#trintora

[brian-wellson]

Kestrel opened the double French doors.. He grinned. The balcony was appointed with a white, wrought-iron bistro set, its table was topped with flawless, white porcelain that gleamed green hues beneath the shifting sky – teacups, appetizer plates, a dairy creamer and sugar bowl; nickel-plated silver; white cloth napkins; and, amidst everything, a single pink Gerber daisy standing tall in its crystal bud vase. Freshly pressed kafa, baked mini-quiches – applewood-smoked bacon, tomato, and baby Bella caps – each in its own cast-iron skillet; the small order of biscotti he had picked up the night before. He ushered Wren through the doors. “Doctor Wellson, you’ve been busy,” she said. Wren pecked him on the cheek. “You deserve no less than this, Quai,” he whispered. Kestrel moved toward the table and pulled her chair out, urging Wren to sit. “Plus everyone else needed breakfast… though, theirs comes in a much larger skillet. Besides, I wasn’t the only one who worked hard this morning. ” Wren snorted when she sat. Kestrel scooted her chair in toward the table. He took the chair opposite her, picked up his white linen napkin, and set it in his lap. The napkin stood a stark contrast to his thin, black fisherman’s trousers. He poured Wren a cup of kafa, hand resting atop the press. She watched him. Kestrel caught her eye; he started to pour his own cup. “It’s nice to have a kitchen again.” Wren chuckled. “Will Justine bake us pie?” “She’s prepped filo dough. According to her it ‘won’t be a pie, but a strudel’.” Kestrel set the press down. He placed a biscotti on his appetizer plate. Wren set down her creamer and stirred the kafa with her teaspoon. Kestrel rolled his eyes: “And, before you ask, her highness — Princess Juniper Rose — is getting her own special, cinnamon-free version with applejack brandy.” Wren chortled. She picked up her fork. “I wonder if Jus would actually, you know…” “…fuck June?” Kestrel smirked – much as Osprey would. “Oh, oh yes. Without a doubt.” The two stared at each other. They began to laugh. Kestrel took the creamer, and poured a spot – a tan tempest swirled in murky water. Wren ate a small bite of quiche. She closed her eyes, happy. “Always surprising me, Doctor…” After chewing for a bit, she stopped: “These eggs are different…” “‘Falcosaurs’ or something – an invasive species. In exchange for their wholesale slaughter, The Wardens are paying exorbitant bounties.” “At least their eggs are rich,” said Wren. Kestrel shrugged. His eyes shone, and his smile – the brightest she had seen since that long, sticky night spent in Kun Lai. “Petrel told me this place is part of our stipend.” Wren nodded. “Nice perk.” She and Kestrel ate the remainder of their quiche over mirthful laughter. Soon, nothing remained but biscotti and kafa. They leaned back in their chairs: Wren sighed happily, hunger sated, and Kestrel chuckled. On the street below, a kal’dorei doomsayer pled with the Guardians about his missing friend; it was all rather awkward. Osprey stepped through the balcony doors, barefoot and clad in nothing but her knotted tactical shirt, black shorts, and a small boot knife strapped to her inner ankle. “Our girl’s awake, but groggy. Confused. I stuck her in the tub to calm her down,” she said. Wren dabbed at the corner of her mouth. Kestrel stretched his hands above his head before he began to gather the miniature cast-iron skillets and used silverware. In the streets below, the frantic doomsayer was beat down by a Guardian and hauled off toward Violet Hold. People gawked and stared and talked in quiet murmurs. Kestrel slipped past Osprey and stuck the dishes in the kitchenette’s sink. Cross-legged on her loft bed, Lark played with some wooden trinket or another — polishing it, she said. Andrew stared at Osprey from his spot next to the bathroom door; he oozed fluids from every pore. Wren drained her kafa as she stood. Her bare feet padded across the threshold. She pulled Osprey along with her. “She say anything?” “It’d be best if you talked to her yourself,” said Osprey. (( Mentioned: @quai-mason, @juniper-rose-blower, @justinegrotius, @andrew-mason; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @monettemason, @killerkyara, @alastar-wyatt ))

[justinegrotius]

The safehouse was thick with the aroma of prime rib. Sweet notes of apple floated through the air. A complex bouquet of blackberries and leather, tobacco and minerals wafted forth from crystalline wine glasses.

“So… why?” Osprey asked Mandy. Even as she had calmed, Osprey had tasked herself with deathwatch. 

Mandy wiped her mouth with her linen napkin. She set her fork down and took up her glass of Syrah. She did not have a knife to cut her meal; Osprey and Kestrel had taken the time to cut everything for her.

“I was so young when the Cataclysm happened,” she said. Osprey crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. Mandy set her glass down: “So when the fires came… when I lost my family, I saw that the doomsayers were right. I didn’t like admitting that, you know? When I did, I said there was no hope. I had to tell others that…”

“Why did you stop resisting yesterday?”

Mandy chewed her bottom lip. She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes; it was still quite long – even though Lark had cut it earlier that day, it had not been a proper styling. Mandy sniffled.

“There’s nothing…” – she began; Mandy paused to draw a shaky breath – “…there’s nothing more powerful than the Light. I’d forgotten. You know, I had this dream right after the King died. I was outside, tending my parents’ cornfields. It was night time. I didn’t know why I would be working outside in the night time, you know? It seemed so weird…” – she chuckled – “…so I looked up at the moon. And it was a tiny sliver, like a thumbnail, this tiny sliver of the purest white Light you can imagine. And this voice, this sweet voice of…” – Mandy thought for a moment; she raised the wine glass and held it off to the side – “…anyway, she told me she’d blessed me. That her eye was always on me. And that she would touch me when the time was right.”

“And you think this is what the voice meant?” Osprey gestured toward the table. She did not know whether or not to trust the woman, but Mandy seemed sincere in her belief. She was calm, as though she had accepted her fate long before Kestrel and Wren had snatched her off the street.

Mandy nodded. “I know it is what she meant.” The young doomsayer popped a small bite of prime rib into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

Osprey narrowed her eyes. She ran her fingers through her hair. Her mind flashed back to the dream she had experienced back at Swamp Castle – a dream which had haunted her and begun to play itself more often than she would ever admit.

“I’ve found comfort in knowing my end,” said Mandy. She set the napkin into her lap. White robes flowed silently to the floor in an unending cascade of purity. “There’s comfort in knowing that I’ll continue.” She studied the older woman for several seconds. “We all continue in some way, you know? Sometimes that’s memory, I think? Sometimes it’s spirit… I don’t know how this’ll work.”

“And that’s good enough?”

Mandy cocked her head to the side. No longer did she seem the raving lunatic Osprey had plunged into the tub; no longer did she seem bent on proselytizing about the end times. But her ideas did not square with Osprey’s beliefs, and the older woman could not understand why.

“If it was meant to be this way? It has to be.” Mandy pushed the thick stoneware plate off to the side, and pulled the apple strudel toward her. “If this wasn’t my path, you never would’ve known to make this strudel – my mom used to make it all the time. Thank you.”

Osprey and Mandy sat in the room for over an hour. No one would ever know the things about which they spoke. When they had finished, Osprey pushed a small water glass and a red, translucent capsule toward her. Mandy nodded once – she knew what it was.

“Goodnight, Jenna,” said Mandy.

It was only after Mandy had fallen asleep, and Osprey had set Mandy in the safehouse’s deep bath that Osprey would whisper her own real name – her birth name – into Mandy’s ear. 

(( Mentioned: @brian-wellson, @quai-mason, @juniper-rose-blower; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @monettemason, @killerkyara, @alastar-wyatt ))

[brian-wellson]

The blacksmith’s had changed since the last time Kestrel and Blackbird had retrieved the twin blades. Electric purples and blues threaded the walls like pulsing veins of fire. Glowing runes had been etched into the floor. The air crackled with raw energy. The scent of ozone smothered everything. Meanwhile, the blacksmith had not changed at all. Grime still streaked his blonde hair, beads of sweat still ran down his shirtless chest, the hammer he used still hung from his black leather belt. Blackbird still gawked at him.

“So… what is it exactly?” Kestrel asked.

The blacksmith chuckled. He picked up The Orb and slid it into its velvet minaudière. “Wha’ ya go’ ‘ere is an old ba’ery ta hol’ energy.”

Kestrel slid his arm across his abdomen. He looked irritated. “We knew as much already,” he said. Blackbird clicked her tongue. “But the way it darkened when –”

“Oh, aye. Th’ ba’ery’s no’ just for arcane. Ya were righ’ ta bring et ‘ere.” The blacksmith handed Kestrel the small bag with The Orb inside of it. He crossed the room toward an anvil covered by a canvas drop cloth. “Ya see, when air is charged wit’ energy – an’ I mean ‘eavy wit’ et – The Orb sucks the extra into et.”

“So it’s a capacitor, not a battery.”

The blacksmith shrugged. “I dunnae. Guess so.” He stepped around the anvil and faced Kestrel and Blackbird. “So ya bring me th’ Orb an’ et was filled wit’ shadow an’ arcane. I heated them daggers ya brought me, an’ set th’ Orb in th’ forge – some o’ tha’ arcanomancer trick’ry – an’ th’ heat, et opened th’ ba’ery.”

“Oi, like when ye pop a bubble,” said Blackbird. She tilted her head. “An’ all th’ air comes ou’.”

“Aye,” agreed the blacksmith.

“Is it exhaustible?” asked Kestrel. He weighted the minaudière in his right hand and passed it off to the left. “I mean… can it ever run out of energy?”

“I cannae say fer sure, bu’ I dunnae think so. No, et seems ta breathe th’ air, suckin’ energies from et all th’ time. Th’ trick is knowin’ ‘ow ta release et.”

Kestrel considered the man’s statement. “Heat works,” he said.

“Aye, bu’ ah dunnae think tha’s th’ only way,” said the blacksmith. He shrugged. “Anyway, yer blades.”

The blacksmith pulled the canvas away from the anvil. There, one blade atop the other, sat Kestrel’s daggers. They glowed an unearthly aqua, as the shadow and arcane energies which had once flowed uncontrolled from their tips had been confined to their serrated edges. Kestrel broke into a smile; Blackbird drew back and away.

“I worked on th’ matrices wit’ th’ energy from th’ Orb – tha’s why ya dunnae see them blades flickerin’ endless-like anymore.”

Kestrel crossed the room. He hefted Duredrassil, and slid it into its sheathe. When he picked up Sin’serrar, it was cold to the touch and seemed to twitch in his hand. Kestrel frowned.

“I see ya feel tha’ one movin’,” said the blacksmith. He wiped his grimy hands on his denim work pants. “I thin’ she wan’s blood.”

Blackbird clicked her tongue disapprovingly: “Mister Wellson, I dunnae like this one bit.” She edged closer to the door.

Kestrel waved his hand. “There’s nothing to worry about…” he said. Kestrel sheathed his offhand blade; it settled against his hip. Blackbird remained unconvinced.

The blacksmith looked between the duo, his face grave. “Ya bring ‘er ba’ ta me when ya need more work done, get tha’ one ta calm down.” He pointed toward Kestrel’s left hip.

“What will it take?” Kestrel asked.

The blacksmith shook his head. He walked toward the back of the smithy. “I cannae say fo’ sure, bu’ I reckon you’ll know when et’s time. Take care o’ ‘em,” he said before disappearing through a set of heavy and speckled leather curtains.

Blackbird slipped out the front door, eager to get back into the sun. Kestrel followed. He passed The Orb from one hand to another and back again. The twin daggers swayed gently against his hips. The skin on his right side warmed, while that on his left cooled. Kestrel decided to keep this to himself. Instead, he and Blackbird stopped by a fruit stand, bought three apples and a bunch of grapes, and walked slowly back to the safe house.

(( Mentioned: @gwen-oconnell; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @monettemason, @juniper-rose-blower, @killerkyara, @alastar-wyatt ))

[brian-wellson]

“No fucking way…” whispered Kestrel as he stared down at the tub. His mouth dropped open. The woman’s form had coursed through Mandy’s and made it her own. Now, Kestrel’s biggest professional disaster flailed in the tub.

“Last month I ordered thirty thousand little springs, no questions asked!” bellowed the purple goo-covered woman.

“Holy shit,” he muttered. Kestrel stepped backward two steps and fell to the ground. He landed with a gasp: “It actually worked…”

The woman rose from the vat, twitching. Mandy’s white robes were stained purple. As the woman stood, sodden robes slopped back into the tub. Swan guided the woman toward the washroom. Edward and Lark followed close behind.

A teardrop dripped down Kestrel’s cheek, and it clung to his chin before it dropped to the hardwood floor with a quiet –plip!–. Kestrel could not move. He could only continue to stare. His memory flooded with fragmented images: the initial ambush, Cat’s gun firing inches from his face. Conclave’s infirmary, where he had to be chemically restrained and placed on a week-long psychiatric hold. No one was supposed to survive that night – that much was clear. Trin had paid their due, and Kestrel had never forgiven herself. No one deserved the undignified death she had been given: facedown, paralyzed, in the murky waters of Stranglethorn Vale.

For months Kestrel had turned Trin’s Mourning Ring about on his finger. At prayer, during recon, in his bedchamber. Trin was always there, always reminding him that he did not have the foresight necessary to prevent her death. The day Claire shot him, Kestrel had left that ring – and all that it symbolized – to his chief of security. And as he touched the veil, he cried into the darkness that she would be diligent and ruthless in a way he had never been. He knew Ariadne was capable, more than capable, and someone who fully understood the burden of trust and loyalty. Kestrel had made the decision, as he had died in the Kun-Lai monastery, that he could not abide Trin’s death. As much as he had willed himself to live for Quai, he had also forced himself to live for Trin – because it was only through the rectification of her death that his own sins could be purged.

Kestrel touched the shock of lavender hair drooping into his eye. Even as he believed that he had taken the correct action, the niggling suspicion that something had gone horribly awry remained: that things were not as they should have been, and that the very world was broken.

(( Mentioned: @trin-llewellyn, @monettemason, @juniper-rose-blower, @clairedupaige, @ariadneliam, @quai-mason; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @killerkyara, @alastar-wyatt ))

[brian-wellson]

When the doomsayer awoke, she was sitting. Her hands were bound behind her back, and her feet lashed to her cushioned dining chair. The door in front of her opened, and the man she had met on the street entered. The woman who had pushed her underwater followed close behind; she had put on pants. The doomsayer felt reassured. The woman closed the door.

The doomsayer watched the man – the doctor, if she recalled – as he sat in the simple wooden chair across from her. The woman who had tortured her, meanwhile, stood behind him, a hand on her leg-holster. Neither of them said a word.

The man was average height, and thin, like her. Strange, discolored veins ran up his right arm and the side of his neck. He spoke quietly, with an accent she not heard before. She wondered where the rest of the group had gone.

The doomsayer was strung out from the constant sedation. For some reason, she had dreamt of many different birds picking at a carcass. The doomsayer tried to remember more detail, but that was as far as she had gotten: birds picking at a carcass. More worrisome than her dreams, however, was the bind in which she had found herself. And so when the quiet doctor sat across from her, she was expecting something awful.

“Would you like a glass of water?” The man asked.

The doomsayer looked down. She nodded. The woman with the gun walked to the table and poured a glass. She crouched before the doomsayer and took a long sip before she offered her the water.

“It’s clean,” said the woman. She seemed much more restrained than the first time they had met; then again, the doomsayer, too, was far more restrained. “What’s your name?”

“M-Mandy…” croaked the doomsayer through parched lips.

The woman held the glass to Mandy’s lips. Mandy sipped once. This water did not smell of cucumber or mint. And it tasted as clean as it looked. She lowered her head further and the woman with the gun tilted the glass slowly.

When Mandy had finished, the woman stood. “Mandy, I am Jenna. And I am sorry about the bathtub,” said Osprey.

Mandy blinked. She had not mid-40s, quite tall, very fit. Short brunette hair framed angular features. Osprey turned and set the empty glass on the low table. She retook her spot near the door.

“…why am I here…?” Mandy asked. Her eyes scanned the room – a lush bed, bookcases, old brick, hardwood floor; clearly, this group had funds. “Is it because of… wh-what I was saying?”

The man stood. A small push dagger was in his hand. Mandy shrank. The man walked behind her. Mandy could feel the cold blade close to her wrists. They throbbed. She tried to twist away.

“Stop moving,” the man said.

Mandy froze. A snap. Rope fell the floor. Mandy gasped. She brought her quaking hands around. The man retook his seat. Osprey poured a second glass of water as Mandy massaged her wrists. Once she had finished, Osprey gave Mandy the glass, and walked back to the door, hand on her leg-holster. Mandy cradled the glass in her lap.

The man across from her cleared his throat. “We need you,” he said.

“Wh-what?”

“Do you have any lovers?”

Mandy looked confused. “A few… how –”

“Are you ill?”

“No, but –”

“Have you ever wanted to be something more than yourself?” Osprey asked.

Mandy stopped. “I already am.”

“Are you?” The man asked.

“What is more than the end of all things?”

The man sighed. Mandy raised her glass and took a long, cool sip. Osprey watched her. She never moved her hand from her holster. Mandy lowered her glass and set it in her lap:

“N-nothing can stop the end…” Mandy said. She sounded unsure – even to herself.

“You can,” said the man.

He rose from his chair and unsheathed one of his glowing daggers. He knelt before Mandy. He placed the dagger into her hand. Under Osprey’s watchful eye, Mandy turned the blade over and over. Her thumb rubbed across … something. Mandy inspected the pommel: a simple crescent moon – the sign of Elune. When she saw the symbol, an overwhelming peace flooded her.

“I know this symbol,” Mandy whispered.

“Most do,” said ‘Jenna’.

“No, no…” Mandy shook her head. She handed the dagger back to the man, handle first. He sheathed the blade and retook his seat. Mandy itched her scalp. “I mean… in my mind, I’ve seen it.”

‘Jenna’ and the man exchanged a glance.

“This is my purpose,” said Mandy. “You are my purpose.” Her tone was calm and even. She closed her eyes. Suddenly, the world had been righted: all the years spent an outcast, all of sacrifice and hunger. Everything had led to this moment. “Will it hurt?”

The man leaned in close. “No,” he said. The push dagger flashed into his palm. He cut her legs free. “You have my word.”

Mandy did not move. She simply nodded.

The man stood, and the blade disappeared. He walked toward ‘Jenna’. They spoke in whispers. After a moment, the man turned. “Tell us what you would like for your last meal.”

(( Mentioned: @justinegrotius; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ], @quai-mason, @monettemason, @juniper-rose-blower, @killerkyara, @alastar-wyatt ))

[brian-wellson]

((Inspired by the forthcoming solar eclipse, I thought I’d throw a little something together echoing it.))

I.

The Orb pulsates, like it is breathing light. Clear, iridescent, clear, iridescent: a slow and unvarying cycle. The Orb makes no sound, nor does it expand and contract, nor are there etchings of runes across its face – no, the Orb, cradled in its pewter stand, rests atop the antique teak dining table, flanked by Kestrel’s two blessèd daggers, Duredrassil and Sin’Serrar.

Kestrel glances up and away from the Orb. He spies Osprey overlooking the square below from their outdoor balcony. After a time, she turns about, and leans back, sitting on the wrought-iron balustrade. From Kestrel’s vantage point, Osprey wore a halo of coronal green fire – perverse energies streaming from the immobile, shattered planet in the sky.

“Do you hear that?” Osprey asks.

“N–”

Osprey presses her index finger to her lips, its burn not yet healed. She shushes him. “Listen.”

Kestrel stands. He approaches the balcony:

“What am I –”

“Sh!” Osprey commands.

Kestrel joins Osprey. The two listen intently – concerned residents chatter, doomsayers prosthelytize, soldiers march. Kestrel leans across the balustrade, straining to hear anything else. And then, beneath the city’s bustling hum, a faint, bleak drone. He could not see its origin point; perhaps a group was singing on the other side of Dalaran’s wall.  Kestrel shrugs. “Everyone needs an outlet, I suppose.” He turns on his heel and, like Osprey, leans against the rail, fingers picking dead leaves of ivy from the ironwork. They listen to the drone together, but think it little more than a mere curiosity.

II.

When Blackbird arrives, her face is flush with panic. Kestrel ushers her inside to the dining table, while Osprey disappears into the kitchen. Kestrel places his hands around Blackbird’s quaking fingers; neither of them move nor speak for several minutes. The whistle of the tea kettle needles their ears.

“Did… did ye ‘ear ‘em,” whispers Blackbird. Her eyes are wide with terror. She twirls her finger about in the air. “The songs, they’re evil, Mister Wellson.”

“It’s just singing, Gwen…” he replies.

Osprey emerges from the kitchen. She places three stout ceramic cups on the table and metes out tea for each of them. She sits. While Osprey and Kestrel add cream and sugar to their tea, all three listen to the distant choir – a choir whose dark and chaotic drone had grown far more present than it had been just mere minutes before.

“Ain’ no singin’ like I ever ‘eard. Those words – they soun’ like prayers bu’ no’,” says Blackbird. She passes on her hosts’ offers of cream and sugar, instead cupping her hands around the warm ceramic. She holds it beneath her nose, inhaling the soft, warm vapor as it streams upward. Black tea and bergamot scents the room. Blackbird takes a sip and lowers the cup. She turns her head to the side and clicks her tongue. “Wha’ is tha’, Mister Wellson?”

Kestrel and Osprey follow her gaze to the pulsating Orb.

“It’s the Orb from his Estate,” says Osprey. Her lip curls as she looks at it; discomfiture written plainly across her face.

“I know tha’, bu’ wha’ is it doin’,” replies Blackbird. She reaches a finger toward it and recoils as translucent lavender floods the Orb.

“We do not know,” Kestrel says.

“Let’s fin’ out…” – Blackbird pushes her cup of breakfast tea toward Kestrel  – “…drink this, an’ clear your min’, frien’.” Osprey hides a smirk behind her teacup while Kestrel sets his own cup into its ceramic saucer. He picks up the cup Blackbird had proffered. “Now ‘old it under your nose, close your eyes, an’ breathe.”

Kestrel does as his friend instructs. Osprey sets her cup down and looks over her shoulder toward the balcony – the singing was getting louder.

“Clear your min’… tha’s righ’ … now drink, frien’…”

III.

Blackbird’s tea was strong, far stronger than his own. Soon, it was all that he could experience – no sounds, no light, nothing but the soothing and overwhelming sense of bergamot.

For Kestrel, time stopped.

Outside the flat, the droning continued. The chattering people began to shout, intermittent and forceful. The sound of heavy boots roused Osprey from her chair. She walked through the white French doors onto the balcony. Guardians lined the square. A large group of singing doomsayers, candles in hand, proceeded slowly toward the square. In their midst were four men carrying a large, ancient bell, and a singular woman laden with a grand mallet.

Osprey felt uneasy. She looked into the room behind her – both Blackbird and Kestrel were entranced.

IV.

Kestrel’s eyes snap open. He gasps.

“Can I ‘ave th’ cup, Mister Wellson?” Blackbird asks. Kestrel nods absently. He wonders how long he had been entranced. Blackbird takes the cup from Kestrel’s hands. She holds it high, flips it over, and slams it against the polished tabletop. A sharp crack rips through the flat. She removes her hand; somehow, the cup has remained undamaged.

“…boss,” says Osprey.

Blackbird runs her hands over the sodden mass of tea leaves, her brow knit in an intense display of concentration.

“…boss,” Osprey calls.

Blackbird clicks her tongue. She cocks her head to the side, and clicks her tongue a second time. Kestrel does not hear Osprey. To Osprey, the choir of doomsayers has only gotten louder. The Guardians push back against panicked residents. Osprey draws her sidearm from her leg-holster.

“Mister Wellson…” starts Blackbird. Her voice is shaky, distant. Unnatural.

Kestrel returns to Blackbird and her ritual.

“Th’ Orb… ya can use it…”

Osprey chambers a round in her sidearm. By now, the drone of the doomsayer choir has overswept everything. Guardians form a tight, protective circle around them.

“Use… it… an’ our frien’ needs it, too… bu’ I cannae…”

“What, Gwen…?” says Kestrel.

“I… I cannae…” says Blackbird, a rivulet of sweat slides down her neck. She sounds as though she is about to cry.

“Brian!” Osprey shouts. The choir stops their drone. The square below the balcony falls into an uneasy quiet.

“I cannae see the las’… th’ void…” whispers Blackbird.

Blackbird’s slumps back in her chair; her hands drop to her side. Kestrel reaches out and grabs Blackbird. Osprey turns, sidearm pointing toward the deck. She starts to rush inside.

As she crosses the threshold, Osprey freezes. Her chest rattles. The woman had struck the bell with her grand mallet – its fathomless knell rolls across the square. People cry out in fear. The Guardians draw their staves tight across their chests. The woman strikes the bell again. Terrified feet, fleeing the doomsayers’ display, skitter down ashy alleyways. Windows and doors slam shut. And then the woman hits the resounding bell one final time. Dark and forlorn, its toll seeps through walls and shuttered windows and the very bones of the people. A brilliant fel ejection erupts from the planet in the sky. The discordant choir surges – a conflagration of wordless notes billows forth, flooding the city with unstoppable waves.

The Orb’s pulsations devolve into swirling clouds of black mist. Kestrel’s eyes widen. The mist congeals into a sphere of solid, impenetrable darkness. He can feel hopelessness and despair radiating from the Orb as a frigid steel bar.

A steady, high-pitched ringing builds from nothing, suffusing the flat with divine harmony within a minute. Duredrassil, the moon-kissed dagger, sings brilliant and clean. The sound awakens Blackbird, and fills Kestrel and Osprey with an unseeable light. The holy tone spills out the doors, cascading into the square below. The doomsayers fall silent; the blackness inside the Orb dissipates. Duredrassil’s singing fades. The world has been made still –

Nobody breathes. Nobody moves. Nobody does anything at all.

(( Mentioned: @justinegrotius, @gwen-oconnell; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @monettemason, @juniper-rose-blower, @killerkyara, @alastar-wyatt ))

[justinegrotius]

Thursday Morning…

The waif Kestrel and Wren had ‘procured’ had begun to stir. Osprey looked up from her spot at the foot of her bed, and set her fork, still warm from the quiche’s hot, melted cheese, onto her stoneware plate. The fork clinked softly. The captive woman – straight brunette, pale, dangerously thin – stopped squirming, and drew her hands to her face. Her mouth dropped open when her fingers brushed against her blindfold.

“Wh… what is this…?” The woman stammered. All color drained away; indeed, even her chapped lips had been sapped of their soft, rosy tint. “Wh… why am I like this?”

Fuck me, thought Osprey.

Osprey walked across the wooden floor, barefoot. The floorboards creaked. The woman started to cry. Osprey sat on the end of the bed; the woman recoiled.

“You had an accident,” said Osprey.

“What…? Where…?” The woman clawed at her blindfold, but its knots were tight. She whimpered: “My mom…”

Osprey sighed as she rose from the bed, removed her pants (less fabric to grab), and sat next to the woman. The woman, a doomsayer who had yammered excitedly about the impending apocalypse not a day before, quivered like an abused animal.

“You were staring at that planet for too long. It hurt your eyes,” Osprey lied.

The doomsayer nodded quietly. She dropped her hands from her blindfold, and turned onto her side.

“My back hurts,” she whispered, “and I can’t remember anything, except that nice couple…” Her voice trailed off. “I need a doctor.”

Osprey bit her lip. She detested moments such as this. “The couple that brought you here? The man’s a doctor,” she said.

The woman reached her hand out to take Osprey’s hand. Her fingers stopped when they met a long, bare leg. And that’s when it happened – that’s when the waif’s hand bumps against the boot knife strapped to Osprey’s ankle.

Osprey watches as the woman’s spirit crumples. The woman opens her mouth to scream. Osprey slips her hand over her mouth. The woman screams into her hand, protracted and muffled, her arms and legs flailing. The woman claws at Osprey’s legs, but finds only bare skin. Osprey wrestles the doomsayer into a stress position, pressing her knee into the small of the doomsayer’s back. She mashes the woman’s face against the hardwood floor, and pulls her arm toward the ceiling. The woman starts to dry heave.

“…for fuck’s sake,” grumbled Osprey. She dragged the woman from the ground using a half-nelson, still covering her captive’s mouth. She kicked the door. Andrew opened it; he looked shocked.

“Draw a bath,” said Osprey.

“The fuck is this?”

“A bath!” she iterated. “Now, Mister Mason.”

Osprey continued to hold the doomsayer. The woman kicked her feet out, jamming her toes into the brickwork with a sickening crunch. Once Andrew had filled the tub, Osprey forced the hobbled woman into the bathroom. Andrew glanced down at the woman’s bleeding foot. He grimaced.

“Outside, Mister Mason,” said Osprey.

“Why?”

“Do you really want to be here for this?”

Andrew left the bathroom and shut the door. Osprey whispered – “…take a deep breath…” – before she dunked the blindfolded woman. She held the doomsayer underwater for several seconds, and flipped her onto her back. The blindfold fell away. The doomsayer stared up at her. Osprey pulled her out of the water. The woman gasped. She went to scream again. Osprey thrust her underwater, this time longer than the last. The woman stopped resisting. Osprey pulled her out:

“Now – stay quiet.”

The doomsayer nodded as she fought for breath. Saliva and snot and tears fell from her soaked face in long strands. Osprey drew her boot knife and held it at the woman’s throat with one hand as her other hand rummaged through the medicine chest for the small kit of sedatives. The woman’s eyes went wide. “Don’t kill me… please…” she pled.

Osprey drew a prepared syringe from the kit. The doomsayer’s eyes focused on it. Osprey slipped her knife back into its ankle sheathe. “We have no intention of killing you,” she said.

“Wh… what do you want…” the doomsayer asked; her voice wavered with fear.

Osprey leaned in toward the woman. She slid the needle into the woman’s thigh. Panic washed across the doomsayer’s face before it softened. Even as her body slid into the water, she was not fully submerged. Osprey pushed away from the woman. Her eye twitched. After a moment, she stood, slipped the needle guard onto the needle, and opened the door. Andrew was waiting with a towel.

“She dead?” Andrew asked. He traded the towel for her syringe.

After Osprey had dried herself off, she passed the towel back to Andrew. She started toward the balcony. “Not yet,” she muttered.

(( Mentioned: @brian-wellson, @quai-mason, @andrew-mason; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @monettemason, @juniper-rose-blower, @killerkyara, @alastar-wyatt ))

[brian-wellson]

It was the mewing that dragged Wren from sleep.

Wren looked down at the foot of the infirmary bed. The bright purple manacub blinked at her, its vacant eyes dull glowing circles in the darkness. A sealed scroll case hung from its neck.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” she muttered to herself as she pushed herself out of the armchair she had dragged next to the bed.

The manacub turned its head to the side and mewed loudly once again before licking the back of its paw. Kestrel stirred in his bed. His leg was propped up by several goose down pillows. Wren’s frown deepened – Kestrel had not moved from it since they had arrived a few hours prior. She stooped down in front of the manacub, and unhooked the scroll case; its top was affixed by a thick pewter chain. The cat turned over onto its back with its paws drawn in toward its body; its belly fur was a lighter shade of purple, and looked rather soft.

“Horrid beast,” Wren whispered.

The manacub mewed once again, its shrill cry echoing against the darkened stones of Swamp Castle.

“What is it?” asked Kestrel. He gestured toward the case. Wren dropped it in his hand; she shot the manacub a look so vile that it should have died. Kestrel shifted his weight, propping himself up on the pillows behind his shoulders. He unscrewed the lid, the faint icon of the Kirin Tor glowing lavender beneath his touch, and withdrew the rolled, thick paper. He set the scroll case next to him on the bed. Dark letters danced in the hearth’s flicker. Kestrel cleared his throat:

‘Mister Kestrel,’ he read, ‘We’ve secured the artifact. The warding done on it was easy enough to break. Nice touch with the fire oil... that was a bit more difficult. Check the chest; you should’ve gotten something I know you’ll be interested in.  It wasn’t easy, but I always honor our deals. Please advise of your situation. Tell Wren I said ‘hello’. I know how much she loves Socks. Signed,’ – Wren glanced over at him – ‘Petrel’.

“‘Socks’…!” Wren scoffed. “I could not have missed that ‘hello’ if the world was on fire.”

“The world is on fire,” he replied. Kestrel dropped his arms. The letter fell to his side. He pushed his head back into the pillows. His face was screwed tight as he bit his lower lip. He exhaled.

“At least we know it’s hers,” he said after a moment; his voice was tight and unsteady. “Socks is the same manacub she has been sending us since Bradensbrook – hell, the damned thing was nesting in Nihil’s clothes before we left…” He looked toward the entry door. His thoughts dwelled on that visit – the last time any of them had seen Nihil alive. Osprey had not yet grown as cold as she had become. Kestrel could not begrudge her that reaction. He set his jaw. “And we know Trin’s robe… it’s real.”

“This was her way of sending secure confirmation,” mused Wren. She glared down at the manacub as it yawned. “Clever.”

Kestrel managed a chuckle. Socks flipped onto its feet and started to purr, nuzzling its head against Wren’s leg. Wren shuddered. Kestrel almost smirked.

“Have Lark prepare a health report,” said Kestrel. “Let her know we got the package.” He pulled his first aid kit from his nightstand, and began to dig through it. His fingers stopped when they brushed against a cold, thin glass vial. He flicked the vial with his thumbnail. Pills clinked against the glass. Wren stood; her thin frame, illuminated by coruscating fire, cast a dark, impenetrable shadow. She walked to the side table as a silhouette, and poured a glass of water.

(( Mentioned: @quai-mason, @justinegrotius, @juniper-rose-blower; Alluded: @malorincan, @trin-llewellyn; Relevant: @monettemason, @missducass ))