#masterofrecords angsts
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Angstober day 9: The Catch
Aaand this concludes the stuff I was supposed to write yesterday. Oh well, at least I'm finally making progress...
The Summoning
“Um, sir?”
William looked up from the cumbersome arrangement of dictionaries and reference materials, taking a moment to stop thinking in two languages at once. One of the older students – Sam? Stan? – was peeking in through the crack in the door, clearly making effort to suppress a smile.
“Mrs. Young is here to see you.”
William blinked. There was absolutely no reason for his mother to be at the university. A family emergency?
But then a booming laughter sounded from the door, a sweet yet indelicate sound. “It’s Bloydd, lad. Now, off you go, I don’t think I need to be announced like a royal guest just to see my husband.”
...right, of course it was Gwen.
Back when he proposed, she, six years his senior, laughed in the same way. “Sweetheart, I don’t think even marrying you can make me young again. I’ll keep my name, thank you.”
(A little baffled, William then carefully asked if she wanted him to take her last name. She ruffled his hair, kissed his nose and asked how many books and articles had already been published under his name.)
Swan left, still looking confused, and William quickly jumped up to clear out a chair from a stack of ungraded papers.
“My dear,” they kissed and she gracefully sat on the squeaky chair. “I didn’t expect you, sorry it’s a mess here.”
“It’s always a mess with you,” she laughed, and the room suddenly felt bigger and lighter. “In fact, I came to see you because our home’s been terribly orderly lately. You’ve been spending way too much time working, don’t you think?”
William laughed, hoping it didn’t sound too awkward and wondered if the office was dark enough that she couldn’t see the bags under his eyes.
“It’s just that…” how did he explain it? Was there anything he could say about the book strategically buried on his desk under manuscripts and papers, anything that would let her know of its importance without worrying her too much?
“Is it urgent?” Gwen asked patiently, bless her soul.
“In a way?” William tried. He looked around the office, painfully aware of where the traces of chalk hadn’t fully worn off, where the edges of a circle were still visible on the floor.
“Okay,” Gwen continued, taking her hand into his. “Any chance you can ask… the dean, or whoever’s responsible? to extend the deadline?”
William blinked. There was no deadline, per se. There was a warning, there was a promise – and not of a good kind. But perhaps he didn’t need to make sure he’d read the entirety of the tome now, didn’t need to understand the details of each and every ritual described in it?
Perhaps what he needed to do, really, was to extend the deadline – find a way to keep the book safe for as long as he needed to study it.
In fact, wasn’t one of the first rituals in the book intended for protection of an object? A ward, to hide it and make sure only the person with a key could open it. With minimal tweaking, William probably could…
“And there you go, off thinking again.”
He laughed nervously, trying to conceal his excitement, “Sorry, you’re right, I should… I should do that.”
“I think you’ll find that I’m pretty much always right. Which is precisely why you should listen to me more often.”
He couldn’t help his smile, and leaned over to kiss her again. “I will. But right now I need to get that extension.”
“Right, right,” she got up, fixing her skirts. “I’ll leave you be so long as you promise to be home for dinner.”
“Promise.” Another kiss stolen. It was as if her mere presence gave him energy.
She left, satisfied, and William waited for her footsteps to die in the distance before hurriedly locking the door and getting the chalk out.
He knew the symbols and patterns by heart, having done the same many, many times. He pricked his finger with some difficulty, the skin, scarred over and over, growing thicker. The last symbol, to close the circle with the blood – a name uttered in a whisper, so as not to let any strangers overhear it – and the familiar black smoke swirled inside the circle, forming a vaguely humanoid shape.
“You again,” the devil rolled their eyes, the stinger at the end of their tail rocking back and forth in irritation.
“I just have a quick question,” William explained. These conversations had always been awkward – it was obvious the creatures didn’t want to be there, and he felt a little rude asking even if he always made a point to pay for their answers. “I… Right, so I got the book, and – if I put a ward on it, so it would be hidden from prying eyes and only I – as the rightful owner of the key – will be able to open it… would anyone still come for the book? As in, will it work on… otherworldly creatures, too?”
They usually go away for a while to search for the answer, but this time, the devil lingered. There was a smile on their face, and William felt like he’d missed something terribly important.
“Mhm, I can answer that,” the devil looked smug. “The book will be safe, be assured.”
“Ah,” William breathed out in relief. “Very well. Thank you.”
He handed over the payment – some gold, and a few trinkets he’d figured out this devil liked. The devil grinned again.
“Oh, no,” they intoned, and this time they looked quite genuine. “Thank you.”
As it disappeared into the smoke, their grin grew wider.
“Until we meet again,” echoed in the small room, as William was already grabbing his coat to finally go home, to hot dinner and his wife’s loving embrace.
The door closed behind him, the key’s jingle hurried and joyful.
The smoke dissipated, leaving little but a memory of a laughing voice. “May it be soon.”
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Angstober day 21: Can't Save Everyone
A Healer's Duty
Wash hands. Grind up the herbs, boil the medicine, prepare the doses – as many as are needed. The rounds – the suffering, so much of it that she’d run out of magic a long time ago trying to ease it.
The city is quarantined, but it’s hardly of much help. People still need to eat and work, people still go out despite the fear of the plague, people still end up in the crowded monastery unless more die at the hospital.
The choker around Remi’s throat protects her against the sickness. Why couldn’t she share it with everyone else?
Wash hands. Prepare the medicine. Do the rounds.
The cycle seems to have no end, the dead and the cured being quickly replaced by new patients. Remi tries treatments, exhausting her books and her imagination. Some of them seem to work. Most don’t.
It doesn’t stop her from trying.
Hands. Medicine. Rounds.
Again and again, day in and day out, she does the duty of the priestess of Death. She heals and she says the last farewells, prayers and prescriptions mixing in one painful litany. She sees those who have made peace with their end and those who go out kicking and screaming, faces the grief and the wrath of those left behind.
Hands.
Medicine.
“You need to stop.”
Molly’s deep voice sounds concerned, but Remi brushes it off.
“You need to stay inside. I know you’re bored, but we can’t leave until the quarantine is lifted.”
“You need sleep and rest.”
“I get enough.”
Molly’s hug catches Remi off guard, her face suddenly squashed into Molly’s unfairly comfortable cleavage. “You can’t save them all,” Molly says into Remi’s hair. “And you definitely can’t save them if you don’t save yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Remi only escapes the embrace because Molly lets her. She touches her choker, “I’m immune, remember?”
“Not to fatigue,” Molly brushes a rough finger against the aching skin under Remi’s eyes.
“Not to nightmares,” a line is traced along Remi’s forehead.
“Not to the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Molly drops her arms and looks Remi in the eyes, frowning. “You need rest,” she repeats. “I mean it.”
“They need me more,” Remi murmurs. Giving in would feel like a betrayal – to the people of the this town, to her ideals, to her gods.
Her hand reaches for the brooch on her dress, the symbol of her faith and her convictions. It gives her strength to go on, if not the strength to save people.
She can only let out a small gasp when Molly sweeps her of her feet, never one to scream. She tries to struggle as Molly carries her to their shared quarters and drops her onto the bed, Kat already waiting inside with the key to lock the door.
Molly holds her down when she tries to get up. Smiles sadly, sharing an unreadable look with Kat.
“People will die,” Remi protests, and Molly’s smile fades.
“Then I’ll burden the responsibility for you,” she says. “I follow no gods but my friends. I will not bury you.”
As Remi drifts off to sleep – frustratingly, helplessly easily – there are two pairs of hands holding her, massaging the exhaustion out of her muscles, brushing off her tears.
Whatever tomorrow holds, she falls asleep surrounded by warmth.
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Angstober day 20: Just Breathe
Inhuman
The man in front of Blake can hardly be called human anymore.
Long, sharp claws, a deformed jaw with teeth that can no longer be hidden by lips, a glint of madness in his eyes, a sparkling, too-bright blue.
It grins, as much as these jaws are capable of smiling. He looks pleased.
The body on the ground in front of him is no longer moving.
Blake takes a step back, uncaring of how the beakers fall to the ground as he bumps into a table. The door – a weapon – something!
The man – Darius – the monster – looks up at him. He’s still dressed as he was half an hour ago, the white cravat now stained with blood dripping from his mouth, the dark blue velvet looking brighter than ever.
It extends one hand – claw – to Blake, and for a moment he thinks he will join the body on the floor.
“Breathe,” Darius says – growls, the familiar voice giddy and slightly slurred. “Breathe, my dear assistant. This is your job now.”
Blake takes a shuddering breath in, unable to disobey. He hasn’t realized that he was holding his breath, or that his hands and knees are shaking. He breathes again, panic making his lungs tiny, and drops to the ground, the coldness of the bare floor startling him a little from his stupor.
The monster kneels in front of him, the touch of the claws almost delicate on Blake’s cheek. The smell of blood and electricity hits Blake, and he holds his breath again, trembling.
“Breathe,” it croons once more, and then laughs, delighted and menacing. “What else can you do?”
Darius helps Blake up, not too rough, but not so careful as for the claws not to leave a few cuts. He turns Blake towards the body, holds his shoulders, whispers in his ear, the teeth barely an inch away from his ear, from his throat.
“It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”
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Angstober day 23: Crimes of Passion
I am so terribly behind it's not even funny. I have bits and pieces for a lot of days, but actually finishing stuff is... ugh.
But also I've fallen asleep at work like three days in a row so I think I just need to make it until vacation and get proper rest...
Body Issues
It shouldn’t have been so easy to kill a man.
One minute, they were arguing in her kitchen.
“You don’t own me, woman, it’s none of your business.”
Except it was, it was, he was hers, only hers, and Destiny wasn’t one to share.
Next moment, she was screaming at him, and he was backhanding her into the wall. There were knives hung neatly on a plaque on the wall.
And yet a moment after, she was standing, knife in hand, over his gurgling, bleeding body. Three stab wounds. Three streams of blood oozing into a single puddle on the floor.
He was still alive, but only technically, and there was something repulsive about the way his eyes were open wide, boring into her in shock.
Another drop of blood from the knife hit the floor, and Destiny hastily threw the knife into the sink.
It was fine, she was fine. She just needed to focus and think.
There were some empty potato sacks in the storeroom, and an axe in the courtyard. Her neighbors should all be at work at that time of day, and she had no tenants still. The nearest canal was maybe a twenty-minute walk away, and if she snuck out during the night…
There was a chuckle from the door, an Destiny froze.
No – no, anything but this. She wasn’t going to prison, not for this, not for that useless piece of shit or his sad wench –
“I don’t suppose you need help with this?” The man in her doorway looked pleasant enough, maybe even too pleasant for the kind of place Destiny owns. He took off his hat and ducked down to enter into the kitchen, his smile making Destiny take a step back.
“Quite a mess you’ve made,” he observed casually, as if they were talking about a naughty chicken. “But I have to applaud your strength.”
“What do you want?” Destiny asked tersely, backing to the sink where she knew her weapon to be. She didn’t take it though. For some reason, she didn’t think it was a fight she could win.
“I happen to be in need of lodgings, and I noticed you have rooms for rent. I also require… a certain amount of discretion regarding my stay.”
He came closer, looming over her. He’d stepped straight through the puddle of blood, uncaring that he was tracking it all over the kitchen on his expensive-looking shoes.
“I happen to be good with messes,” he breathed euphorically into her ear. “Are you?”
His voice dragged ice across her spine.
“How many rooms do you need?” All her strength goes to making sure her voice didn’t shake.
“Two, if you can spare them,” he said, calm and pleasant again.
“They’re yours, then. What my tenants do, is none of my business.”
He grinned. “I knew I came to the right place,” he intones and drops his bag onto one of her chairs. “Now, then.”
He opens the bag to reveal an array of bottles and vials. His smile turns feral again.
“I’m going to need to borrow your bathtub.”
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Angstober day 1: Honorbound
Vows
A little something to start off Angstober. Am a little surprised I'd managed to do anything, because the last few weeks have been utterly unproductive, but maybe I just burnt myself out and needed a change of subject to write about.
A spiritual continuation, in a way, of last Angstober's The Council
(If you're just here for my fanfiction, feel free to block the tag masterofrecords angsts. All of angstober is going to be original works, so you won't miss anything.)
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The vows of a paladin are not easily broken, but what worth is there to a holy knight of a dead god?
Lucas watches the world around him change, seemingly seamlessly falling into a new routine lacking of magic. His brothers lay down their arms, mages turn to research or madness, the songs of the minstrels lose their unnatural charm. Even Remi, whose devotion Lucas would never doubt, takes off the sacred twin moons brooch in favor of a healer’s hood.
Lucas clings to the sun etched on his breastplate and feels terribly alone.
He’s given his vows to a being that no longer exists, an angel doomed to be eventually forgotten. His vows mean nothing, and yet Lucas cannot let them go.
He prays every morning, only to be met with emptiness where the reassuring heat in his chest used to be – no more shortcuts, no more gentle guidance. By sheer habit, he reaches his hand out to ease David’s nausea or pain, only to be once more struck by how powerless he now is.
Under the scorching light of day, his own sun is no longer there to show him the way. For the first time in his life, Lucas fears he could stray off the right path, because there is no path anymore. Every morning, he prays, and every night, he recites his vows, desperate to remember.
He knows the value of a sacrifice. The knight of the sacrificial angel, he dares not resent her for abandoning him for the greater good, willing to shoulder the burden of those left behind.
But Lucas is still mortal, and weak, and he isn’t sure he has a purpose anymore.
He doesn’t confide in his friends, unwilling to burden them further. Audrey is drowning in her grief, Remi in work. Kira’s magic is still not fully gone, and she’s struggling with control, disappearing into the forest for weeks on end.
Benedict is the one who’s adjusted best of them all, having no magical affinity or particular affection to gods from the very beginning, but that also means he has little sympathy for Lucas, as much as he tries to show otherwise.
David… perceptive, tactful David looks up at him one day, leaning a little heavier against the headrest of his wheelchair, and smiles. “There are things you can still do, you know,” David says a little sadly, and Lucas feels guilty, because David had lost so much more than him. “You served the Sun Angel, but she served the people. Don’t you think that’s worth something?”
Lucas stops asking for guidance in his prayers, and instead begs for wisdom and strength. He still recites his vows, but the name of the goddess slowly disappears from them.
The etchings on his armor dim, protective charms wearing off. Lucas looks up at the sun lighting up his way, and lets his own heart be his god, showing him the way.
The vows of a paladin are not easily broken.
At least, that’s what Lucas tells himself.
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Angstober day 28: Face the Consequences
A sort of companion piece to Rules
Imprisonment
Tristan accepted his new reality fairly quickly. A devil knows the price of failure and the price of broken commitments.
Plus, his circumstances could be much, much worse.
The loneliness is nothing particularly new, in all honesty. Devils are solitary creatures, and Hell isn’t known for its comforts. And he isn’t treated badly, per se – they can’t kill him in any meaningful way (at least he hopes they cannot), and despite that old-young woman’s threats, they seem to be keeping their word of not turning him into some kind of magical battery.
They even bring him food once he gives in and asks. The young woman listening to his request has a face that loudly says that doesn’t sound right, but I don’t know enough about devils to argue.
That’s fine with him.
They call him Tristan, and he notices no attempts to deduce his real name, which is a relief.
So it’s not bad, really. He even has company sometimes, in the shape of the overly-enthusiastic artifact specialist who is sometimes accompanied by a quiet guy in black glaring at Tristan the entire time, or a large man with multiple swords strapped to his waist and back.
The large man is Tristan’s favorite, because from time to time he brings booze that’s not great, but fairly decent.
Sometimes though, he has to resist the desire to ask for meatballs specifically.
They won’t be as good as Mark’s, anyway.
He requests a blanket, then a tablecloth. The blanket is a little scratchy, and the tablecloth a plain white that could have benefited greatly from some embroidery and a fringe on the edge, but a prisoner has no room for complaining.
He’s already been asking for too much, and he isn’t sure if the detectives have told his captors about Isolde and Mark, doesn’t know if they’d managed to read and decipher the letter he’d sent. He doesn’t know how much leverage he’s given away already in the desperate attempt to keep his life and whatever remained of the work he’d done on this plane, but it’s bound to come bite him back one day.
Perhaps it was for the best, all things considered. After the scale of his failure, perhaps a magicless chamber was his best protection. In the end, he was a good enough liar not to show anyone how much he truly feared the temporary death that would have put him before the archdevil he served.
Tristan wondered if his disappearance has been noticed. Has the bureaucratic machine of Hell realized he wasn’t sending in reports anymore? It’s been months, they must have.
Have Isolde and Mark done anything about their Contract and their mutual aid arrangement? Tristan almost regretted giving them his signed permission to dissolve it in the letter he’s sent. He should have asked for help instead – but it was outside of the scope of the Contract, and he had no desire to owe them anything.
He should ask for a book. Surely, the artifact guy would give him a book?
An eternity in jail is a bleak future, but Tristan lost, and he refuses to do so without grace. Still, he refuses to give up, either.
If once a day comes when someone enters the room that can be convinced, bribed, or deceived into helping him – well.
It will be another game entirely.
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Angstober day 19: Look Away
Uhhh.... okay, so I'm pretty sure he was originally Chris, I'm not sure at what point the spelling turned to Kris but I guess he's Kris now. Also this is tiny but will hopefully be a two-parter with day 22. I probably spent at least an hour coming up with a proper localization of the bar name in English... My priorities are way off.
Bartender
It was Kris’s job to see things.
He had a certain reputation, without doubt. Keeping the one bar to which patrons sensitive to magic seemed to flock, it was his job to know them, recognize them and their abilities, gently nudge them… well, wherever Kris himself thought was best.
But there was also a danger to this business, and a danger to knowing too much. Most of all, Kris had perfected the art of recognizing people’s masks and seeing behind appearances, observational skills and magic alike telling him who’d walked into Quail’n’Snail, who could be played with and who was to be avoided.
The art of seeing things meant ignoring some of them.
There was a man that came to the bar sometimes to meet with people. Sometimes he was pale with equally pale eyes, quiet and threatening. Sometimes he was read-headed and loud in a way that seemed empty and a little fake. Sometimes he came as other masks, rarely more than once.
People like him turned up every once in a while. Kris wasn’t as young as many seemed to think – he’d seen his share of those like that man.
They were not Kris’s to deal with.
There was no side in that conflict that ended well for him or the bar. Picking one meant inciting the wrath of the other, and so Kris pretended one of the man’s friends didn’t smell like insanity and blood, that there were no strings of magic entangling the minds of several people he’d met with.
The detectives come, asking about him.
The man asks casually, if anyone had been snooping around.
Kris smiles, and sees nothing.
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Angstober day 8: Dark Days
Ah. Once more I return to the topic of Faye. This is something of a sequel to last year's Fever as well as a prequel to Hand-made Miracles.
Like Clockwork
The Coleridge mansion was always filled with peculiar gadgets, clockwork helpers, the sound of moving gears. The many timepieces counted the time precisely, coldly.
“I don’t think you should be drinking right now.”
Something clanged to the floor.
“Shut up and fuck off.”
Ah. Profanities. Perhaps Orion underestimated the situation.
He carefully moved several delicate-looking components, metal and glass intertwined into a future something, and hopped onto the table where Leo was having his pity party.
“I don’t think I will,” he said, leaning back onto his hands to be able to better see Leo’s face.
“Screw you,” Leo replied without much heat in his voice. If anything, he looked tired and defeated.
He also looked terribly drunk despite the only bottle on the table being half-empty. Lightweight.
“If that makes you feel better, sure. What are best friends for?” Orion flicked Leo’s forehead and sighed. “But somehow, I doubt this problem here has such an easy solution.”
Leo’s face crumbled, and Orion scolded himself for the joke, but rather than blow up at Orion, Leo instead dropped his head onto his arms, fingers clawing at his sleeves.
“What do I do?” he asked, voice choked and muffled. “Orion, what the fuck do I do?”
Orion softly hopped of the table to instead lean awkwardly so he could hug Leo’s shoulders. If only he knew the answer – hell, any answer to that.
“She keeps getting worse, she’s always in pain, always burning up. What if there’s no cure?” Leo’s shoulders shook, and Orion clutched at them tighter.
“Hey, come on, don’t think that way,” he tried, even though the words tasted flat in his mouth. “I… I’m sure Remi will think of something. She’s promised to ask around, didn’t she? Do you really think all across the world, there is no one who knows how to treat this stupid thing?”
Leo said nothing, and Orion had a feeling he didn’t truly believe in that last sliver of hope.
In truth, Orion had trouble finding the strength to believe it himself. He patted Leo’s head, noting how the red locks were damp with sweat. Did Leo also have a fever? Or was it just drunkenness?
“Look, Leo,” he paused and swallowed, unsure what to say, “you know we love Faye very much, right? She’s like a little sister to all of us, not just you. We’ll do all we can, okay? I promise you. If there is any chance at all, we’ll do what you need us to do. So… don’t lose hope, okay? Because I don’t think we can deal with both of you being out of commission.”
He felt like the last coward saying it, but he also added, “Faye needs you to be strong, doesn’t she? You’re her big brother, so don’t you dare let her down.”
Leo was quiet for some time, and Orion wondered if he’d finally fallen asleep. Was anyone else still in the house? Orion would probably need help getting Leo to bed on his own…
“If she…” Leo suddenly sniffed. “What would I do without her? She’s…”
Orion forcefully unclenched his jaw. “Come on, don’t think like that.”
“It’s all I can think about,” Leo argued, finally raising his head and looking at Orion. “All these years – ever since – it’s been the two of us. She’s still just a kid, Ori.”
She wasn’t, not really, but Orion knew what Leo was talking about. He – at some point, all of them – had practically raised Faye. How old was she when their parents died? Eight? Nine? Back then, Leo was barely into adulthood himself.
To them, to Leo, she would always be that little girl, no matter how strong her magic had become or how proficient she was with clockworks.
Orion straightened up, his back protesting from being in a hunched position for too long. “Think about it this way,” he suggested. “What will she do without you? She’s still here. Spend this time with her, not with a bottle or these gears.”
“I just wish I could do something,” Leo’s face twisted again, a desperate, doomed attempt not to cry. “I can’t – we’re just sitting here. I want to help her, and I can’t and it’s –“
It was torture, Orion finished in his head. Not just Faye’s illness, but seeing Leo like this, reduced to frayed nerves and sunken eyes, anxious in his helplessness.
He’d been on autopilot these last few weeks, and Orion couldn’t figure out if it was good or bad that the dam had finally broken.
Orion got on his knees and took Leo by the shoulder. He’d run out of platitudes, but Leo probably didn’t need them by now. At that point, all Orion could offer was companionship.
Leo half-turned towards him and suddenly collapsed onto him, his light frame heavy with premature grief.
Orion hugged him and swallowed around the tightness in his own throat.
Leo cried into his shoulder motionlessly, silently.
Minutes ticked by on the heavy hands of the workshop clock.
In the house where metal came to life, three people kept falling apart.
#angstober2023#masterofrecords angsts#masterofreocrds writes#day 8#welp faye's story never fails to make my eyes watery
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Angstober day 3: A Dangerous Gamble
In Love and Dreams
I’m putting this under a read more just to be safe for some derogatory language towards a sex worker. Please skip if that’s not your cup of tea. A continuation of last year’s Lie, Lie, Truth.
It is a widely known fact that Silvertongue Benny is a betting man. It is an equally widely known fact that Lord Silverline is a reliable partner in all sorts of mildly questionable business ventures.
It is not a widely known that Benny and Lord Silverline are one and the same.
Right now though, all he is is Joel – a husband and a father, a man who’s gambled too close to the sun and run out of aces in his sleeve.
Thomas is fine, he keeps telling himself. Joel had managed to get him out, if nothing else. That had to count for something.
“That was quite clever, my dear Lord Silverline. Sending your whore to fish for information? Should have been more careful to cover your tracks, I suppose.” Stapleton stands, a rapier aimed at a terrified Mari. “You also shouldn’t have thought you could cheat me.”
Joel is usually a quick thinker, even with two knives at his throat. He’s not called Silvertongue for nothing – but right now, instead of his plan, his head is filled with rage and Mari’s terrified face.
Stapleton fishes the locket hanging on her neck out of her cleavage, turns it over, ignoring her struggle against the man holding her. “In dreams and love, nothing is impossible,” Stapleton reads out loud. “How sweet. I have no idea how you two ever got away with it.”
They’d figured a ring would be too conspicuous for Mari, but the same engraving adorned Joel’s wedding band, now stuffed safely into an envelope and on its way to Joel’s brother.
Stapleton grips Mari’s chin with two fingers and she flinches away. She’s breathing irregularly, clearly choking back tears. So brave, when she shouldn’t be, when it’s all Joel’s fault.
“A shame,” Stapleton says. “Lady Doe was truly the pearl of the Lucky Star. But I guess I wasn’t the only one you cheated that way, hmm? Will be hard to do that without your pretty face to dupe the Johns.”
The daggers scrape against Joel’s throat as he strains against the hands keeping him kneeling in place. Stapleton raises his rapier, Mari screams, and Joel feels the beast raise its head, control slipping to let out the fangs and the auburn fur.
The men don’t expect the strength of his jaws, don’t expect the smooth skin of his neck to suddenly turn into coarse hair. He feels the flesh of the shoulder of one of them give out, and the other stumbles back, shocked at the transformation. Joel spits out, the sweet taste of blood bitter with sweat and wool of the man’s jacket.
His bones twist, and his spine aches where the tail regrows itself. Free, he can focus his gaze on the Stapleton man with a singular thought.
Suffer.
Stapleton bows in half, pain – imagined, unreal – rendering him useless.
Joel had never wanted Mari to see him like that.
There are more men coming, the whole small army Stapleton had brought with himself probably too much for Joel to handle, but he doesn’t care.
Mari. Mari has to get away.
She’s sniffling, clutching at her face and, to Joel’s relief, probably not seeing much from the blood and tears clouding her eyes.
“My love,” he pulls her in, careful not to grab bare skin lest she knows it’s paws and not hands touching her. “My heart, you need to run. Make sure Thomas is safe.”
She clutches at his jacket, “But you?..”
He hopes he’s not lying when he says, “I’ll be right behind you.” It’s a gamble, the last one, and if he wins, he promises himself to tell Mari everything and maybe even retire their little family to his brother’s boring farm.
Mari runs, stumbling blindly as Stapleton’s people surround Joel.
He knows he’s lost when the warehouse is set ablaze and he isn’t sure what will kill him first, the smoke or the stab wounds. He knows he’s made mistakes and he knows that regret will cling to his soul until the end of time itself.
In dreams and love, nothing is impossible.
Oh, what a wonderful dream it had been.
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Angstober day 22: Grasp
In the Palm of the Hand
Kris takes the shift out of schedule, giving Lila a day off, for no other reason than having a vague feeling it was the right night for it. He does his best not to yawn as he pours ale and wine, and keeps an eye on new customers.
He is right. He’s always right these days – whether it’s intuition or the same mysterious force that brings others like him to the bar, but he knows to trust it. And when a guy stumbles in, a haunted look in his eyes, desperate to drink and forget, Kris knows his decision was the right one.
He probes carefully – with words and with magic, a dance so familiar there is no room for mistake.
Words can only do so much, but the knowledge that he’s not alone, having tangible proof of the things he’s experienced are priceless, and as the young man’s face clears before the small lights dancing just above the counter, Kris knows he has the guy hooked.
“Give me a moment,” he says pleasantly. “I think I have a thing that might be of help to you.”
He doesn’t actually need to look for it, but he does wait an appropriate amount of time before returning and sliding the small book across the counter.
For most of these people, it’s pointless to have a serious conversation when they’re in such a state. There is too much shock, mixed with wonder and fear, for them to understand anything about the dangers and the precautions.
Kris thinks he’s come up with a rather ingenious solution.
They don’t have long, the bell above the door announcing a new visitor, but Kris doesn’t need long. Still, he looks up to see that he knows this latest guest very well.
Kris closes the notebook with a smile, lest the regular recognizes a copy of the same diary he’d given her five years prior, and nods for the poor lad to go pick a table. “Next one’s on me,” Kris says pleasantly. “Take your time.”
He then turns the same smile towards the new customer, “I suppose that means you’re back in town. I hope your travels have been pleasant.”
They have an understanding. They’ll tell him something of faraway lands or perhaps of how business is going – she never offers too much, but it’s usually enough that he can follow up through his own channels. They’re a good customer to have, knowledgeable and well-connected, but would also be a dangerous enemy.
Luckily, Kris makes a point not to be anyone’s enemy.
Her friends’ business is blooming, the latest gallery show has been a success and the city is quiet; so Kris assumes the visit is a regular one and not an emergency. She looks freshened up, clearly not just from the road, so Kris should probably ask a few polite questions about the wife. If he’s lucky, he might get some insight into the recent crimes – having a regular married to the top pathologist in the city sure has its perks.
She has a web of people behind her, and while Kris doesn’t rely on any single person to run his business, it’s nice to have her in particular back in town – more convenient, if nothing else. They make what sounds like small talk, but in Kris’s mind, the cogs are turning.
Who does he have with connections to the Metronome Industries? Could Jill from the rail ticket office have heard of this?
Kris’s hands brew tea, but his mind is combing through the vast web of people in the city. Wasn’t there that lady asking about the clockworks a few months ago? Too vague to tell the detective, but might be worth checking out in case it’s something.
She looks at him, a little knowing smile he returns. He knows she’s doing the same with the information he gives her, though her intentions are no doubt purer than his.
She wants the city to be safe.
Kris wants all these strings to connect in the palm of his hand.
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Angstober day 27: System Collapse
I probably spent way too much time making sure my sandhi were accurate in this one. Hooray to the one semester of Sanskrit I'd once taken - never thought it would come in useful.
The Flame of the Countless Deaths
The connection between the leylines is tentative, volatile. Hard as he tries, Kalidasa cannot fully feel the other locations, but it’s better than nothing.
Breathe in, breathe out. His heart beats in sync with the weak, dying magic of the world.
He is about to cease to exist. He is everywhere.
Keeping track of time is hard. There is no time where his mind is, and yet the time is everything now. Sounds of fighting reach him, and he isn’t sure if it is his brothers and sisters fighting at the Mrtyunamjvalah temple below, or if it’s echoes reaching him from across the world, the last cries seeping in through the unstable network.
It hardly matters.
The first seals are barely beginning to settle when the first interruption rocks the leyline.
Kalidasa frowns, breathing steady as he tries to pull closer, figure out where the disruption is coming from. One of the second seals comes with a delay, and with it, Qiao Xiu’s unusually terse voice in Kalidasa’s head, “Got off schedule, but we’re fine.”
And it is fine. The seals should be done simultaneously for them to be stable, but on the cosmic scale, some minutes are a minor issue. The disturbance caused by whatever happened on Qiao Xiu’s end dies down as the rituals continue, and Kalidasa keeps hoping. “Take care,” he replies, and listens to the silence once more.
Time passes through him. More hours, more seals, more fighting seemingly everywhere. The powers that don’t want their divinity sealed off are not going to let it go smoothly – those running the rituals were prepared for it, each group made precautions for it.
Some hid the sites, some set up traps, some placed guards. Below Kalidasa, surrounding the circle where the ritual is taking place, are the monks that do not expect to make it to sundown.
Kalidasa wonders – no, hopes that it will be enough.
After four seals have taken root, things go downhill.
“Hoards of demons,” Zamani’s voice follows the tidal wave of unstable magic. “We’ll try to get back on track.”
He isn’t sure why they report to him. There is nothing he can do, he cannot even send the word out without breaking his connection to the leyline. Perhaps, Kalidasa muses, they just want him not to worry, aware that he’s watching over them.
“Do your best,” is all he can think of replying.
Perhaps there is some comfort they gain from knowing he’s still there, for however much longer it might be.
To his sorrow, the leylines do not have the time to stabilize before the next big interruptions. With each seal, it seems, the price of mistakes becomes greater. “Man down. Will try to finish with eleven.”
The few words of comfort Kalidasa can give don’t seem at all sufficient.
He utters them anyway and watches in dismay as the perturbations grow stronger and stronger, no longer needing their missteps to feed themselves. Something is bound to crack, Kalidasa worries, but the fighting seems to have stopped for the most part.
The air is thick with death, and Kalidasa keeps repeating the same prayers for departed souls over and over again. It is all he can do.
Most have completed eight seals when another shock makes Kalidasa jerk, almost throwing him out of his trance. Something goes wrong, somewhere above and on the inside, and Kalidasa isn’t sure where it is in the real world, but he watches helplessly as the connection to one of the leylines breaks, sending ripples through the entire network.
He hadn’t realized before that there is noise in his ears, but it’s growing more and more uncomfortable to the point where he cannot easily ignore it. It is so loud that he almost misses the voice reaching for him through the void.
He barely recognizes Remi.
“I’m sorry,” is all he hears, and perhaps there was more to the message, but it’s gone, dissolved in static as waves of uncertainty wash over the leylines.
Four more seals to go.
The cut off leyline returns slowly, and he knows it’s Remi’s group giving it one more try, no matter how desperate the situation looks on their side. The rituals continue, exhaustion bleeding to Kalidasa instead of finesse as the hours of work take toll on everyone.
The rituals finish in an unsteady cacophony, a rough patch rather than neat embroidery on the fabric between the planes. Kalidasa feels each backlash and winces, knowing they mean more deaths he will probably never learn about.
His magic feels weaker and weaker as more leylines are cut off, but it’s not fully gone. The seals are still fluid, like unfinished stitches, but Kalidasa holds on to hope.
It’s the only thing he can do.
The people of Mrtyunamjvalah leave, knowing better than to disturb him. His own skin feels frayed, and Kalidasa wonders what is happening outside, but dares not open his eyes.
There is still time. There is still hope.
Whatever the outcome, he will be there to witness it.
#angstober2023#masterofrecords angsts#masterofreocrds writes#day 27#the title is a (slightly loose) translation of the name of the temple#i spent a looong time agonizing over how to transcribe it because sanskrit pronunciation is... quite specific#lots of sounds that don't exist in english#LOTS#i had to simplify a lot like shortening the double vowels#because the only single vowel here is the r#but english doesn't really do vowel length at all#and the second m is technically an anusvara so not.. quite its own sound?#...i'm gonna shut up now
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Angstober day 26: The Day I Lost You
One day I'll put the links to all other Audrey pieces here, but today is not the day...
The Temple of Love
There isn’t a day in Audrey’s life that isn’t shadowed by grief.
The house is both a tomb and a memorial. In the chapel, her portrait overlooks the empty seats, once a flirty offering, now a blasphemous memory.
Her likeness, as the goddess of love.
Her grief, as a husk of former companionship.
It’s quiet. As the decades passed, everyone had learnt to leave her alone on this day – and all the days like it.
Forty years ago, Lawrence died. Her true yet unfulfilled love, leaving behind fond memories and poems and sketches – and an emptiness that could never be fulfilled.
Forty years ago, she lost five dear friends and a little sister.
Almost thirty years ago, her mentor succumbed to the years of pain.
Around the same time, another friend left for the Feywild and never returned.
“I suppose it is the curse we have to bear,” Remi had said to her some twenty-odd years ago, before she also disappeared from Audrey’s life in a quite way most unbefitting of her station. Audrey didn’t know what or when happened to her. She wasn’t invited to the funeral, and the only time she visited the grave, she didn’t dare to ask.
One by one, everyone left Audrey.
She kept going, perhaps on pure stubbornness. If it was a curse, she would resist it as long as she could – no matter how miserable it made her.
Lawrence’s death, Lawrence’s sacrifice – all of their sacrifices – didn’t deserve to have them cursed.
She stands in the chapel, looking at her own younger face, and no longer has any tears to shed.
They both wear red. She’d never worn mourning clothes – no one expected her to, since she and Lawrence never married, never so much as started courting. The fire no longer listens to her commands, so the red silks are all that remains of her old life she so desperately clings to.
The woman on the painting looks regal and and full of passion.
Audrey is tired, and there are white streaks in her hair and wrinkles on her face, the marks of the inevitable passage of time.
Audrey opens the bottle of wine she brought with her, takes a swig straight from the bottle – so unladylike, so reminiscent of the days spent avoiding sleep around the fire, amid laughter and friends.
“To love,” she toasts bitterly, her voice echoing in the empty chamber. To days spent watching each others’ backs, to adventure and braving the danger together.
“To love,” she whispers, and the painting watches her in silence. To flirty winks, and to the mornings spent at the tailor’s, and dancing and singing together.
People promise her it would get easier as time goes on, but it doesn’t. Her grief is still enormous, still immeasurable, and as years add more death to it, it only seems to grow.
It’s especially bad at this time of year.
She has no tears anymore. All she has are rage and sadness and emptiness. On her knees in a crude imitation of a prayer, she wails and screams. There is no one to calm her down, no one to offer a soothing hand and share the pain.
Audrey has always been a creature of fire, and her grief is a raging blaze the same way her love was.
One day, she thinks, it will probably burn her to ashes.
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Angstober day 17: Weakness
A lil something about my favorite devil trio
Rules
There were rules that needed to be followed, if she wanted not to be caught.
She didn’t get attached; her services were free, but conditional.
As much as some people might have claimed otherwise, Isolde wasn’t at all bad at being a devil.
It was just that art and science – two sides of the same coin, really – were the perfect path to a person’s soul, better even than money or power, than love or jealousy. It was the combination of arrogance and selflessness found in even the strongest of people that made them perfect victims to people like Isolde, and she had no ulterior motive beyond that.
Granted, she didn’t actually deal in souls. That was above her rank – no, she just prepared the ground. Less recognition, but also less responsibility – of all the people she monitored, maybe one out of twenty would ever be considered for a contract.
Isolde had room for mistake that the contractors didn’t.
Miss Fletcher, no matter how ironically angelic her voice was, was just one of many.
It wasn’t supposed to matter – not that, and not Tristan’s disappearance. She’d managed fine before meeting him. So what if he was gone?
Except Tristan’s marks had been dropping dead, too, and frankly, the whole situation was turning out to be above her paygrade, and the reasonable thing would have been to report to someone higher up and have them take care of it.
Instead, she made soup and ate meatballs prepared by Mark and worried.
“Five of my guys died last month,” Mark mentioned thoughtfully, stuffing his face with the meatballs. “D’you figure… Tristan had gone rogue?”
A devil? Rogue? They would be hunted and obliterated immediately, Isolde wanted to say.
But she looked around the home the three of them had made. It was cozy, in a slightly human way, each of them bringing in the items they liked from the locals. They were eating human food, because it tasted nice, and she’d found that set of plates at the flea market, and Tristan had chosen the tablecloth.
None of that was, technically, within regulations.
It wasn’t so far outside them that they couldn’t argue in favour of each individual decision, but it let Isolde know the underworld’s arms didn’t reach as far as they’d like everyone to believe.
She didn’t miss Tristan, no, but she wished he were here to help them figure out that mess.
She didn’t miss Mary – no, Miss Fletcher – she was just irritated so much hard work had gone to waste.
Earthly attachments were a sign of weakness, weakness Isolde couldn’t afford, so she had none. As a devil, she had to always operate within the rules, no matter how bent they became, and the rules were clear on that.
“Do you think he could be dead?” she asked Mark, her eyes glued to the embroidered throw pillow – another of Tristan’s acquisitions. “Like, dead-dead. When he was going away, he said it was for something important – could it have been dangerous, too.”
Mark didn’t answer at first. Of the three of them, he was the one who reveled in fighting and death the most, making his targets war generals and ambitious soldiers, fueling conflict to encourage humans’ descent into sin. His head had no place for silly sentimentality.
He took her empty plate and dropped it into the sink. “If he did, we’ll never know. So don’t think about it,” he finally said. “It won’t do you any good.”
If Isolde didn’t know better, she would have thought his tone tender.
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Angstober day 16: Wake Up Call
Ughhhh okay I don't actually remember if this is how it happened and my brain is way too mush to go hunt for references in my own campaign. Wrote it yesterday but I guess I hoped I'd have enough energy today to recheck it (I didn't)
Don't Get Involved
Don’t get involved, the strange detectives told Simon, after witnessing him disappear into thin air, after seeing how magic was second nature to him. You’ve stumbled into dangerous people.
It didn’t seem that dangerous, at first. More odd than anything – people searching the walls and cellars of an old house, someone digging up the earth in the old memorial park.
The detectives also told Simon to send word if he’d seen anything weird. So Simon watched, and watched, even when he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.
Still, when all the suspicious people left, Simon knew something was wrong.
He’d packed lightly, hopeful enough that his mother would put him up back in the city. He asked casual questions, he followed the trail, and for several sweet, glorious days, he thought he was doing a good job of it.
It didn’t last.
“So he’s the one who’s been watching you?” The man in the white mask spoke evenly, almost as if bored. Simon’s shoulders ached from the way they were turned out to keep him on his knees, and he suddenly felt very, very afraid.
“He’s a sneaky bastard,” the man Simon had been following huffed. “We only caught him on the way here.”
The man in the mask grabbed Simon’s hair to turn his head up. Behind the mask, the eyes were shining an eerie, unnatural blue, and then the man suddenly tore Simon’s cloak away, only to drop it after picking up the small black brooch Simon had been keeping hidden under the collar, shaped like two crescent moons entwined with each other.
Simon jerked, trying to get away from the hands restraining him. He couldn’t claim the brooch to be his, exactly, having found it in a secret place that had whispered its existence into Simon’s head, but it felt important.
It felt like something that Simon was supposed to have.
“How fortuitous,” the man sad, still without a hint of happiness or even sarcasm. “So much searching, and you deliver it to me on a silver platter.”
He turned away and threw over his shoulder. “Search him. Who knows, maybe he isn’t as much of a nobody as he seems.”
Simon watched as his leathers and boot-trees were strewn around, carelessly thrown against the stones of the road. He barely struggled as someone patted around his pockets, poking through every hole and inspecting every scrap of paper or thread found there.
“Obscura?..”
At his goon’s voice, the man in the mask turned again. For the first time, his voice sounded mildly interested. “What of them?”
“He had a card with their address.”
The man in the mask came up to them and took the card. Simon remembered being given it, along with a bunch of others, by that lady detective – just in case, she said, for an emergency.
The masked man crushed the card between his fingers and turned to Simon. “Most fortuitous, indeed.” Then two fingers were pressing into Simon’s forehead and there were dark hazel eyes boring into his.
“Show me what you know,” the man said. Something probed into Simon’s mind, and he felt a whine form in his throat. What he knew? Simon didn’t know anything.
The probing turned into a relentless pressure. Simon still resisted, just out of the principle of things, and he breathed out a sigh of relief when it finally subsided.
Then something exploded in his mind, as if his brain was collapsing on itself. And a cool voice, soft, without malice, “Show me what you know.”
Blurred images of watching someone from the rooftops. A cafe. Glimpses of white hair, of weapons, the clinking of glass.
Someone’s concerned voice.
Don’t get involved.
Don’t get involved.
So that was what she’d meant.
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Angstober day 13: From Childhood
This will be a small one, I told myself. Barely a drabble, I told myself.
Well I'm a fucking liar, I guess.
Buttons
Luca was laughing. He laughed and laughed, and it made Leopoldo angrier and angrier.
“Ah…” Luca wiped the tears from his eyes. “Really, planting Enzo’s button under the cupboard was a stroke of genius. You almost got caught though.”
“I wouldn’t have had to do it in the first place if you hadn’t messed with the cake,” Leopoldo lashed out. It was scary, in honesty – if he got caught, Aunt Eloisa might have thought that he was the cake thief, and that would have been most unfortunate.
“Oh, come on, it worked out, didn’t it? He shouldn’t wear such fancy buttons, really. Or keep a better eye on his clothes.”
“Whatever,” Leopoldo grumbled. “Did you at least save me a piece?”
“Sorry!” Luca chuckled and whispered in his ear, “The great thing about stealing someone’s birthday cake is that you don’t have to share.”
And off he went, in search of new mischief. Leopoldo should have just let him get caught – but he didn’t. Couldn’t.
This was what big brothers were for, wasn’t it?
---
“Oh, will you stop nagging,” Luca waved Leopoldo off. “Who cares?”
“I care,” Leopoldo hissed, frantically hoping no one was listening at the door. “He was hurt, badly.”
“That was the whole point,” Luca pointed out. “Because he’s an asshole and he made fun of my hair. And I don’t like how he looks at Mamma.”
“That’s no reason to push a guy off the roof,” Leopoldo’s pleading fell on deaf ears. “What if he wakes up? What if someone saw you?”
“Nah,” Luca smirked. “I wiped his memory. Want to try, too?” He twirled the chain of his pendant around his finger, and goosebumps ran across Leopoldo’s back.
“Leave me out of your weird games,” he snapped. “Just… stay in your room. I’ll go check the roof.”
“Do you have to?” Luca rolled his eyes. “Won’t that just attract more attention?”
“You’re missing a button,” Leopoldo pointed out, jabbing a finger at the empty space on Luca’s waistcoat.
Luca looked down. “Ah,” he laughed softly, “so I am. What would I do without you?”
Indeed, what?
---
“You messed up.”
“Look, you don’t have to tell me that, I just need you to help me fix it.”
“If the police comes, there’s nothing I can do, Luca.”
“He heavily implied blackmail.”
Ah, of course. So much better.
They were walking through the dim streets, Leopold wasn’t sure where. He still didn’t know this town very well, and Luca’s absolute refusal to try and keep a low profile didn’t make things easier.
“Well, what do you want me to do? Beat him up so he doesn’t tell anyone? I hardly think that will work, besides, he’s twice my size.”
“Shut up and let me think.”
Luca had always considered himself the thinker in the family, severely underestimating the amount of planning that had to go into bailing him out of trouble – to say nothing of Leopold’s mental gymnastics to justify doing so.
They arrived at a small house, secluded enough that Leopold let himself relax a little.
“So, what now? Knock and try to reason with him?”
“No, no, we need to get in quietly. Can you pick the lock?”
There was light inside, and Leopold winced as he got the set of lockpicks out of his pocket. The lock itself wasn’t difficult, but he ran into an unfortunate problem once he finished with that.
“It’s bolted from the inside.”
“Can’t you do something with it?”
Leopold listened to the quiet of the nighttime street, already disturbed enough by the clinging of the picks.
“Not unnoticed. Look, just… let me talk to him, we’ll figure something out.”
Luca shook his head. Leopold was almost surprised he didn’t stomp his foot. After looking around, Luca suggested, “Can you get in through the chimney?”
“Are you an idiot?!” Luca shushed him, and Leopold continued in a quieter voice, “Unless you know some mumbo-jumbo to make me three times smaller and fireproof, that’s out of the question.”
Luca bit his lip and then his gaze finally landed on Leopold’s coat. His eyes lit up, “Those are ivory, aren’t they?”
He plucked one button off with surprising strength, and Leopold protested, “Oi, that was Dad’s!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, shut up.” Luca bit his finger until it bled, pressed it to the shiny white surface. Leopold watched, desperately suppressing his disgust, as the droplet of blood boiled on top of the button, grew and solidified into a fleshy impression of a four-legged creature, the original ivory barely visible on its forehead.
The creature was thin and ugly, barely resembling the pictures of elephants Leopold had seen in books. At the command of Luca’s finger, it climbed the wall as if it was a spider, then disappeared in the chimney. In a few minutes, Leopold heard the latch quietly drop, and pulled the door open as quietly as he could.
With another sharp flick of Luca’s finger the creature dropped to the ground, dissolving into the carpet and leaving behind the slightly dirty button. Luca picked it up and pressed it into Leopold’s hands with a wide, unnerving smile.
When Leopold pressed the edge of his rapier to the blackmailer’s throat, he thought the hard part was over. That was what Luca wanted him for – the sneakiness, the light steps, the ability to take someone by surprise to give Luca a chance to find the papers and burn them.
But then Luca turned away from the fire, face cast in moving shadows, and smiled.
“Don’t,” Leopold tried to say, but Luca interrupted him.
“You know, there’s been this one thing that I’ve been meaning to try on a person. Get some feedback. Maybe teach someone a lesson on snooping in other people’s affairs.”
He stroked the chain around his neck and his smile grew wider.
And then the man screamed.
He jerked, cutting his throat against Leopold’s rapier – not enough to kill him, but more then enough to bleed. Leopold drew back, jumped off the chair he was standing on to avoid being accidentally pushed off.
“What are you doing, stop!” he hissed at Luca, unsure why he was still trying to be quiet – the screams must have alerted everyone in the neighbourhood to their presence.
“Teaching him a lesson,” Luca didn’t take his eyes off the man writhing in front of him in agony. “Just in case he had the idea to try this again.”
“Enough is enough,” Leopold stalked towards his brother, getting more and more enraged. “This is how you get caught, don’t you realize?”
He tried to pull at the chain of Luca’s necklace, hoping it would interrupt whatever magic was going on. Luca leaned away, turned to him, and then –
Everything was on fire. His body was burning, every nerve ending screaming for the torture to stop. He fell to his knees, unsure if he wanted to try and fight whatever was causing it or beg for mercy, and then –
It was gone.
As quickly as it came, the pain stopped, leaving him gasping at Luca’s feet.
“Well, then,” suddenly, Luca was all business. “I suppose now he’s seen too much, and his neighbours have heard too much. An accidental fire, what do you say?”
Leopold didn’t dare do anything but nod, and Luca leaned down to him with a smile.
“I knew I could count on you. Get what you need ready. I’ll take care of him.”
---
“Did you have to kill him?”
“He’s the reason Grandma’s dead, don’t you have any sense of pride?”
It felt like the same conversation all over again. His voice argued, but his mind was already running through the possibilities.
It was a big party – hiding the body wasn’t a possibility, but they could make things confusing. Those detectives, their cousin’s friends – they were a danger, but one that could possibly play in their favour.
The study – Archibald had another key, didn’t he? It would be easy enough to stumble into him, slice off a button off his frock…
His eyes fell on the letter opener, and an idea came to his mind.
“You said these detectives know magic?” Luca nodded.
Leopold looked around the study. Ah, a letter opener – wonderful.
He stabbed it into the dead body’s chest and turned to Luca. “Make sure if they look, they see what they need to see. Can you do that?” Luca nodded. “Ah, and make sure we’re heard somewhere… downstairs.”
The parts of a plan were coming together, the reluctant perfection of cover-up.
“I knew I could count on you,” Luca smiles, and Leopold shivered.
“Anytime,” he echoed.
That was what big brothers were for, wasn’t it?
#angstober2023#masterofrecords angsts#masterofreocrds writes#day 13#i love this pair of unhinged halflings#though coming up with the whole complicated genealogy was... an experience
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Angstober day 10: Can't Go Home
One of those Angstober prompts I really wanted to do. One of the really fascinating NPCs I've come up with for the campaign that I was really curious to explore more.
Lost
They didn’t question him for very long, at least, not about anything serious.
In fairness, there was little he could tell him, but in his – admittedly limited by the imperfections of his memory – experience, that rarely mattered. He had a feeling that the big guy – the one that had stayed on the lower floor fighting the constructs until he dropped near-dead – had stepped in for him.
Maybe these guys weren’t too bad. They even returned his hat.
That said, he didn’t quite get the point of some of the questions.
“So you don’t remember anything about yourself? No documents? Family heirlooms, perhaps? Letters?” The scary-looking lady in white kept drilling him. Still, her voice was a lot gentler than when she’d been talking to his… colleague? Captor?
He really wasn’t sure about anything.
He just shook his head, and the lady pursed her lips, clearly unhappy.
“May I take a look at your head?” she finally asked.
He was torn.
He had vague memories of the masked man inspecting his eyes, his forehead, fingers firm and painful. Whenever he tried to probe his mind further than that, he stumbled into the usual fog, but unlike most other attempts, in this case he mostly felt relief.
Granted, he was quite sure the masked man had never asked.
These people also didn’t have to ask. He was their prisoner – he’d attacked them, and was defeated. He didn’t even try to explain how memories sometimes became clearer in the fighting, how it wasn’t out of malice, but out of desperation.
For some reason, he felt like saying it out loud would be – was? – bad.
So he nodded.
Her fingers were warm and careful against his forehead, almost pleasant as they parted his hair and lightly probed at the skin around the crown of his head, testing the unevenness of the skin going all the way around. He waited, as patiently as he could, for her to finish.
Then she sat back and was quiet for a while. He didn’t interrupt, despite feeling antsy and itchy. He fiddled with his hands and the rim of his hat and tried not to think too hard about anything.
Finally, the lady sighed. “Oh, I really don’t know what to do with you…”
After some consideration, she looked around and finally addressed him once more. “Do you think you can find an address by yourself? Do you remember much about the city?”
Asking what city felt like the wrong move, but he must have hesitated long enough for the lady to shake her head, “Never mind, I’ll find someone to take you.”
Take me where? he again didn’t ask, but it probably wasn’t jail if she’d considered letting him go there alone.
She eventually returned with a young woman wearing leather armor and an appallingly white jacket.
“Okay, Cara, there he is.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me here?” the girl asked. She seemed harmless enough, very young. She flashed a smile at him and he couldn’t help but smile way.
Yes, he decided he didn’t mind going with her.
“I don’t think there is much you can do,” the lady waved the girl – Cara – off, and then added as an afterthought. “Oh, and while you’re at it, after you drop him off, stop by the headquarters and see how everyone’s doing there. I’m still worried about the aftereffects of mind control.”
Cara nodded and looked at him. “Well, shall we?”
She had a lovely, unthreatening spring in her step even as they exited the building. He looked back – it was a tower, a large clock at the top.
So that was where all the clicking came from.
“Miss Maisie said you don’t remember anything?” Cara asked, but before he could get embarrassed or angry about it, she added, “So do you want to take the scenic route? We can always find a cabbie, but I thought you might like a walk.”
That… didn’t sound bad at all. In fact, when all he could remember were the tight walls of that tower and the dim lights poking through the small, dirty windows, a walk sounded downright heavenly.
The weather was quite lovely, too. It was warm, and the trees were a striking green of young leaves. Cara kept talking the whole way, pointing out the things she found interesting and explaining the history of various buildings to him as if he was a tourist.
It would have been sweet, if it wasn’t tainted by the knowledge that he would likely forget it come next morning.
Finally, after quite some time of wandering around, a warm loaf of bread and an apple, Cara announced, “Well, we’re finally here! Sorry for the short tour, but there’s still that other stuff Miss Maisie asked me to do. If we had more time, I would have shown you the menagerie!”
They were in front of a tall fence with a set of ornate gates, wide open but still intimidating. On top of the gate, in equally ornate letters were the words:
The Laswestry Hospital for Ailments of the Mind
His steps slowed down.
Cara kept prattling on, not noticing he had fallen behind. “You’ll need Dr. Price, that’s who Miss Maisie said to talk to, we can probably find out where she is at the… hey, what’s wrong?”
He didn’t know.
There was a smell in his nose, stifling and sharp. White, too much white. Pain around his skull, reverberating in his temples and behind his eyes.
Someone’s voice, whispering – promises, threats, platitudes.
He took a step back.
“Hey, hold on –”
He took another.
And then he turned and ran, pushing through the passers-by, ignoring Cara’s alarmed shouting.
He ran, and ran, until there was no more sound of a chase behind him, until he had no idea where he was.
He took his hat off and hugged it to his chest. The hat felt important – the only thing that did.
Beyond that, he had no name, no home, no past.
If he had a future, only time would tell.
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