Could feel water left in the wash basin in the kitchens, no matter if it was ridden with filth from cleaning knives and utensils. The bucket used to mop the floors, stagnant from being forgotten.

No matter how dirty the water was, it could cleanse. Could calm.

Could counter.

It coalesced towards her, seeping from whatever corner or puddle that existed in Monroe's surrounds. It hurt to weave two parts of the natural elements. Pained and strained, Monroe persisted. Not only did she want to stop the destruction, she wanted to prove to herself the word of others was not to be trusted. Not to be heard.

Who the fuck cares what a dying man had to say?

Monroe bared her teeth. Showed how hard it was to bite down on her weaving.

She gave in to one tower of flame, letting the burn sear into her fingertips, into her palm. The smell of burning flesh hit her nose a second later, but it was the pain she wanted. The pain needed to amplify her weaving.

Water seeped in, not enough to completely put out the burning room, but enough for Monroe to draw what she needed of it. The presence of water and it's calm, a shield against the burning lashed of angered fire. It came together in one stretch of rope and coiled around her arm, snaking towards flame. It was a trap, a force. Something to distract the blazing rage that Monroe could only relate to.

Her head moved, turning to see through smoke and heat where Trevor had gone to. Caught his gaze.

She had opened her mouth to speak before sudden hands were there to help him. With aided effort, the body Trevor had been pulling was now out in the light of day and away from the smoke and fire. More men and women, dressed as Guards and shouting as they came upon the home. Orders given.

Monroe sucked in a breath, feeling the pillowcase flow to her lips as it caught on her inhalation. She needed to quell this fire. Needed to prove she was capable to weave at this level of burning.

"I am not going to be left behind."

She told herself, aloud, as if that would hold her accountable.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom