Private Tumult Tearing Through the Limbo

[Walter Thornley]

What was it about the stories of ghosts and vile curses often starting in a manor in the countryside, with a history of tragedy and a peculiarly dreary wild grasses strewn for as far as the eye could see between the barren trees and rubble-patches of low cliffs staking the landscape?
Affluence and options for toying with more danger than the average man would bother with. Some chronically wealthy people tended to be chronically bored.

It wasn't the first time a letter had arrived not with a query, but with news. Another keeper of the forbidden stopped writing back.
Was it excess curiosity? Frivolousness? The overreach of ambition that ended up grinding flesh and unravelling the mind?
Was the trouble brought, conceived or discovered? Was it contained to the creaky walls of the once opulent estate, or spilling over into the town in the meadow, poisoning the river with the vile breath of its tokens of arrogance now roaming unchained?
These letters never had a name attached, penned with an ink that whispered barely of Shroud.
It was his job to find out the rest, and add another chronicle to the archives. Watchdog routine.

There was reticence, and yet he sent the missive out with the fastest bird, a firm, narrow, slightly embellished tilt of his right hand unfamiliar to most who'd read his letters before.
'Duty takes me to Faustsgriff in Henrikholt, northward. Come prepared.'

*

It was quiet and damp in the hills. The mist that came with the brief drizzle faded, and as Geist stalked apace down the dirt road towards Faustsgriff, most of the color was from the birch trees drifting past, watching with a hundred black eyes.
From the edge of town, he could not spot a single torch nor lantern, most houses lit but not much noise coming from outside save from a hound baying somewhere far away. Perhaps, near one of the houses with windows like the eyes of the birches and cracked windowsills. A hundred silent scars, too many for the din of every-year existence, not offering a single clue as to what left them.

He lingered in the middle of the dirt street, the drake shifting under him with a raucous rumble.
Not the slightest incling as to where an inn was, and not a soul out on the street.

______________________________
@Laric @Trevor

 

[Trevor]

Trevor had a talent for making sure bullshit happened just far enough not to nip at his toes, but close enough to wake him up when it went tits up. Or the cat. Same difference, he learned. But it rarely looked bad at first. The first inn you stepped into had vacancy. Rooms were cheap. They even threw in a meal, without asking. Real nice people.

But then you woke up and the window was open. Things had been moved. When you walked downstairs, less people occupied the inn. Maybe they just had a big night. Hard to say what passed for sleeping in round here.

You go to order a drink, but it’s no longer Edwin manning the Keg’s bar. Didn’t look related. A cousin, perhaps. Said his name was Mance…didn’t mention Edwin at all. Didn’t need to be a clairvoyant type to see something out of place here. Just nosy was enough. But given enough of a ribpoke, everyone became a Claire.

Come to think of it…it was the wind that woke him up. Not the little whiskerfuck. The tabby asshole was nowhere to be seen. Not like him to wander off without checking whether Trevor was alive, or had any snacks.

Brightness of the mainroom told him it was likely midday, or near enough. Why was he even worried? Lil’ guy had gone off to terrorize the locals many times now. Trevor’d seen the little bullshitter in action firsthand. All meow and purr and eyes big at whatever food you had. Like he’d not had a breakfast in this lifetime. Even when he’d been fed not half an hour ago. It was becoming clear. Cats were all assholes.

So he settled into a seat by the hearth. Best to give the critter until sundown and use the time between for something good, or at least drinkable. When you really thought about it – it was their vacation from each other. Ordered a drink and Mance served it with too much pep in his step. Didn’t remember Edwin fussing round drunks this much. Well, he wasn’t a drunk yet. But he had a foolproof plan to execute. Before he was middrink, another meal appeared before him, unordered.

People would get up and shuffle outside from time to time. You never heard the door creaking. Must’ve been some carpenter who made that. But then things got stranger.

“Seen a furry lil’ shit around?” Wasn’t exactly sure how big Fuckup was. Looked about catsized. So he eyeballed it and gestured yey high.

And Mance hadn’t. Of course not. Sneaky little thing. Only…it didn’t sit right. Too twitchy at the image of a cat, too surprised at the word shit. Worrying, really. Grown people should least know the second one.

The voices of the people behind him had changed, but he couldn’t remember anyone getting up. Might’ve been time to get up and attempt a search proper…but the fire was cozy, and the drink wasn’t horrible. And if he walked out to find something off, it would be his fucking problem.

So he stayed, just a bit longer.

 

[Laric]

*

 

[Walter Thornley]

Geist's trot was not exactly like a horse. A slightly different grace, weight shifting without that light toss upward, one paw exchanging with the other smoothly in the gate. Closer to a predator stalking apace. The mercury-silver sheen of the coat was lightening into ashen-grey for the winter. Walter shifted in the saddle, pulled the cloak a bit more closed against the dreary. He did not have much in terms of armor along - there was a certain grim conviction that he did not need much armor, unlike his Huntsmen. They would not interfere, this time - a danger entirely unknown could mean a number of things that would cost lives.

Some ways down the street, an building large enough to offer food and board finally drifted into view among the lackluster signs and darkened windows. Someone was leaving the place, light outlining them through an open door, but Walter lingered astride and quiet, his dark eyes taking in the slightest disjointment between the person and their shadow. He glanced away - and then the silhouette, shadow along with it, was gone. The street stood empty, still.

A feeling went through his bones, like a low vibration, a growl that resonated below hearing, a shivering in the air. With it, a brief pain in the joints of the right hand. Head fell forward as his gaze shifted to the hand holding the reigns. Dark mane brushing against the neck and past his ears, the longer locks hung in front of his eyes. A moment later, he smoothed them back, raked fingers through the strands - and glanced to the only source of noise, horse hooves coming closer. And once he recognized the rider, the features lightened.

"It's good to see you, tomcat," Walter offered, voice kept low, though there was hardly anyone out to listen. No stable hand in sight to take their mounts to the back, but that was hardly an issue. The interior seemed lively enough. Hesitation over, the baron swept a leg over the drake, dismounted, and took half a step to offer a hand, but caught himself. The faint warmth in the features turned apologetic, and Walter simply waited for Laric to get close enough to enter the building close together. "Be cautious. I will explain what is to be done here once we are inside and settled."

 

[Trevor]

The cup thumped the tabletop clumsily. His fingers felt numb. Nails neatly clipped. The inside of his cheek was raw. Tasted of…dried blood. Tongue traced the shape of his own teeth. Like he’d been chewing on it a while. Must be some booze, if he hadn’t even noticed. Sometimes stuff was strong, and sometimes gingers were weak.

Hand felt at the jaw and…beard? Not scuff. Not stubble. Beard. Been some years since he cared to sport a proper one. And it was shorn wrong. Too even, too careful. Job too nicely done for a barber too drunk to remember chewing on himself.

Even as it’d gotten low, the fire looked too bright. His eyes went to the lanterns in the room. The smell suggested they’d been burning for hours.

Gobhinh’s nuts – had he really been drinking well past sundown? Wouldn’t be the first time. But time was usually harder to kill than this. Something twisted inside, but he chalked it off as bile. Sometimes getting proper drunk meant having some of it come back to haunt you. All men were haunted by something – this was one of the better ones.

Still no cat.

That didn’t sit right. Lil fucker should’ve come for dinner. Or some other treachery. Both even.

The chair scraped back and he could’ve sworn he hit something. But when he looked there was no one there. Only an empty table, cups and plates testament that someone had been there recently. Strange – could’ve sworn someone was talking behind him a couple blinks back. Speaking of cups, his own table held seven beyond the one he’d just put down. Hmmm. Eight would’ve made him an invalid – so they were likely from before. Looked to Mance for explanation, but no one was there.

Rubbed at his temples. It was difficult to get fucked up to the point of losing this much time. But he always was gifted. Eyes fell down the armpit where someone had fixed his shirt with thread he didn’t recognize, just off color enough to blend in. Didn’t remember tearing it. Come to think of it, didn’t remember the shirt either.

Enough bullshit.

Trevor made the nine steps to the door without issue. Whoever had drunk the seven other cups, sure as shit wasn’t him. These weren’t feet of a man who was eight deep. Where was everyone?

He swung the door open and saw…Blondie and Briar? Holy shit, this booze was strong. Trevor was too confused to notice, but the other two could see something tall and translucent behind him, looking their way.

One moment it reflected the firelight, next it was gone.

“Are you real?” Scoffed at his own question. Not like hallucinations would ever confess.

Whoever made this booze could surely be talked into giving up the recipe.

 

[Laric]

*