>>5656202

“By all the gods and spirits, what is the world coming to when a young man – no, a boy – is dabbling in the forbidden arts?” Master Brehm mutters to himself, shaking his head in dismay, “When I was his age, the worst I could do was drawing dirty sketches! Something like this, one of our own...”
You saw nothing, letting the old man think aloud. In all the years that he's been your mentor you've seen his face alight with wit and good cheer, but now his face is as cold and lifeless as a granite slab. His eyes, though, betray something else – something you can't quite name. Guilt, maybe, or some darker kind of shame.
“Never mind me,” Master Brehm announces suddenly, as if only now noticing that you're sitting opposite him, “Put him out of your mind, my boy, don't waste another thought on him. By tomorrow evening this will all be over, and we'll have greater things to worry about than Nicholas Penrose.”
The name hangs in the air for a long moment, the silence ugly and still. With a soft grunt of disgust, Master Brehm busies himself with rummaging in his desk drawer before drawing out three medallions and placing them before you. Each one is engraved with the seal of the Sun King, and on their reverse...
“You know what these are, don't you?” Master Brehm murmurs, gesturing to the medallions, “What they mean?”
“The sword means strength, both strength of body and strength of will,” you reply, pointing to the first medallion, “And the scroll means knowledge. Then...”
You pause, the words dying in your mouth as you look down at the final medallion.
“The crown represents the rule of law,” you say eventually, “The three pillars of our order.”
“Exactly so,” Master Brehm reaches across, places a firm hand on your shoulder, “Go on, take one.”

>The sword, representing strength
>The scroll, representing knowledge
>The crown, representing the rule of law

>>5656203
>The sword, representing strength

>>5656203
>>The scroll, representing knowledge

Welcome back Moloch

>>5656203
>>The scroll, representing knowledge
Are you the OG Moloch?

Going to lock in the scroll, for knowledge.

>>5656212
>Unless there's someone else I don't know about, I believe I am. I had to take a pretty long break from writing, but I thought it was time to come out of retirement. I hope things go well

You consider the three trinkets laid out before you, and all that they represent. The academy draws in all types of people, those who were somehow sensitive to the work of spirits. Some were fighters, and some were born to pass judgement. Your time at the academy has been spent deep in study, contemplation of the other realms and all that churns within them. That means...
“This one, here,” you decide, placing your hand over the icon of the scroll. Your hand, you note with some relief, doesn't tremble.
“Excellent, excellent,” Master Brehm says with an approving nod, “But of course, knowledge alone is not enough. Knowledge without power is passivity, and knowledge without the rule of law-”
“Is wickedness,” you finish for him, wincing slightly as you think of your former colleague.
Oblivious to your grim thoughts, Master Brehm takes the medallion from you and weights it in his hand. “We might as well make it official then,” he remarks, clearing his throat before adding, “Lucas Hearne, I grant you this seal and the title of Exorcist. You're an apprentice no longer, my boy.”
It should thrill you, to hear those words, but you feel hardly anything at all. With a numb nod, you let Master Brehm take the medallion from your hands and pin it to your jacket. “What next?” you ask quietly, “When will I start my duties?”
“Eager to get started, are we? I'm glad to hear it, but there's no need to get ahead of yourself. Take some time to relax, let it sink in,” the old man urges, slapping you lightly on the arm and forcing a smile. The effort doesn't last, something in your face causing it to fade from your teacher's face. He leans back in his chair and tents his fingers, thinking deeply to himself. “It's still bothering you,” he guesses, “Isn't it?”
The trial, of course. What else? “It seems...” you begin, searching for the right words. If there is such a thing.
“It seems harsh, is that it? Well, perhaps it is – but the risks of leniency would be far greater. The terms of the Accord are clear, and it falls to us to enforce the laws of man,” Master Brehm says, his voice weary as he repeats the well-rehearsed lecture, “That, too, will be one of your duties. A rare one, thankfully, or at least-”
But he cuts himself short here. “At least what?” you ask, leaning forwards slightly. There's something new in his expression, a fleeting look of fear in his eyes.

>>5656224

“Forgive me, my boy, I was just thinking aloud. Thinking a little too much, in fact, and about the wrong kinds of things. I don't mean to burden you,” Master Brehm insists, forcing another smile. This one manages to stick, although it's still far from convincing. “At a time like this, you should be out celebrating,” he adds, “The first of your cohort to reach the rank of Exorcist, that's no small feat.”
“I don't feel much like celebrating right now,” you admit.
“Then take some time to think things over, at least. Let it all sink in,” the old man urges, “I mean it, Lucas. There will be plenty of time for stress and worry later – take it from someone who knows!”
You can't quite manage to match his laugh, but you're able to work up a slight smile. Thinking things over is one idea but what you really need is a distraction, a chance to think about something else entirely.

>Head to the common rooms, a good place to hear the latest gossip
>Spend some time in the archives with something to read
>Visit the training rooms for some combat practice

>>5656226
>>Head to the common rooms, a good place to hear the latest gossip

>>5656226

Let’s see what the lads are saying about our boy Nick

>>5656226
>>Head to the common rooms, a good place to hear the latest gossip

>>5656215
No but there could be impostors

There's an unspoken rule around the academy – you don't bring work into the common room. If there's one place where you might be able to get away from the trial, it should be there. At least, that's what you hope. A few hours of idle conversation would do wonders for your nerves, and then you might finally be able to appreciate your graduation.
But first, there's one last thing bothering you. The trial had been heavy on rhetoric and legal bluster, but strangely light on the specific details of it all. That, you assume, had all been decided behind closed doors. “The trial. Nicholas,” you ask, forcing out the question, “What did he actually... do?”
Master Brehm considers the question for a long moment, tugging slightly at his moustache. “Better that you don't know,” he decides, the answer that you had been dreading, “He sought to disturb the spirits of the dead. I don't know why. He hasn't told anyone why.” Bitterness drips from these words, and he turns away so you can't see his face. “He had great potential, that boy, and to do a thing like this!” he hisses, “To throw it all away!”
A silence falls. With nothing left to say, you murmur a farewell and make your exit.

-

The common room is bustling, as you expected – hoped – that it would be. A few conversations falter as you enter, a few eyes turning towards you before hastily looking away. It won't last, you try to tell yourself, give it a week and something else will be the talk of the town. Maybe. Ignoring the occasional fleeting glance, you spot a familiar girl sitting alone at a table and cross over to join her.
Clarissa Lowe, one of the other members of your training cohort, has her gaze fixed upon the map spread out across the table and her brow furrowed with conversation. So much so, in fact, that she doesn't even notice you sitting down opposite her.
“Planning a trip somewhere?” you ask, gesturing to the map. Not much of a joke, but at least it gets her attention. She looks up and frowns, her eyes flicking down to the medallion pinned on your jacket.
“Congratulations,” she says simply, her voice low and calm. Then she looks down, back down to the map. “I receive a letter from father,” she adds, her voice hushed, “He says there's been fighting at the border. Not serious, but it's a bad sign. The situation might escalate.”
“He's stationed down there, isn't he? At Ixtab?” you recall, peering at the map. You don't know the exact details, but you get the impression that her father is a military officer there, and not a particularly low one.
“That's right,” Clarissa confirms, her lips forming a faint smile, “You've been paying attention. The others tend to look the other way when I talk about father.”
The others. That might mean the rest of your cohort, the five of you, or it might mean the academy as a whole. The world as a whole, even. Not that Clarissa has ever seemed to care much about any of that.

[1/2]

Is this another trans quest?

>>5656275

“The Reivians have been making claims on the territory for years, skirmishing across the border and threatening all kinds of escalation, but our leaders do nothing. If they were to attack in force, the garrison at Ixtab would be overrun. We can't let that happen,” Clarissa says suddenly, launching into a sudden flurry of words, “Ixtab cannot fall into their hands.”
The catacomb city of Ixtab. A sacred site, allegedly, the city where the Accord was first signed. Aside from the religious significance, though, the whole region is worthless – poor soil, barren mountains, and weakness in the Veil. It's hard to imagine blood being spilled over such a place, but the Reivans seem intent on taking it by whatever means necessary. If it came to war and Ixtab fell, then Clarissa's father...
“Come on. Staring at a map isn't going to help,” you tell her, “You need some fresh air. It'll help us both think.”
“What makes you think I need any help?” she shoots back, although she folds the map and tucks it into her pocket. Just as you're getting up to leave, though, you catch a whisper of conversation from another table.
“I heard it was an instructor here,” the young man hisses, glancing around in fear, “Imagine doing a thing like THAT because you can't pass your tests!”
Your jaw clenches tight in anger, but Clarissa touches your arm lightly and shakes her head. “Outside,” she reminds you, and this time she leads the way.

-

“They're wrong about him, you know,” Clarissa says as you walk out into the cold air. The late afternoon sun is just starting to tip below the horizon, but the beacon atop the Eternal Palace still shines brightly from the capital. “It wasn't anything to do with homework, or tests, or any of that nonsense,” she adds, “But they keep talking away. It's disgusting.”
“But he must have done something,” you point out, “Something serious. Do you-”
“I don't know for certain, but I have an idea,” she thinks back, frowning at the memory, “Not long ago, Nicholas said something to me. It seemed strange at the time, but now I wonder. He was talking about the old scholars, how they often died and left their works unfinished. It was a terrible waste, he said, to leave that knowledge incomplete. Ideas that were never written down, never passed down to the next generation...”
And so he thought to get some of those lost ideas, straight from the original source. Clarissa falls silent, leaning on a low wall and staring out at the Eternal Palace.
“I don't know what to think,” she admits eventually, “About the trial. About any of it.”

>The law is clear – the Great Spirit Sheol holds dominion over the dead
>Maybe Nicholas was right. If that knowledge is as valuable as he thought...
>I don't know either. We don't even really know why he did it
>Other

>>5656303
>I don't know either. We don't even really know why he did it

>>5656303
>I don't know either. We don't even really know why he did it

>>5656303

>I wonder - if he had succeeded in his attempt, whatever it was, would we be applauding him as a genius? It seems to me that his mistake was in his discretion, not in the seeking of knowledge itself…

File: Clarissa Lowe.png (556 KB, 913x813)

556 KB PNG

“I don't know either,” you admit with a shrug, “We don't even know why he did it. Not for sure. From what Master Brehm said, Nicholas hasn't told anyone why either. If he really did have good intentions, surely he would have told them that!”
“Maybe. Maybe he knew it wouldn't do him any good. Whatever the motivation, whatever the intentions are, the punishment for necromancy is death,” Clarissa scowls, “But if he hadn't been caught...”
“We'd all be praising him for his genius,” you finish for her, “Maybe. The man who uncovered some long lost secret – great for him, until people start asking difficult questions.”
“He wouldn't get away with it, would he?” she murmurs. Then, with a sudden snarl of anger, she slaps her palm down against the cold stone. “He KNEW that, damn it!” she snaps, “He KNEW that, and he just... just went ahead with it anyway!”
The sudden flash of anger leaves you speechless. It's not like her to lash out like this. Although, given the circumstances...
Something in your expression must give your thoughts away, because Clarissa waves a hand at you. “It's fine. I'm fine. Just... it's all come as a shock. Let's talk about something else for a while, okay? Like your graduation,” she purses her lips, looking you up and down, “You're going to have to cut your hair, you know.”
“What?” you snap, reaching up to touch your fringe, “What's wrong with my hair?”
“It's too long. It's not professional,” she explains, reaching up to tug at a few errant strands up hair, “If you were in the military, they would have cropped it right down to your scalp by now. Or at least given it a good comb – it's sticking up at the back there, see?”
“I can't see it if it's on the back of my head!” you protest, batting away her hands
“Mirrors are a thing!” Clarissa shoots back, smirking to herself as she abandons her efforts. Stepping back, her smile falters before dying completely. Fooling about like this just feels... wrong. You've got to wonder how long it might be before it starts feeling okay again, before you can allow yourself to have some fun. “I wonder if we'll get someone new in the cohort,” she adds softly, “It might be nice if Cloranthy could join us, but I think they like to keep family separate. Oh well...”

-

You talk for a little more, clinging desperately to the most banal topics you can think of – the ugly new statue unveiled in the capital, a missing book in the archives, other sorts of common gossip. Then a new voice interrupts your conversation, calling out from across the courtyard.
“Hearne! You're wanted inside,” the student calls out. You glance across to Clarissa, but she just gives a shrug and a wan smile. No chance for any help there.
Duty calls.

[1/2]

>>5656335

“Didn't you hear me?” Johannes growls, punching you lightly on the arm, “Master Brehm needs to talk to you. He didn't exactly imply you had any choice in the matter.”
Another one of your training group, Johannes is a castle of a man – broad at the shoulder and as solid as stone, clearly resenting his job as errand boy. After glowering at you for a moment more, just to make sure that you got the message, he shrugs his shoulders and starts to wander off. “I'd better get moving,” you sigh, loud enough to make sure that Johannes can hear you, “Master Brehm won't wait.”
“You know, something occurred to me,” Clarissa murmurs, lowering her voice, “If Nicholas really DID find some incredible secret and tell the world, they might kill him for it... but they wouldn't throw that knowledge away. Don't you think?”

-

There's a sword waiting for you in Master Brehm's office, with a holstered revolver sitting next to it as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Brehm himself is leaning back in his chair, deliberately watching the brass clock on the far shelf. “I came as quickly as I could,” you lie, pointing to the weapons, “I assume you didn't bring me here for some training, right?”
“I'm glad to see that you're as sharp as ever,” the old man replies, “It's time for you to get some field experience. There's been a disturbance. A local guardian spirit has been acting up, according to the reports. It doesn't sound serious yet, so it's a good chance for you to see the real thing. Studying in the archives can only go so far.”
The thought of going into the field hits you like a bucket of cold water. An errant guardian spirit could mean a lot of things – a breach of their inhuman laws, even a simple mistake in offering rites, or something more sinister. There would be no way of knowing for sure without going out and seeing for yourself. If the worst came to the worst, the spirit might need to be banished completely.
Hence the weapons.
“I'm not suggesting that you go alone. I'll be there to supervise, to make sure that things don't get... out of hand,” Master Brehm adds. The unspoken implication, of course, was that he'd also be there to judge you. If things were to get out of hand – as he put it – you might very quickly find yourself handing back your badge of office.
Spirits can sense fear, sense doubt and hesitation. At least, that's what they say. It might be common folklore, but you've never read anything that actually disproved it.
“Lucas,” Master Brehm continues, his voice softening, “If you don't think you're ready for this, just tell me. There's no shame in it.”

>No, I'm ready for this.
>I'm not ready for this. Not after all this
>Other

>>5656347
>>I'm not ready for this. Not after all this

>>5656347
>>No, I'm ready for this.

>>5656347
>No, I'm ready for this.

>>5656347

>No, I’m ready for this.

If we want to find out what really happened to Nickyboy we gotta impress the Master.

Maybe we could even help Nick escape custody depending on whatever secret knowledge he obtained?

>>5656347
>No, I'm ready for this.

Reaching across the desk, you pick up the sword and carefully unsheathe it. The blade is slender, beautifully made from the finest steel and engraved with intricate symbols. A common weapon might not be able to wound a spirit, but this would cleave through their inhuman essence with ease. Only as a last resort, you remind yourself, you're supposed to be more than just an executioner.
“I'm ready for this,” you answer, giving Master Brehm a firm nod. You mean it too, even if you're only just realising it now. You've spent years training for this moment. You're not going to back down now.
“Excellent!” the old ma cries, “I knew you'd be up for it! The town isn't far from here – I dare say that we'll be back before next sunset. Assuming everything goes smoothly, of course!”
He laughs as he says that last part, but you're not sure if he's really joking.

-

You're fortunate enough to take a carriage for most of the journey, but the horses start to take fright once you draw near to the disturbance. The carriage stops at a nearby waystation, and you're left to finish the journey on foot. The moon and the stars are bright, but the trees hide much of the light from view. Lighting the way with small lanterns, you march behind Master Brehm in a cold silence.
“I hate travelling,” Brehm says softly, glancing around at you, “Do you know why?”
“Your old bones?” you suggest with a sly smile.
“No! Well, yes, but not just that,” he chuckles, “It reminds me of the old stories, from a time before the Accord. You know the ones.”
“Men could never settle for long. The Veil was thin – if there was a Veil at all – and evil spirits would follow them wherever they went. If they stayed in one place for too long, the spirits would enter them and take the flesh for their own,” you dutifully answer, “So men kept moving, never staying still for too long. But that's no way to live.”
“No, it's not. The Accord was struck, the Veil was drawn to separate the worlds of men and spirit, and our nation flourished,” Brehm nods to himself, “So you see, anything that threatens the Accord...”
“I know, I know. You don't need to keep telling me.” This is starting to get annoying. Does he still doubt you, despite everything he's said? You're about to ask, no matter what the risks, but then Brehm holds up a hand to stop you. A few seconds later, you notice it too – there's something very wrong here.
It's subtle, the kind of thing that might slip past the unguarded gaze, but the world before you is moving, squirming like a living thing. The trees seem to pulsate, and the light piercing through the canopy is strangely coloured. This is more than just a minor incident – this has all the signs of a serious risk to the Veil, the spirit world already showing itself.
Then a growl, a low and feral sound, slips through the undergrowth.

[1/2]

>>5656407

A wolf is your first thought, but you change your mind as soon as the beast reveals itself. A normal dog, nothing more than that, probably a herdsman's pet from the town ahead. A second later and you change your mind again. It might look like a dog, but it's no normal beast. The light in its eyes are strange, and it stares you down with an unnatural stillness. It might be a dog's body, but there's something else inside it.
Slowly, you draw your revolver before Brehm stops you with a gesture. He touches the gold medallion on his breast before tracing a glyph in the air with a trail of golden sparks. The glyph forms with a snap of light, and the dog recoils with a panicked bark. Just a dog once more, it takes flight and flees back into the forest.
“Hm, a minor sprite. Not the man we're looking for,” Brehm mutters to himself, “But if lesser sprites like those are able to break through...”
“It's worse than you thought,” you state. It's not meant to be an accusation, but Master Brehm turns to give you a withering look. Then he smiles, grinning broadly as you holster the revolver.
“It's going to be more interesting than I thought,” he stresses, “Try to look on the bright side for once, would you?”

-

Things are worse when you reach the town. Ravensheugh, according to the cracked and faded sign posted near the border. A heavy mist has fallen over the entire area, the shadows of houses never quite seeming to remain still. Dull lights occasionally drift through the fog, wavering like fireflies and whispering out to you from deeper within. Your lanterns don't do much to light your way here, and you snuff out their impotent flame.
“There,” you murmur, pointing to a larger silhouette ahead of you. The mist doesn't seem quite so heavy around it, and soon you're close enough to make out the doorway. A crude image of the Sun King has been painted on the door, yellow paint splattered across in obvious panic. Brehm wastes no time in knocking heavily, throwing the door open and boldly striding inside.
The building is crowded, somehow reminding you of the courtroom back at the academy, and the sea of faces that confronts you is dizzying. All wide eyes and pallid faces, their expressions dull and uncomprehending. Simple folk, the salt of the earth – that's what Nicholas had called them, always with a faintly patronising smile on his face.
“Oh Masters, you're here to put things right again!” one man calls out suddenly, stumbling forwards to shake your hand, “It all happened so quickly, you see, we weren't sure if anyone made it out. Then nobody came, and it seems as though we've been here for so long now...”
“Slowly now. Tell us what happened,” Brehm urges, “Start from the beginning.”
“The beginning?” the man stares at you both, “It just... happened.”
This might take some time.

[2/3]

>>5656442

In the end, there isn't much to tell. The day seemed normal, just with a thin morning mist that wouldn't clear no matter how late the day grew. Then, with a sound like thunder, the outside world seemed to fall away as the mist grew thick and terrible. The townsfolk – or at least as many of them as was possible – crowded into the town hall for protection. Since then, nothing – just strange lights and noises from outside.
“You'll be safe in here. The Sun King's benevolence shields you,” Brehm tells the man, raising his voice so the whole crowd can hear, “You have a guardian spirit here, yes? Where is your priest?”
“We don't have one no more. He died sudden, a few years back,” a woman offers, “But we've been carrying on just fine without him until now. We knew how to say the words and do the rites just as he did!”
“He never had a chance to train up an apprentice,” the first man adds, “We petitioned the capital to send a new priest, but we never got no answer back. You think that's what brought this down?”
Brehm gives you a look, irritation creasing his brow. “We're not here to cast blame, just to put things right,” he insists, “Now, has there been anything else out of the ordinary recently? Anything at all?”
A mumble runs through the crowd as they talk amongst themselves. “Man got maimed down at the old grain mill,” someone offers, “Lost his arm because of it. Doctor patched him up as best he could, then took him to the capital for better help. Now we don't got a doctor here on top of anything else...”
“Your priest,” you suggest, “Did he have a house in town?”
“Over on the east edge, furthest house out,” the woman answers, “Go past that, and you get to the standing stone. That's where we do the rites.”
That's where the spirit's influence will be strongest, no doubt, but it might be too dangerous to march out and force a confrontation before you know what you're dealing with.
“I tried going out there, see if there was anything at the priest's house. Nothing there. Place's been abandoned for years,” the first man grumbles, “Waste of time.”
Master Brehm nods to himself, taking you by the arm and steering you away. “Damn amateurs. They think that pretty words and hand gestures are the sum total of what we do. Honestly...” he sighs, “I want to ask a few more questions here. Go out and take a look around, will you?”
“Go... out,” you repeat, “Out where?”
“That's your choice. I'm just here to supervise, remember?” Brehm gives you a firm look, “But we need to get a better idea of what caused this mess. It's more than a few botched rites, I'd swear my life on that.”
So this is it. Your first real test.

>Take a look around the grain mill, where the accident happened
>Check the priest's house for anything the townsfolk may have missed
>Visit the standing stone on the far edge of time
>You've got some questions of your own...
>Other

>>5656451
>Take a look around the grain mill, where the accident happened

>>5656451
>>Take a look around the grain mill, where the accident happened

>>5656451
>Take a look around the grain mill, where the accident happened

A guardian spirit is linked to the land that it occupies and the people who live on that land. A sudden act of violence, of bloodshed, could have been the catalyst for all this. At the very least, it gives you an idea of where to start – to get a feel for the spirit itself. Brehm listens, nodding with approval as he considers your idea.
“You should be safe enough – these letter sprites won't pose much danger to you, and if you see any beasts that have been possessed...” he taps his medallion, “You know what to do.”
“I'll be back in a bit,” you answer, “Don't scare the people too much. They're trying their best.”
Master Brehm lets out a snort of amusement, but says nothing to this.

-

Back outside in the deserted town, and alone this time, you feel the chilling mist draw close around you. The faint whispering sound in the mist seems louder now, loud enough that you can almost make out the individual words. Most of them are incomprehensible, spoken in some inhuman tongue, but some of them are more easily understood. Some of them, or so it seems, are your name.
The spirits here know you.
Drawing your revolver, you peer through the fog until you catch a glimpse of the grain mill looming over the town. There isn't a breath of wind in the air, but the blades of the windmill are silently churning through the fog. Shutting out the whispering voices, you put your head down and march towards the mill. Pushing through the unlocked door, you start to take a look around. The grindstone is the most obvious place to start, the few dark flecks of dried blood that still cling to it visible even from the doorway.
The victim must've got his arm caught in the millstone somehow, caught under it and crushed. It's hard to see how he could've done it, though, unless someone held him in place. There's nothing for a loose sleeve to catch on, and even a blind man would be able to pull away from the millstone before it crushed them. It doesn't make sense.
Pacing around the millstone, you examine it from all angles as you think. A mark on the stone itself catches your eye – a crude etching, shaped like a centipede. A shudder runs through you at the sight of it. You've seen that symbol before, from the long hours you've spent in the academy archives. The centipede is a symbol of corruption, of the forbidden arts. Of necromancy.
Dreading what might come next, you close your eyes and envisage a sacred symbol. Opening your eyes once more, you see a changed world around you – a world swallowed up by the spirit realms that had, before, merely brushed against it.

[1]

>>5656485

Every surface of the mill is coated in a thick, clinging mud. The mud sucks at your feet, threatening to pull you deeper into the churning more, while things grasp at you from below. The air shudders with a haunting groan, the groan of a man or beast in pain, and beneath it all you can still hear the sound of your name echoing out. The millstone itself has become an instrument of torture, caked in layer upon layer of ancient blood, while the writhing centipede reigns supreme over it all.
You close your eyes in a panic and try to shut it all out, to close your inner gaze against the spirit world, but the filth still surrounds you when you open your eyes. Fear claws at your heart, and you nearly lose it completely before some half-remembered memory of your training fights its way to the surface. Touching the medallion on your jacket, you repeat the same gesture Master Brehm used earlier. The golden light of the Sun King snaps out, and the spirit world retreats once more.
Or rather, it's no longer so visible. The filth and mud is still there, still all around you, and the feeling of being coated with the stuff won't go away. It's a feeling like you might never be clean again.

-

“Necromancy, you say?” Master Brehm muses, pacing back and forth on the upper level of the town hall. Below you, the townsfolk huddle in fear and whisper amongst themselves. “I doubt it was any of the locals. They're not... exactly the sort who would be dealing in forbidden lore. Then who could have been responsible?” he continues, “And why?”
“What would they gain by... corrupting this town?” you wonder aloud, “What kind of reward could that possibly offer?”
“I doubt that was their main goal, merely a consequence of their actions,” the old man scowls hard, tugging furiously at his moustache, “A necromancer pierces the Veil in order to call up the spirits they seek. They open a door, but that door cannot easily be shut. Any number of spirits could have entered our world through the gap they opened with their... their reckless acts! Even if there weren't other spirits involved, the mere ACT of these profane rituals is enough to pervert the natural order of things!”
“This is serious, isn't it?” you ask, although you already know the answer to that, “Should we go back to the academy? Get some extra resources?”
“No. No, that won't be necessary,” Brehm taps a finger against his temple as he thinks to himself, “We need to make contact with the spirit itself, figure out exactly how bad the damage is. If anything can be... salvaged. We don't have time to summon aid from the academy. We need to cut this infection out NOW. Come, boy, to the standing stone!”

>I'm ready to go
>There's something else...

>>5656502
>There's something else...
Lets check the priests home real quick. Give it a once over. Also mention the potential foul play with the grindstone instead of an accident quietly to Brehm.

>>5656509

Backing this.

Seems possible that the wounded man sacrificed his own arm in a profane ritual?

“The priest's house is on the way to the standing stones. We should take a look around,” you suggest, toying with the hilt of your sword as you plan out your next moves, “Rule it out, if nothing else.”
Brehm considers this, then nods curtly. “It shouldn't take too long,” he agrees, although he sounds dubious. The townsfolk crowd around you as you're leaving, but Brehm waves them back with a gesture. He's already sick and tired of this place, of these people, and his patience is starting to wear thin. Or maybe it's more than that – even in dire situations at the academy, you've never seen him this tense. Field work is a different matter, of course, but...
“I'm still trying to understand what happened at the mill. It just doesn't make any sense – it couldn't have been an accident,” you murmur once you're outside, the mist seeming to swallow up your words, “It might have been deliberate.”
“Nobody actually saw the incident happen. Not completely. Everyone I asked, everyone I spoke with, was either busy elsewhere or didn't notice anything. If there was some kind of struggle, even these dullards would have noticed,” Brehm growls, “Some of the workers themselves were travelling labourers. They left town after the accident, probably scattered to the four winds. Damn!”

-

The ground sucks and pulls at your boots as you march towards the priest's house. It looks as abandoned as the townsfolk said, so old that even the spirits seem to have given up on it. Inside, the cabin is especially barren – any furniture that was once here has been “borrowed” by the townsfolk, and there isn't a hint of decoration. The priest should have had books, records of the spirit itself and its history, but those must be long gone by now.
Pacing the room, you pause as the floorboards creak underfoot. There's a loose plank, and a slight tug is all you need to lift it free and expose a small hiding place underneath. Just a wooden scroll case, nothing else. All too aware of Master Brehm watching you from the entrance, you ease out a crumbling scroll and skim through it.
“It's about the guardian spirit, I think,” you announce, “There used to be a folk hero who lived in this area, a wise man or scholar. He helped people in the area, healed the sick and warded off evil spirits. After he died the local guardian spirit took his form. That's what the priest seemed to think, at least.”
“Interesting. I've heard of such things before, but this is my first time seeing it in person. You see? We're both learning something new today,” Brehm laughs bitterly, “Is there anything else?”
“The wise man was said to have a burial mound nearby, but the priest never found out where,” you reply with a shrug, “That's all.”

[1]

>>5656537

Disparate ideas swirl through your head, never quite forming the complete picture that you're looking for. A violent and mysterious act lay at the heart of this whole affair, you're increasingly sure of that, but the specifics elude you. Could the man have maimed himself on purpose, as some kind of blood sacrifice? It's getting harder and harder to imagine any other possibility, once you rule out accidents or a struggle.
Brehm knows more than he's telling you. You're almost certain of that.
At the standing stone, the distortion is so thick that you can barely walk in a straight line. Staggering like a drunk, you lurch towards a stone that seems to bend and sway like a tree in the wind. Purple lights flicker and flare around it, occasionally forming glyphs and sigils that writhe painfully in the air, while an inhuman voice barks out mantras in a language that no sane human has ever spoken.
You shudder, easing a step closer to the standing stone and reaching out to touch it. Master Brehm, stubbornly unarmed, hangs back behind you and watches. There's just the barest sense of cold as you touch the crudely hewn stone before-

-

The whole world goes away, and a new one replaces it.
Now the fog is gone, replaced by a driving rain that churns the mud around your feet. The town is gone too, replaced by an almost perfectly flat landscape that stretches out as far as the eye can see. There's only one thing to disturb that seamless horizon – a looming corpse seated upon a boulder, the mummified remains slumped over a cracked stone tablet held out before it. Despite the rain that falls all around, the stone tablet is coated in the same thick mud that tugs at your feet. Like nothing could wash it off.
Like distant thunder, the sound of a voice chanting mantras continues to rumble away – almost, but not quite, drowning out that insistent voice that calls out to you.
Reaching out again, you start to wipe mud from the stone tablet. It takes a lot of effort, prising the dried filth away in layers, but you slowly start to reveal carved letters. It's an old language, an old human language, but much of it has been destroyed by a hideously familiar carving. The mark of the centipede is here too, but-
The mummified corpse moves, one withered hand lurching forwards and closing with an iron grip around your wrist. The copse, easily twice your size, looks up with empty, hollow eye sockets and howls the inhuman mantra from a mouth with no tongue.
“Lucas!” Master Brehm calls out, his voice sounding as if it came from deep underwater, “You need to make contact! Make-”
Contact. One of the first rituals you were ever taught. One of the fundamental tools of your order. Even as the withered hand closes around your wrist, you touch your medallion with your other hand and concentrate.

>Calling for a dice roll please – a roll of 3D10, aiming to beat a target of 4

Rolled 10, 4, 7 = 21 (3d10)

>>5656570

It's harder with just one hand, but you sweep your fingers through the motions of an ancient gesture and burn a glyph into the air. When the last mark is in place, the light flares out brightly before fading out. Even before the last sparks of light have faded, the spirit's hand has loosened its grip on your wrist. The howled mantra fades to a faint whisper, and even the rain seems to ease off slightly.
Contact.
“My name is Lucas Hearne,” you announce, forcing yourself to stare into the hideous hollow eye sockets, “I am a servant of the Accord. By Sheol, the Great Spirit of Death. By Adhra, Lord of the Barrier. By the nameless Sun King himself. I am here to help. Do you... understand me?”
The spirit says nothing, but the withered hand moves one finger – it points weakly at the stone tablet, at the filth that encrusts it. Wasting no time, you return to clearing the mud away from the ancient stone. This time, though the mark of the centipede is nowhere to be seen. Once the last of the mud has been swept away, the carven letters squirm and reform themselves into something you can read.
I AM RAVENSHEUGH.
“Ravensheugh? The town was named after you?” you ask, “What happened here?”
The spirit remains silent, but the letters move once more and take on a new shape – this time, forming the imprint of a hand. Hesitating for just a second, you place the flat of your palm on the stone tablet and gasp as a stream of distorted images flash through your mind. You see a dark place, the scent of stagnant water and mossy stone. The walls are tight around you, desecrated with bloodstained figures, childish in size, that have been strung up around you. Bile rises in your throat at the sight of them and you find yourself flinching back from the grotesque images. The last thing you see before you surface is-

-

“The mill!” you cry aloud, your eyes flashing open only to be greeted by the sight of Master Brehm looking down upon you.
“The mill?” the old man asks politely, although he can't hide the concern in his voice.
Slowly sitting up from the mud and staring mutely at the standing stone, you look back to Brehm. “I saw something. A ritual, something... terrible. Underground, under the mill I think. Something to do with the mill,” you stammer, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, “We need to go back there. What we're looking for, it's there.”
Master Brehm looks back to the standing stone and frowns, then looks back to you. “Very well,” he decides, “Then we go to the mill.”

[1]

>>5656591

Returning to the town you can see that the fog has already lifted somewhat, although it's clear that the spirit world still has a hold over this place. Stamping through the drying mud, you pause at the base of the mill and look around at the surrounding landscape. There's something nagging at you, something you can't put into words. It's like trying to remember a dream long after waking, but...
But Master Brehm isn't in the mood to wait. He marches past you and into the mill, a few muffled curses drifting out of the structure as he takes a look around. He emerges from the mill a few moments later, his face set in a triumphant grin. “There's something here,” he announces, “Below, in the cellar. I think we've found what we're looking for.”
A sick feeling settles in the pit of your stomach as you creep into the mill. Master Brehm leads you down the narrow stairs and into the cramped cellar, lighting his lamp to guide the way forwards. A pile of grain sacks lay scattered across the floor, pushed aside to reveal a small hole broken through the stone wall. Behind the wall is another set of stairs, this one far more ancient than anything else in the town.
You've found the burial mound.
>I think I'm going to pause things here for today – it's getting a little late on my end. I'm planning to continue things here tomorrow however

>>5656613
Thanks Moloch. Same start time?

>>5656617
I'd expect the same start time, yes. That works out about best for my horrible timezone and schedule

>>5656634

Excellent work, you’ve built a great atmosphere in only a few short posts!

>>5656613
OH SHIT
why didn't anyone tell me quest god moloch was back

so I'm guessing the priest was involved in the necromancy in some way, and that changed the basement of the mill.

That went on undetected, until some of the laborers were contacted while they were working, and they struck some sort of deal that resulted in the ritual.

File: Lucas Hearne.jpg (101 KB, 786x1116)

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It's the smell – stagnant water and mossy stone – that really gets under your skin. The same smell from the spirit Ravensheugh's vision, but much stronger now, much more real. Master Brehm doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't seem to care, about the smell or anything else about the burial mound. His gaze is set straight ahead, his jaw tense with a quiet fury. This has turned into more than just a little bit of field work for him – this is personal.

It strikes you, then, that you don't really know much about Master Brehm. Not really, not as a person. Not even much about his career, save for the occasional anecdote – often vague and deliberately ambiguous – that he used as part of his lessons. Seeing these marks here, the signs of necromancy and the forbidden arts, did it stir up some long-buried trauma?

“Mind yourself now,” Master Brehm snarls, gesturing for you to half as the crumbling stone steps come to their end, “This place has been despoiled. Touch nothing until I tell you it's safe. Don't even LOOK at anything until I say so. These men, these... degenerates have been known to leave vicious traps and snares around their lairs. The culprits themselves may be long gone, but the danger remains.”

He's treating you like a novice, like it was your first day at the academy, but maybe that's not too far from the truth. This is the real thing after all, not some dusty book or tedious lecture. Nodding silent agreement, you follow as Master Brehm leads you into the burial chamber itself. Despite his warnings you find yourself glancing back and forth at the stained stone walls. The diminutive figures are there, just as you saw in your vision, black smears of blood clinging to...

Dolls. Straw dolls, twisted into vaguely human shapes and pinned to the stone walls with brutal iron nails. The sense of relief is so great that you almost laugh aloud, the weight on your shoulders seeming to lift somewhat. Master Brehm nods the all clear, and you start examining the chamber in more detail. Aside from the grisly idols nailed all around you, the walls have been stained with all manner of occult symbols – the mark of the centipede is everywhere, a nightmarish tangle of legs and jaws entwining the other glyphs.

Taking centre stage is the mummified body itself, the ancient corpse laid out upon a stone slab and adorned with tarnished jewellery. No signs of looting, you note, so it wasn't the urge for plunder that brought the culprits here. No indication that the mummified body itself had been desecrated either, which gives you some faint sense of relief. As if that really made things any better.

[1/2]

>>5657306

“What now?” you ask quietly, your words seeming to echo around the burial chamber.

“Document everything,” Master Brehm replies in a tight voice, “Then destroy it.” He marches up to the wall and starts to tug one of the iron nails free. “There were rituals carried out here, that much is obvious, but we need to identify exactly what these bastards were doing. But that comes later – first, we must cleanse this place. The rest can wait until we return to the academy,” he turns, giving you a hard look, “But you can leave that to me. You needn't dirty your hands with this matter any more.”

“I can help,” you insist, “I know the archives as well as anyone else, I can do my part. I'm not-”

“No!” Master Brehm shouts, his voice hitting you like a closed fist. He seems just as shocked as you are, blinking in surprise before a grimace closes off his face. “This is no task for a young man like you. This is... I've already lost one apprentice to this filth, I won't have another walk down the same path,” he continues, lowering his voice, “You've got great potential, Lucas. Don't waste it like HE did.”

“I'm not like him,” you assure him, “Whatever Nicholas did, I'm not going to repeat his mistakes.”

Master Brehm just shakes his head, waving your words away with a weary gesture before turning back to the stone wall. Pulling another of the straw idols down, he casually crushes it underfoot before moving onto the next one. Scowling at his silent back, you start sketching out the profane glyphs with parchment and charcoal. After copying down each symbol you cancel it out with a thick slash of the charcoal. With each mark that you obliterate, the darkness that hangs over the burial chamber seems to lift somewhat.

As you work, you feel a faint anger swelling in your chest. First treating you like a novice, now shutting you out of the investigation – Master Brehm is starting to piss you off. There are text on necromancy and the forbidden arts in the archives, you KNOW there are. If you wanted to carry on the research by yourself, you could find a way to do it. And anyway, how are you supposed to fight against this necromancy if you don't know a damn thing about it?

There's not much you can do now, but you'll be back at the academy before too long. Then you can make your move.

>Follow orders and let Master Brehm continue the investigation
>Continue the investigation on your own once you return to the academy
>Meet up with the rest of the cohort at the academy and discuss your next moves
>Other

>>5657309
>Meet up with the rest of the cohort at the academy and discuss your next moves

>>5657309
>"Did Nicholas do what he did because you told him too much, or too little?"
>"I'll be following up on the previous priest and the doctor. They might have done something to cover this whole thing up."

Once you're back at the academy, you decide, you can meet up with the rest of the cohort and discuss your next moves. You've got all the time in the world to follow up on this, and you might need their help. There's a lot of ground to cover in the archives, after all, and a few extra pairs of hands would make it easier. Presenting a united front might help with Master Brehm as well, if he was to discover what you were up to,

With your mind made up, you busy yourself with wiping out the last of the profane glyphs as Master Brehm gathers up the straw dolls. For burning, you hope. There's something particularly evil about those little idols, something more than just the blood they were smeared with. You're sure that they were more than just dolls in your vision, something far more... real. A symbolic sacrifice, perhaps, with the spirit world reflecting their true forms.

Suppressing a shudder, you scratch out the last glyph with a violent stroke and snap the stick of charcoal in half.

-

Stepping out into the night, you take a deep breath of the cold air and let it purge the filth from your lungs. The last traces of the spirit world have retreated at last, and you can see a few cautious townsfolk emerging from their shelter. They look around in confusion as they step through the silent town, the realisation slowly sinking in. Then, finally, the first of them starts to laugh in amazement.

“You see that?” Master Brehm murmurs, watching as the celebrations start to spread from one man to the next, “We did this. No, YOU did this. Never forget the good work that our order does, no matter how dark it might seem.”

“Is that it then?” you ask quietly, “Are we finished here?”

“Soon,” the old man assures you, starting off towards a small group of the jubilant townspeople. He claps his hands loudly together as he approaches them and calls out a greeting. “Gentlemen!” he shouts, “It's time for us to discuss our payment...” The men pale at this, their celebrations cut short in an instant before Master Brehm laughs. “A jest, a jest. Settle down now, there's no need to worry,” he assures them, “I'm not after your coin. No, I'm merely here to ask a few last questions and then we'll be on our way.”

The shocked looks are replaced by something you like even less – closed looks, suspicious and guarded. Now that you've brought order back to the restive spirits, these people want nothing more to do with you. Such is the way of your order, of course, but it stings to see it so openly. “We'll help how we can,” one man offers cautiously, “But I'm not sure what-”

“Those travelling labourers who worked at the grain mill. Tell me about them,” Brehm asks casually, idly stroking his moustache, “Where did they come from, if you can recall, and where were they heading when they left?”

[1/2]

>>5657330

Blank, uncomprehending stares. “We didn't ask them none of that,” another man states, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “They did good work while they were here, and they kept out of trouble when they weren't working. No drinking, no fighting, they just played their strange games in peace.”

You both tense up at this. “Strange games,” you repeat, “What kind of games?”

The man shrugs, shakes his head. “Only saw them at it once. Poking and prodding at this little wood plate, almost like they were stroking it. Asked them what it was, but all they said was it was a game from their home. Got the feeling that they didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't pry,” he stresses those last few words, looking between you and Master Brehm, “That it?”

“Tell me more about your old priest,” you ask next, before the men can slip away, “What kind of man was he? Did you ever have any trouble while he was here?”

The men mumble a few platitudes amongst themselves – a fine enough man, they say, but they never really talked much. Cutting through their babble, a woman steps forwards. “He was sad, I thought,” she says simply, her voice bright and clear, “Towards the end, I mean, the last few years he was here. He was a city man, and I think the peace and quiet got to him by the end. He spent more and more time out of town, looking around the hills for... well, I don't rightly know what he was looking for. He never said exactly.”

Looking for the burial mound, perhaps, if the notes he left were any indication. All that time searching, and it had been under his feet the whole time!

“And your doctor,” you continue, “He left just before the incident started, was that right?”

“You're not accusing him of anything, are you?” one of the men snaps, his voice turning nasty, “He's a good man, he is. You won't get far making trouble for him, I'll tell you that.”

“Nobody's making trouble,” Master Brehm assures the men, taking you by the arm and steering you away. “Master Hearne,” he announces, his tone grave, “Running an investigation of your own, are you?”

For a second, you wonder if he somehow sensed your doubts. Impossible, surely, but you're not sure you'd put anything past him. “I'm just helping out. There's still a lot we don't know about these people, what they might have been doing here. The doctor, and the priest too. I'd like to follow up on them some more,” you explain, “That's all. Nothing forbidden about it.”

Not yet, at least.

[2/3]

>>5657342

Master Brehm studies you closely for a moment, then lets out a heavy sigh. “Very well. I intended to look up this doctor when we got back to the academy. If he's still in the capital with his patient, we should be able to track him down. Yes, I said “we” - take that smug look from your face, please. I still don't think this is a good idea,” the old man warns, “Even a little knowledge can be dangerous, if it's the wrong sort of knowledge.”

“Dangerous, like what happened to Nicholas?” you ask, a hard edge creeping into your voice, “Did he know too much? Or was it too little?”

“We're not doing this here. Not here, not now,” he replies, frowning at your words, “I'm already going against my better judgement, don't push your luck even further.” You lock eyes for a moment, neither one of you willing to back down. Eventually, he sighs and throws his hands up in irritation. “Good lord, what a problem you've turned out to be!” Master Brehm decides with a bitter laugh, “You remind me of myself, back when I was young and foolish.”

You're not sure if he means that as a compliment or not.

“Very well Master Hearne, you'll get to play detective for a little bit longer. If you want to bother these good people any more, best to do it now,” he says eventually, “I'd rather not spend a minute longer in this town if I can help it.”

>You've got everything you need. It's time to leave
>You've got some other questions to ask...

>>5657348
>>You've got everything you need. It's time to leave

>>5657348
>You've got everything you need. It's time to leave

>>5657348
>You've got some other questions to ask...
The mill was for flour, right? So uh....did anything strange happen to their food?

“I think we've got everything we need,” you decide, looking back over the town. From the priest's house to the standing stone, to the town hall to the grain mill itself, you bid farewell to the dismal place. Master Brehm nods his approval, and you start the long trek back to the waystation. It's only now that the fatigue starts to claw at you, the weight of the day falling across your shoulders. “They were grinding grain up there, right on top of that place,” you murmur, suppressing a yawn, “Do you think...”

“Nothing to worry about, my boy. Well, aside from the rather poor job at cleaning they did,” Master Brehm slaps you on the arm and laughs, “Nobody ever got possessed from eating the wrong flour. At least, not as far as I know!”

Not the most reassuring thing you've heard today.

-

The journey back to the waystation seems to take forever, but you're able to sleep most of the carriage ride away. Arriving back at the academy, Master Brehm makes his excuses and heads back to his quarters. Lots of work to do, he claims, sending word to the capital for your errant doctor coming at the top of his list. You head back to your own dorm as well, and while the promise of sleep is tempting you tell yourself to wait.

The rest of your cohort – what's left of it – are just starting to wake up as you arrive back. Clarissa, of course, is already wide awake and preparing for the day. Johannes is still clattering about in his bedroom, although you can't even imagine what he might be doing to cause such noise. Finally, Persephone emerges from her room and squints at the medallion on your chest.

“What time do you call this?” she asks, her voice an indifferent drawl, “Congratulations, I suppose. I assume you haven't been demoted yet.”

“Not yet, but I'm making-” you begin, only for Persephone to vanish back into her bedroom before you can finish your sentence, “...a good shot at it.”

“Don't mind her,” Clarissa whispers, “She's really upset about Nicholas.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but you don't need to lie. This is all just normal behaviour for her,” sighing, you sit down at the breakfast table and fight back another yawn, “We should talk, though, about it. All of us. There's something else I want to talk about too. I was out in the field and... and I don't even know where to start.”

Clarissa grimaces at the sound of Nicolas' name, but she quickly hides the expression. “With breakfast?” she offers instead, “Always the best place to start, I find. Just sit down, I'll fix you something quick. I wouldn't trust you in the kitchen right now, looking like that.”

[1/2]

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>>5657357

>>5657381
We're too late. The whole village must be purged!

>>5657375

Sitting slumped across the dining table, you watch as Clarissa prepares breakfast with brisk, efficient motions. Not a hint of wasted energy there, even as she cracks eggs and cuts bread. There was a girl in your old village like that, you recall suddenly, but you're still trying to remember her name when Persephone sits down beside you and lets out a theatrical sigh.

“You're going to talk about how hard your day was, and how terrible it all is, aren't you?” she begins, flipping a strand of her long, pale hair out of her eyes, “Well, just think how terrible it was for us! Sitting here and waiting, with no idea if you were dead or alive. It's awfully inconsiderate, if you ask me. Then you just come swaggering in here like you've done nothing wrong!”

You scowl at Persephone for a long moment, but she just smiles sweetly back as if daring you to start an argument. “I don't swagger,” you retort eventually, your voice bland, “I might do a lot of things, but I'm fairly sure that I don't swagger.”

“Fairly sure,” she repeats, lowering her voice in some lame attempt at an impersonation, “So you admit that there is some margin for error here. You're not definitely sure that you don't swagger, you're not completely certain of this. So, in fact, there is a possibility-”

“Persephone,” Johannes interrupts, finally emerging from his room and glaring at her, “Shut up.”

-

Breakfast goes a long way to restoring your strength, or perhaps that's the cup of strong tea that Clarissa makes to accompany it. Pushing the empty plate aside, you start to recount your investigation. Johannes listens carefully, as impassive as always, while Clarissa keeps her eyes locked on you in an intent stare. She'd be taking notes, if only she had a scrap of paper available. Persephone just sits back and idly plays with her hair, occasionally tilting her head as if listening to something else entirely.

On the whole, exactly what you'd expect from them. When you mention the mark of the centipede, though, the whole mood changes. Persephone looks sharply around at you, while Johannes looks away with a grunt of disgust. Even Clarissa flinches slightly, her eyes narrowing to vicious slits.

[2/3

>>5657391

“I see,” Clarissa says quietly, thinking your story over, “And Master Brehm?”

“He took over, more or less. The case isn't over yet, but I'm not supposed to have anything to do with it. Not the ritual part of it, at least. He won't even talk to me about it,” you answer, shaking your head in irritation, “It's too dangerous, he said. It's like Nicholas all over again. I don't know if he just doesn't trust me or...”

“These ARE dangerous matters,” Johannes points out, “We have experts to handle these sorts of things.”

“Experts had to start somewhere,” Persephone counters, “You know, Old Brehm doesn't get the chance to do much field work these days, and uncovering a gang of wicked men would really polish up his reputation. He could certainly use it, after what happened with Nic. He really ended up on the shit list after that little mess. Very important people at the capital are rather unhappy about it all.”

“Oh come on!” Johannes groans, “What do YOU know about what “very important people” are saying?”

“I couldn't possibly reveal my sources,” the pale girl purrs, leaning forwards as if suddenly fascinated by the conversation, “And I'm not saying it's true. Just... a big success like this, it would certainly help HIM far more than it would help YOU. As far as old Brehm is concerned.”

That... had not occurred to you. Politics are far outside your area of expertise, or even interest, but you can't imagine that Nicholas' crime was a good thing for Master Brehm. Would he...

>You're wrong. He's just being careful – he doesn't want to lose another student
>Maybe you're right. This might just be for the sake of his reputation
>I think...
>Other

>>5657394
>Maybe you're right. This might just be for the sake of his reputation

>>5657394
>That would be better, frankly. Better than doubting his student on the first case with a whiff of centipede.

>>5657394
>Maybe you're right. This might just be for the sake of his reputation

and
>>5657399
This

>>5657394
adding >>5657399 to my vote >>5657397 as well

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“You talk too much, Persephone, and you don't even know what you're talking about,” Johannes insists, pointing a blunt finger at the pallid girl, “After everything that happened, you think Master Brehm is just trying to steal the glory for himself? You're full of crap.”

“Johannes, I love you – I really do – but you're just so painfully naïve. Status is very important to these people. Old Brehm doesn't have much field work left in him, and then what? Retirement into a cushy position, if you've got a patron smiling down on you. If not...” she throws out a grandiose shrug, “Well, maybe you'll be banished to some backwater to play nursemaid to the most boring spirit in existence. It happens.”

“I can't believe this...” the heavyset man grumbles, “Clarissa?”

“No comment,” Clarissa replies, giving a tight shake of her head, “I'm not getting involved in academy politics. This whole thing stinks, but I don't think it's because of clout.”

“Maybe it is,” you think aloud, “Even if it was just for the sake of his reputation, that might be better than doubting his student on something like this – the very first case I see with a hint of necromancy about it, and he just...” You halt yourself here, before you can say anything you might regret later. You remember how Master Brehm looked at the town, at how eager he was to leave it all behind. If he really was facing down a bleak future, living out his days in a place like that, maybe...

“I'm not listening to this,” Johannes grumbles, gathering up some of the breakfast dishes and stalking away to start clearing up. Clarissa flashes you a quick look of warning before joining him, leaving you alone with Persephone. With a sweet smile on her face, she leans back in her chair and tilts her head again. Just beside her, just above her shoulder, you can see a slight shimmer in the air.

With a slow blink, you awaken your second sight and take another look at the pale girl. Her guardian spirit sits upon her shoulder, a faint light glowing out from the oversized moth. It stirs as it notices you – notices you noticing it – and Persephone's smile grows a slight bit wider. “Don't you know it's rude to stare?” she scolds, reaching across to tap you on your shoulder, “Or can you just not help yourself?”

“No, I just...” you shake your head, closing your inner eye with a snap. “Be honest with me. For once in your life, be honest,” you urge her, “Do you really think-”

“Do I really think that old Brehm is willing to screw you over in order to help himself? Of course I do. It's only natural – that's just what people DO,” she replies simply, “The question is, what are YOU going to do about it?”

[1/2]

>>5657425

“I haven't decided that yet,” you admit, “I was thinking of carrying on the research.”

“Behind his back?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in polite – and entirely fake – surprise.

“Behind his back,” an awkward pause, “It sounds worse when I say it like that. I mean, I'd rather we do it as a team. That's what I said in the first place, and he shut me down. Too dangerous, he said, not a task for a young man like me. But it's okay for me to help with the heavy lifting, that's fine enough. I just feel like... like he doesn't trust me with any of this. With Nicholas, with this case, with anything.”

A silence falls over the pair of you, stretching out for one painful second after another. You hadn't intended to say all that, to let it out like that, but you just couldn't stop it once it had started. You'll regret it later, but for now it feels good – a little bit – to unburden yourself. Not that you ever imagined unburdening yourself to Persephone of all people, but your life has taken a strange turn lately.

“Well, if I was in your shoes, I'd... well, first I'd buy some better shoes. But then I'd go ahead and beat old Brehm at his own game. Solve the mystery before he can, and show the whole academy what I'm really worth. But that's just me,” Persephone lets out an airy laugh, waving the whole subject away with a gesture, “Anyway, that's not the only thing you wanted to ask me, was it?”

How can she always tell?

“When you... first knew you had a guardian spirit,” you begin, nodding towards her shoulder, “What was it like? I mean, how did you know?”

“That's a tough one. If I really wanted to get the feeling across, I'd need to write you a poem and, quite frankly, that's a little too much effort for this early in the morning. In the most simple sense possible?” she taps a finger against her lips as she thinks, “It was like someone was calling my name. It seemed close, yet impossibly far away, and I couldn't ever block it out. It was a bit of a pain, if I'm being honest.”

“That's twice in one day, if you are,” you point out, “And it's only breakfast time.”

“It is! I must be turning over a new leaf. You're a bad influence on me, Lucas Hearne,” she agrees, favouring you with a delicate laugh, “So. You think you might have a guardian spirit too, is that it? You're going to have to tell someone about it. It doesn't have to be old Brehm, you know, it could be any of the instructors. I hear good things about, hm, Rosenthal. He's teaching Clarissa's little sister, I believe.”

Sounds like one more thing you need to deal with. Later, though. There's just too much going on at the moment.

[2/3]

>>5657437

Before you can say anything else, a firm knock at the door causes you both to look around in surprise. A moment later, the old man enters. “Oh, Master Brehm!” Persephone calls out brightly, her eyes wide and shining, “We were just talking about you!”

Brehm looks particularly unhappy about that statement, sparing Persephone only a faint glance before staring you down. “It's Nicholas,” he says simply, “He asked to see you. Alone. Before... tonight.”

“He wants to see me?” you repeat, “To... talk with me?”

“I would assume so,” the old man says bluntly. You've never heard his voice so cold.

“Oh my,” Persephone muses, “Do you really think that's such a good idea? A dangerous criminal like that...”

Master Brehm ignores her completely, his gaze never leaving yours. “It's your choice to make. I won't tell you what to do,” he declares, already reaching for the door handle, “I've give you a minute to think. I'll be outside.”

The door bangs heavily as he leaves, and you bury your face in your hands. “I don't know if I can face it,” you admit after a second, “Seeing him like this, knowing that he's going to the gallows in just a few hours... But I owe him that much, don't I?”

“You don't owe him anything,” Persephone says softly, “But... it might be better if you keep your distance. People might talk, if they learn about this. Of all the people that he decided to reach out to, it was you. What, I wonder, does that imply?”

You look around to Persephone, a sick feeling forming in the pit of your stomach. A time like this, and she's talking about your reputation?

The fact that she's probably right makes it all the worse.

>You'll visit Nicholas. You owe him that much
>You won't visit. You can't face him like this
>Other

>>5657441
>You'll visit Nicholas. You owe him that much

>>5657441
>You'll visit Nicholas. You owe him that much

“I have to go,” you decide after a few torturous moments, “I owe Nicholas that much. To hear what he has to say, at least.”

Persephone purses her lips as she considers this, then shrugs. “Do what you have to do, I suppose. Do tell me if he has anything particularly interesting to say,” she tells you, “But somehow, I doubt that he's going to say anything about me.” A faint smile flutters across your lips as you get up to tell Brehm your decision. Just as you're reaching for the door, Persephone clears her throat lightly. “Tell Nicholas something from me, would you?” she asks softly, “Tell him he's an idiot. Please?”

“I'll... keep that in mind,” you sigh, gathering up your courage and throwing the door open.

-

The academy is built atop a vast network of natural caverns, all reaching deeper and deeper into the guts of the mountains as they go along. Some have been converted into tombs for the honoured dead, others have been put to a more sinister purpose. The dungeons, for example. Hardly ever used, or so you hope, but perfectly miserable. Damp stone seems to close in around you from the narrow walls, and the sound of your echoing footsteps seems to go on forever. If not for the soldier leading you forwards, you're not sure if you'd be able to find your way back up to the surface – the corridors twist and turn like an architect's lunatic nightmare.

Eventually, you arrive at Nicholas' cell. The soldier unlocks the door and opens the door a crack, just barely enough for you to squeeze through. When the door closed behind you, you hear the heavy crash of the lock sliding back into place. The cell itself is larger than you expected – a slight mercy, perhaps – but with absolutely no concessions to comfort. Two flimsy wooden chairs and a table. A single candle. A half-eaten meal set by the corner.

And Nicholas himself. He seems to have aged twenty years in the short space of time since you saw him last, and lost perhaps half his weight. His hand trembles as he gives you a nervous wave of greeting, and his thin lips can't quite form a smile. You find yourself looking him up and down, looking for any trace of injury or mistreatment. Nothing visible, at least.

“It's okay, I'm fine,” Nicholas assures you, his voice reedy, “I mean... as fine as I can be.”

Nicholas Penrose. The first friend you made at the academy. The one who always seemed to have money, but not enough for it to be obnoxious. The only one in the cohort who could match your skills as a scholar, even if he was completely hopeless at the physical side of the job. A young man with a bright future now lost to him.

“Good god, Nick,” you breathe, collapsing down into one of the chairs, “Why'd you do it, huh? Why?”

“That,” Nicholas laments, “Is a very difficult question to answer. I'm not even sure of the answer myself.”

[1]

>>5657480

“How'd I do at the trial?” Nicholas asks, finally managing to form a sad smile, “Pretty cool, huh? This court holds no authority over me... I spent so long thinking about what I'd say. Being locked up in here sure gives you plenty of time to think about... all kinds of silly things. Maybe I just wanted to act like a tough guy for once in my life.”

He's dodging the question, but that's fine – you'll do this at his pace. “You really shocked a few people, that's for sure,” you assure him, “This old guy – probably some fossil from the capital – nearly had a heart attack. How did you sleep last night? This place can't exactly be comfortable.”

“Well, no. Not exactly. But I managed to get a few hours. Nightmares, though,” he shudders, “Centipedes burrowing under my skin, eating me up from the inside. What do you think that means? Guilt, maybe?”

“Do you feel guilty?”

“I don't know. Should I? I know how this is going to sound, but I really don't feel like a criminal. Certainly not the kind of criminal that they all made me out to be,” Nicholas leans forwards, cupping a hand around his mouth to whisper, “I didn't even do anything. They caught me before I had the chance. Caught me right in the act – I can't exactly plead innocent, can I?”

“They're saying...” you pause, wincing at some of the crude gossip you've heard, “They're saying it was a teacher, or one of the ancient scholars...”

Nicholas grimaces, his slender features twisting as if pained by the suggestion. “Nothing like that,” he insists, “Clarissa told you that, did she? She's got the wrong idea about all that lost knowledge talk. I mean, I DO regret it. When I think about how much we might have lost, just because some sage dropped dead with their work half-finished... But it was nothing like that, nothing so grand.”

“Then what, Nick?”

The young man hesitates, running a hand through his straggly hair. “Have you ever felt like you were searching for something?” he asks instead, compulsive tugging at a few strands of his hair, “I mean, living your WHOLE life like you were searching for something. Like you've been incomplete even from the moment you were born?”

Somehow,you just can't answer him. Not even to nod or shake your head. After a silent pause, Nicholas lets out a weak laugh. “No, that's not fair. I shouldn't ask you something like that. I'm sorry, Lucas,” he concedes, “My mother died when I was just an infant. Did I... I told you that once, didn't I?”

“You did. Back in the day, when-” you fall silent suddenly, recoiling back from him as the realisation dawns, “Nick, it was your MOTHER?”

“Wait, wait! At least hear me out!” he pleads, lunging forwards to grab your sleeve, “Hear me out, won't you?

Slowly, you let yourself sink back down into the flimsy wooden chair and gesture for him to continue.

[2]

>>5657493

“They... I mean, my father... he always told me that my mother died just after I was born. It was a difficult birth, he said, and she just slipped away. I always hated to think about it, to feel like I was responsible. I didn't choose for it to be this way, did I?” Nicholas shakes his head furiously, “Then as I got older, I started to wonder. I spoke with my grandfather, just before he passed too. He said...”

“He said he visited just after the birth,” the condemned man continues, swallowing hard as he struggles to keep his voice steady, “He said that she was fine. Happy and healthy, as strong as ever. But that's not what everyone else said – and they just said what father told them. He was the only one there when she went. So now I don't know.”

“I remember. You needed to take some time away from the academy for his funeral. But when you came back...” you pause, “Nick, I thought you were doing fine, you never said-”

“What was I supposed to say? How do you talk about a thing like this? All I had were unanswered questions, and no way to know the truth. The only way I could know for sure was... I needed to hear what really happened,” his voice drops to a grave whisper, “Even... if it meant... this. Going against everything we've ever been taught, doing everything we're supposed to protect against. I had to do it.”

“A question like that, it eats away at you. It never really goes away,” he breathes, closing his eyes, “At least now I'll finally be able to get some peace, even if...”

“Well, that's it. You can tell them everything now, the whole story,” Nicholas concludes after a long pause, “That's why you came here, isn't it?”

>... (Write in)

>>5657501
>... (Write in)
"I understand why you did what you did. I can't condone it, but I understand. I just wish you told me or the others about this sooner. Maybe we could've helped you through it, I don't know."

"Do you want me to try looking into it? Your mother's passing. I won't resort to necromancy, but I can keep an eye out even if the trail might have died with them."

>>5657501
I'll back >>5657510
well worded

>>5657510
+1

“They didn't send me here, if that's what you mean,” you reply, wincing at how defensive you sound, “I came here to... I had questions of my own, and I wasn't going to let them go unanswered. You, of all people, must understand that.” Leaning forwards in your chair, you look Nicholas in the eye. “I understand, Nick,” you murmur, lowering your voice to ward against any eavesdropping, “I understand why you did what you did.”

His eyes widen at this, and the flicker of hope that plays through them is like a knife in your gut.

“I can't condone it, but I understand. I just wish you'd told me about this sooner, or any of the others. We could've helped you through it somehow, maybe. I don't know. We could have... tried,” you continue quietly, “Do you... want me to try? I can't go as far as you did, but I can look into it. Any hint that passes my way...”

“You know I won't be able to-” Nicholas begins, only to interrupt himself, “No, it doesn't matter. If I'm here or not. If you can find out what really happens, even if you're the only person in the world who knows... at least that's one person. That truth will exist in this world, and that's good enough for me. Promise me one thing though, won't you?”

“What? Just name it.”

“Don't make the same mistakes I did. Don't you end up in a place like this too,” he urges, grabbing desperately at your arm, “I won't forgive you if you do, you hear? I won't forgive you!”

Despite everything, you laugh. “I promise, Nick. I swear upon all the gods and spirits, I won't let you down,” you insist, “I'll-”

Before you can finish that thought, there comes a harsh bang from the cell door. Visiting time, it seems, is over.

-

You barely notice the world around you as you numbly follow the soldier back towards the surface. Master Brehm is waiting for you when you arrive, his arms folded with the fury of suppressed impatience. He dismisses the soldier with a curt nod, then leads you down into a quiet hallway. Looking back over his shoulder, he leans closer. “Well?” he hisses, “Did he tell you anything? Did you get him to tell you where he learned that filth?”

“No,” you reply bluntly, meeting Master Brehm's gaze, “He didn't.”

The silence draws out, muscles tightening in Master Brehm's jaw as he grinds his teeth.

“You damn fool,” he snarls eventually, turning on his heel and marching away.

>I think I'm going to take a pause here for today. I'm planning to continue tomorrow as well, starting at the same sort of time, but it might be a slightly shorter session. We'll see what happens

>>5657537
Thanks for running.

>>5657537
Thanks for the run, and welcome back!

>>5657537

Great work, Moloch.

File: Johannes Crane.jpg (85 KB, 646x727)

85 KB JPG

Deep within the trees, someone calls out your name. They call out desperately, but you can't reach them. You can't reach them, and the forest is burning.

You can still hear the voice calling your name even as you jolt awake, clawing at the sweat-soaked bedsheets that cling to your body. Finally throwing them back, you lurch upright and lean against the wall until you slowly get your breath back. A faint ribbon of morning sunlight slips through the gap under your bedroom door, and a dull realisation sinks in. It's a new day, and that means-

It's over. The verdict has been handed out and delivered, and Nicholas...

No. You're not thinking about that. Not now, not this early in the morning. Focusing on the mundane tasks of washing and dressing yourself instead, you feel the last lingering remnants of the familiar dream nagging at you. It's been some time since you've dreamt of home, and to see it like this, to see it burning like this... it feels like a bad omen. There's an old phrase you've seen in the archives - a premonition following an evil deed – and your thoughts keep drifting back to it.

If this is a premonition, then what was your evil deed?

-

There's breakfast on the table when you finally emerge from your room, with a portion set aside for you. The mood around the table is glum, with even Persephone maintaining a sullen silence. Nobody wants to start a conversation, because all of you know where it would lead. It's a long while before anyone takes a risk and speaks up.

“I'm actually a little surprised that you're still slumming it with us, Lucas. I thought you'd get your own private quarters, now that you're a fully qualified Exorcist,” Persephone remarks, lazily studying her neatly trimmed nails, “I could use a little extra storage space, you see, so if you weren't planning on using that room of yours...”

“Don't get ahead of yourself,” Johannes warns her, “Until Master Brehm signs the Writ of Confirmation, he's still – technically – an apprentice.” A silence greets this statement, and a sinking feeling starts to form in the pit of your stomach. It's just like Johannes to start quoting chapter and verse of the law like this, and it's rarely for your benefit. “It's a technicality, as I said. The paperwork would normally be signed right after the seal is handed over. Normally,” the heavyset man continues, “But circumstances haven't exactly been normal lately, have they?”

“Shit,” you breathe, leaning back in your chair, “Just... shit. Really? There's no other way?”

“I suppose it wouldn't need to be Master Brehm. Any instructor could sign the Writ,” Johannes reluctantly offers, “But it would be a significant breach of protocol. A real slap in the face. Good luck finding an instructor willing to cross THAT line.”

>>5658382

With the excuse of “women's talk”, Clarissa and Persephone retreat from the dorm and leave you to consider your situation. While you remain an apprentice, at least on paper, you're bound by Master Brehm's instructions. You're not authorised to leave the academy and carry out your own research, or conduct your own investigations. Those restrictions never bothered you before, while you were undergoing training, but now...

To think that a signature on a piece of paper is the only thing holding you back! It might be a breach of protocol, but you wonder if it might be worth speaking to some of the other instructors – maybe Rosenthal, the one Persephone mentioned. You've heard good things about him. It might be a slap in the face for Master Brehm, but that's starting to seem like a bonus.

“Speaking of Master Brehm, he dropped off a note for you this morning,” Johannes announces suddenly, “That's twice I've had to deliver your messages. Once more and I'll expect a salary.”

“Yeah, sure. I'll keep that in mind,” you grumble as Johannes takes out a folded letter and passes it across. The note is short, curt, and even the hard, blocky handwriting gives you a sense of anger. Master Brehm's sources have managed to turn up some information, concerning Ravensheugh's priest and doctor both.

When the priest, Machen, died, his books and papers were gathered up and sent back to the academy. The books themselves were appropriated and incorporated into the archives themselves, but his private papers were boxed up and sent into storage. From what you know about the archives, it's likely that they were never properly examined – an errand like that would be far down on the list of priorities, and easily forgotten about.

Meanwhile, the doctor has been located with his patient in one of the capital's wards, although the note doesn't say exactly where – likely, Master Brehm is keeping that little detail to himself for now. While the note itself doesn't exactly extend an invitation, Master Brehm writes that he intends to visit the capital – today – to interview the doctor.

Looks like you're going to have to make some plans.

>Visit the capital with Master Brehm to speak with the doctor
>Search the archives for the priest's papers
>Discuss your Writ situation with the instructor, Rosenthal
>Other

>>5658383
>>Visit the capital with Master Brehm to speak with the doctor

>>5658383
>Search the archives for the priest's papers

Folding the letter up and tucking it neatly into your pocket, you consider the options Master Brehm has laid out in front of you. Whatever his motives are, you've got to give him some credit for keeping you informed. It would have been the easiest thing in the land for him to simply follow up on the leads all by himself, leaving you in the dark. Maybe... maybe you've been too harsh on him.

Or maybe he needs an extra pair of hands in case of any heavy lifting. Maybe he's expecting trouble and wants someone to watch his back. You could spend all day mulling over the possibilities, and it wouldn't do a damn bit of good. In the end, Master Brehm's deadline has made the choice for you – the priest's papers have been waiting for years, they can stand to wait a little bit longer. The doctor, on the other hand...

“I've got to go,” you announce, nodding to Johannes, “If anyone comes looking for me, just take a message.”

“I'll send you the bill,” he grunts, giving you a particularly sullen look.

-

You arrive just in time, hurrying out to the academy gates just as Master Brehm is getting into a carriage. He stares you down for a long moment before shifting aside and gesturing to the empty seat beside him. You're barely settled before the carriage lurches into motion and starts down the wide mountain path. The capital isn't far – just as the foot of the mountain, in fact, close enough that you could walk without much trouble. You certainly could, as a fit young man. Master Brehm, on the other hand...

Sitting in silence, you watch as the capital draws nearer. The Eternal Palace looms over it all, its beacon burning like a second sun from high atop the pagoda. Somewhere deep inside the labyrinthine building, the Sun King's Regent manages the affairs of the nation – not exactly a job you envy. You saw him giving a speech once, and the experience stayed with you for a long time. A youngish man, but aged before his time by the weight of his position. Thinking back, you can't help but compare the Regent's gaunt face with that of poor Nicholas.

“I wasn't sure if you'd show up,” Master Brehm says suddenly, breaking the long silence. You look around in surprise, but the old man is still staring straight ahead.

“I wasn't sure if you'd let me come along,” you counter.

Master Brehm grunts. “I said I would, didn't I?” he points out, “I might as well put that mind of yours to good use, too. These interviews work better with a partner. Watch him when he answers my questions – watch his reactions.”

“Of course,” a tight smile tugs at your mouth, “But I might have a few questions of my own.”

“I'm sure you will,” the old man scowls, “Just make sure they're the right ones.”

[1]

>>5658383
>>Search the archives for the priest's papers

>>5658411

No matter how many times you've visited the capital, it always finds a new way to amaze you. From the number of people surging through the streets to the grimy smoke bleeding from factory spires, it's unlike anywhere that you're used to. The solitude of the academy, the simple life of your childhood village... the capital is a monster compared with these places, something swollen and deformed beyond all natural scale.

You're not a fan, suffice to say.

The carriage rattles down the wide streets, only pausing once to allow a long train of artillery guns to be drawn down a junction. Master Brehm watches the guns pass with a steely gaze, forming a symbol of good fortune with his right hand. Destined for the border, you assume, for the doomed city of Ixtab and the threat of war brewing there. If Clarissa was here, you think, she'd recite every single fact there is to know about those guns. Even if nobody wanted her to. Especially if nobody wanted her to.

Leaving the carriage behind, you walk the narrowing streets until you arrive at the hospital. A small building in a mostly forgotten corner of the capital, the hospital feels like a relic from some distant age when the capital was smaller or quieter. Something left behind, or something yet to be swallowed up completely. Shaking off the disconcerting thoughts, you follow Master Brehm as he leads you through the hushed building.

The doctor and his patient are on the upper level, kept far from any of the other patients. An old man with deep lines of weariness carved into his face, the doctor looks up from his book as you enter. His patient stirs slightly in his sleep but soon falls silent. The shape of his body under the crisp white sheets is hideously incomplete, and you quickly look away from him. “Excuse me, doctor? We're from the academy, and we'd like to ask you some questions,” you begin, nodding a greeting, “You brought this man from Ravensheugh, is that correct?”

“Yes, I... The academy?” the doctor's eyes widen, “What would the academy-”

“There was an incident. The spirit of Ravensheugh was disturbed, shortly after you left. All has been put right now, but we don't yet know what caused this. These things do not happen for no reason, of course,” Master Brehm continues, closing the door behind you both and stalking across to the bed, “Your man here. We'll need to speak with him too.”

“Let him rest!” the doctor hisses, only to flinch back from the foul look that Brehm gives him, “I mean... there isn't much he'll be able to tell you. He's been delirious much of time, when he isn't asleep. I haven't been able to get much sense out of him. Just... let him sleep. Please.”

Brehm's lips draw back in a thin grimace of contempt, but he glances your way and gives a slight nod as if inviting you to take the lead.

>Wake the man
>Let him sleep
>Let Brehm decide
>Other

>>5658441
>Wake the man

>>5658441
>Wake the man
Can't hurt to try. If the man is indeed delirious and incomprehensible we can just let him rest again.

>>5658441
>>Wake the man

>>5658441
>Let him sleep

I'm a contrarian

This man, or what's left of him, is your best lead on what really happened in that grain mill. Anyone else who might have witnessed the incident has long since vanished, and the townsfolk had no clues either. Whatever state he might be in, you need to hear what he has to say. Looking away from the doctor's pleading face, you reach down and gently shake the maimed man awake.

He doesn't react at first, only for his eyes to fly open when you shake him a little harder. His eyes are very wide and very white, staring straight up at the ceiling as if you weren't even there. “It's not me,” he whispered, the words coming low and flat, “It's not me. I'm flying far above, flying over it all. I look down, but it's not me down there. I'm up here, flying over the forest.”

“That's all he ever says,” the doctor sighs, his voice defeated, “I don't know what-”

“It looks like me, but it's not me,” the sick man continues, his hoarse voice growing louder, “I'm here, I'm flying over the forest. The forest is burning. I'm up here... and the forest...”

But here, his words trail off and he slumps back. The doctor lunges forwards, pushing you back as he fumbles at the man's neck. Master Brehm takes you by the arm and draws you back, casting a dark look back at the wounded man. “Did you hear that?” the old man whispers, although you barely notice his words, “He was possessed. I'm sure of it.”

“Possessed...” you repeat numbly. The maimed man's words keep repeating themselves over and over in your head. “Yes... yes, it makes sense,” you add, shaking off your confused thoughts and trying to focus, “Something took hold of his body and forced him to maim himself. But that means there was a spirit loose even before the incident even began!”

“So it would seem,” Master Brehm growls, returning to the wounded man's bed, “Doctor?”

“He's gone again. Will you PLEASE leave him be now?” the doctor spits, “I'll answer whatever questions you have, but not here. Outside. I don't want to disturb him any more than you already have.”

Brehm nods, stepping aside and gesturing for the doctor to lead the way. He shuffles out into the corridor, easing the door shut behind him and leaning heavily against the wall. “My name's Lucas,” you begin, hoping to try and mend some broken bridges, “What about you? I don't want to just call you “doctor” all the time, you know?”

The doctor gives you a bitter look before sighing heavily. “Samson,” he offers eventually, “Answer me one question, at least. The incident you said – was anyone... hurt? The spirit itself?”

“It's fine now. The people were scared, but nobody was hurt. Nobody except...” you nod back towards the bad, “And the spirit has been calmed. It won't cause any trouble.”

A faint look of relief ghosts across Samson's face at this.

[1/2]

>new Moloch quest
>mfw
I was around for Devil Summoner London, Second Cycle, Sleeping Gods, Northern Beasts, that tank one-shot, and the very beginning of Take to the Skies. Glad to see you back.

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4 KB JPG

>>5658473
And this was the face in question I forgot to post.

>>5658470

“I understand that there were a group of travelling labourers in Ravensheugh before the accident. We'd like to know more about them. They are... of interest to us,” Master Brehm says, his voice low and slick, “Did you ever speak with them? Could you describe them to us, perhaps? Any features that you can recall?”

“Their sort comes and goes, I never pay them too much heed unless they end up in my care – and these ones never did. Well... I do recall one man. He had scars on his face, you see, although he hid them most times with a low hood. I caught sight of them once when he let his hood down, thinking he was alone,” Samson recalls, gesturing to the side of his head, “Burn scars, I believe. His left ear was ruined, almost completely gone.”

Just as instructed, you watch the doctor as he thinks back. He seems sincere enough, albeit still a little bitter about your rough treatment of his patient. He scowls often, when he thinks you aren't looking. Exorcists don't have a particularly good reputation even at the best of times, and you might have confirmed a few of his worst suspicions. That's too bad, but if it means you can finally figure out the truth behind the incident...

“Joel – my patient – spoke with the labourers more than anyone else. He was one of the few local men left working in the mill, so I suppose it's only natural. He mentioned once, just before the accident, that he had spent an evening playing games with them. Some sort of betting game, I'm sure, but...” Samson throws his hands up in a desperate shrug, “I don't know what else I can tell you.”

“Excuse us, please. One moment,” Master Brehm asks with a polite smile, already dragging you a few paces away. Once his back is turned to the doctor, his expression darkens. “I should have realised it sooner,” he mutters to you, “These games they played. It was staring me right in the face, but I didn't want to see it. Damn!”

It takes a moment for you to realise what he's talking about. “Dho Games?” you whisper back. The Dho Games are a form of meditation, to help open a man's inner eye and peer through the Veil. But the Dho Games are dangerous – taken too far, they can even pierce through the Veil itself and open a man's mind to possession. That danger means that they're seldom known outside either the academy or the hermit monks based far above. If these men knew about the Dho Games, that means...

[2/3]

>>5658500

Master Brehm turns sharply on his heel and marches back to the doctor. Without breaking stride, he grabs Samson by the shoulders and slams him back against the wall. “Where are they?” he bellows, “We need to find those men, so WHERE ARE THEY?”

“I don't know!” Samson wails, trembling as Brehm slams him against the wall again.

“Stop LYING!” Brehm shouts, his grip tightening on the doctor's thin arms. You lunge in before he can go any further, pulling your former teacher back and dragging him away from Samson. The doctor wilts, collapsing down in a heap as you pull Brehm away. The old man throws off your grip, glaring at you with hate-filled eyes. “If he knows anything,” he spits, “If he's protecting them-”

“Just back off!” You hiss, numbly wondering if this is really going to turn into a fistfight in a hospital corridor. “What's gotten into you?” you add, “What's WRONG with you?”

Brehm clenches his fists before letting out a long breath and brushing down his coat. Turning away, he starts to march towards the exit without another word. You start to follow after him, before he can get too far ahead and vanish into the city, only to pause and glance back to the doctor. Samson is still slumped down, staring into the empty air with hollow eyes.

What a damned mess.

>Follow after Master Brehm
>Stay and check on Doctor Samson
>Other

>>5658507
>Stay and check on Doctor Samson
"I'm sorry about that. Something about this case and recent events has gotten under his skin, but that doesn't mean he should treat you like that. Are you hurt?"

>>5658507
>Stay and check on Doctor Samson

>>5658507
>Stay and check on Doctor Samson

>>5658507
>>Stay and check on Doctor Samson

You hesitate for a moment, torn between chasing after Master Brehm and checking on the doctor. Even setting the choice aside, you're still shaken from his outburst. A foul temper is one thing, but you've never seen him lash out like that. Not at any student at the academy, not at a civilian, not ever. There's something seriously wrong with him, or with this case. Maybe both.

“Damn it,” you whisper to yourself, turning back and creeping over to the doctor. He flinches back as you approach, and you hold your hands up in what you hope is a harmless gesture. Gently reaching down, you help him back up to his feet. “I'm sorry about that,” you offer, “Something about this case has really got under his skin. But that's no excuse. Are you... hurt?”

Samson is silent for a moment, his glassy eyes staring straight ahead. “Greyridge,” he mumbles eventually, the word slurred as it spills from his lips.

“What?” you ask, “Greyridge?”

“That's what he said,” the doctor murmurs, blinking a few times before finally turning to look you in the eye. “The labourers. I remember... one night, I passed them in the street as I was going home. They were talking – quietly, but I made out a few words. They were talking about something “back in Greyridge”. A place, I assume, but I don't know the name.”

Filing the name away in the depths of your memory, you give Samson a cautious look. “You didn't mention this before,” you say carefully, watching his reaction closely. Not a hint of guilt or deception about him, just shame and a lingering fear. “Greyridge. Right. Thank you,” you sigh instead, cautious about pushing the old man too hard, “But are you okay?”

“I'm tougher than I look. It'll take more than that to get the better of me,” he lies, brushing himself down with a sudden burst of wounded pride, “But you'd better watch that one, young man, and watch out for yourself.”

Easier said than done, in this line of work.

-

Master Brehm is nowhere to be seen when you make your way out of the hospital, and that's almost a relief. You don't want to imagine what sort of trouble he's going to get up to, out there in the capital, but it's going to be someone else's problem. For now, at least, you don't need to worry about him breathing down your neck. You can think things over as you take a nice slow walk back to the academy.

As you walk, you find yourself repeating the maimed man's words under your breath.

The forest is burning.

>I'm going to bring things to an early finish here, but I'm aiming to continue this next Saturday with a longer session
>Thank you for voting and reading along!

>>5658552
Thanks for running!

>>5658552
Good to have you writing here again

>>5658552
Hmm. Maybe another forest was burning, And the laborers are going around possessing people with the memory of the fire in order to.....save the ones who died in it?

Is the forest outside the veil?

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I made a small doc to organize my thoughts for the quest and thought I'd share it. Let me know if I missed anything.

>>The Ravensheugh case
Small village was exposed to the Veil and shrouded in fog. Cause turned out to be the desecration of the burial mound of the village’s guardian spirit underneath the mill. Necromancers suspected. The mill was also the scene of an ‘accident’ in which a worker maimed his arm in between the mill’s stones. Talking to the injured worker later showed that he was very traumatized and speaking incomprehensibly. Brehm suspects possession caused the worker to maim himself which would imply a spirit was around before the accident.

Current suspects are a group of traveling laborers that were at the village during the accident and left right afterwards. The maimed worker, Joel, spent the most time with them before his accident, playing ‘betting games’. Brehm suspects ‘Dho Games’ as they can breach the Veil if taken too far and open one’s mind to possession. This line of thought can account for Joel’s alleged possession and subsequent accident. The identities and descriptions of these laborers are unknown save one bit of information: One of the laborers has burn scars on the left side of his face with the ear destroyed. The last lead we have is that the doctor overheard the laborers talk about a ‘Greyridge’. Only Lucas has this piece of information at the moment.

>Notes/Questions

-Was Joel’s maiming necessary to the desecration of the burial mound? Blood sacrifice to complete the ritual or was it just a sadistic spirit?

-Was Ravensheugh targeted because it had no priest? No one that could clue in what was happening below the mill before it was too late? Could possibly look into why Ravensheugh’s request for a replacement priest seemed to fall on deaf ears and maybe get one dispatched.

-Priest’s papers are still back in the archive. Might give insight on why Ravensheugh was attacked specifically if it wasn’t just opportunism because it didn’t have a priest looking after it.

-Joel’s mad mumbling talked about a burning forest, eerily similar to Lucas’ dream. Lucas mentioned the dream being about home. Possible connection. Is something happening in Lucas' hometown?

>>5658794
>>Butthurt Brehm
According to Lucas, Master Brehm had been relatively good natured and cheerful up until Nicholas’s trial. Even after that he seemed ‘okay’ relatively during the first half of the Ravensheugh investigation. It was only until necromancy was suspected that he started getting abrasive, impatient, and began trying to push Lucas away from the investigation. This very well could be Brehm dealing with some severe guilt/anger at letting Nicholas learn about necromancy enough to do the crime that he did and attempting to firmly close the door on any way Lucas could get involved with that kind of information even if it hinders Lucas’ growth so that there is no chance at Lucas making Nicholas’ mistake.
Persephone offered a more cynical alternative: The Brehm was trying to take all the credit and slam dunk this case to get back in the good graces of the people in charge. After this last bit with the doctor I don’t really see this being the case. There is some deep seated anger there that doesn't yell out ‘political maneuvering’ to me, though I won’t discount the possibility that the stress of losing face after the Nicholas trial is making things worse on his mental state. It might be worth talking to the other instructor, Rosenthal, about this or any other authority figure at the academy that might’ve been close with Brehm. Or that might make things worse and it’s better to have a 1 on 1, heart to heart with the guy. I dunno, guy is a landmine. I *think* he means well though.


>>Miscellaneous stuff/’Side Quest’
-We offered to attempt to solve the mystery of Nick’s mother’s death if there is a mystery to even solve. No leads at the moment as they are currently in the grave. Just gotta keep an ear out if something comes our way.

-On the geopolitical side, Reivians are border skirmishing for control of Ixtab, which holds the sacred site where the Accord was signed. Sounds like a plot point waiting to happen. Clarissa’s father is there.

-Persephone says that knowing you have a guardian spirit is like ‘someone calling your name’. Well something is calling our name in our dreams with the burning forest. Might be something there.

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There's something very special about the archives, something that makes them unlike anywhere else you've ever seen. They're always quiet, but never completely silent – there's always the scratch of a pen, the rustle of parchment, the muffled sound of footsteps to remind you that you're not alone. The light is low, low enough that the tops of the highest shelves seem to sink into the darkness above, but countless gas lanterns flicker and fill the void. No matter what might be happening in the outside world, the archives remain unchanged.

You've spent countless hours here, pouring over all kinds of books between your lessons. Now, though, you're not here for idle reading – you've got a specific target in mind, and tracking it down is going to be no easy feat.

“I'm looking for some papers. Should have been brought into the archives a few years back, name of “Machen”. Probably still in storage, but I don't know for sure,” you tell the sleepy-looking clerk, “Where can I find them?”

The young clerk stares at you for a moment before letting out a weary sigh and opening a massive ledger. Leafing through the crumbling pages, he squints at the tiny script for an achingly long time. Watching him fumble his way through the catalogue, you have to fight the urge to drum your fingers on the desk.

“Unsorted papers, one box, name of “Machen”. Here,” the clerk announces at last, pointing to the book, “Storage. Shelf sixteen, third level. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” you ask, your eyes narrowing with suspicion.

But the clerk just shrugs.

-

Shelf sixteen, third level, is stacked with boxes, but none of them are the one you're looking for. Shelf sixteen as a whole is a dead end, the thick waxed paper crates packed tightly together in anonymous rows. A rare few have labels pasted to them, but even these have often faded with age and damp. Most of the time, you have to take each box down in turn and skim their contents for any sign of what you're looking for.

It's a laborious process, and there are a lot of other shelves left to search. Just as it's starting to seem like you'll be spending all day searching – and maybe longer – you get a lucky break. Low down on shelf fifteen, you can just make out the remains of the name Machen on a torn label. Easing the box out, you let out a quiet hiss of triumph. As you do, you hear a soft shuffle of footsteps behind you. Turning, you see a pair of beguiling amber eyes peering out at you through a gap in the bookshelf. You lock eyes for a long moment, the silence drawing out before-

“Hey,” the girl says, her voice low, “What'cha doing?”

“I just found what I was looking for,” you answer, feeling vaguely absurd to be having a conversation through a gap in a bookshelf, “Now I need to figure out what I just found.”

[1/2]

>>5662860

The girl seems to consider this for a moment before retreating, fading into the gloom behind her. Shrugging to yourself, you carry the box of papers over to the closest desk and start to take a closer look inside. Machen, it seems, had been a prodigious writer of letters in his time. Maybe just a prodigious writer in general, from the looks of it.

“Want some help?”

You look around to see the girl again, her wide eyes peering intently at you. Leaning heavily on a cane and dragging one leg behind her as she goes, she lurches over to the desk and helps herself to a seat. Without even waiting for an answer, she reaches into the box and pulls out a few of the letters. “I'm Cloranthy, by the way,” she says eventually, “You're Lucas, right?”

“That's me,” you reply, realisation dawning at the sound of her name, “You're Clarissa's sister, right?”

But she doesn't reply, already too focused on the letter she's reading.

-

You spent an hour together, hardly speaking except to announce a terse summary of each letter that you finish skimming over. Most of the letters are perfectly innocent, scholarly questions and comments about mundane things – medicinal herbs, usually. These letters can be quickly set aside, but anything concerning folklore needs a more careful examination. But progress is slow, and often frustrating.

“Hey,” Cloranthy whispers, “Wanna take a break?”

“Absolutely,” you groan, letting the most recent letter slip from your fingers. It's getting hard to focus, and harder still to make sense of what you're reading. Cloranthy slowly rises and starts to wander off back to her side of the bookshelf, humming softly to herself as she goes. It's strange, you think to yourself as you follow, that she recognised you straight away. Clarissa must have told her about you, but told her what exactly?

You don't know much about Cloranthy – barely anything, in fact. Beyond occasionally acknowledging her existence, Clarissa doesn't really talk about her younger sister. As she sits back down at her own reading desk, your eyes fall on the book left there. “Sorry for disturbing you,” you offer, “What were you reading?”

With a shy smile, Cloranthy lifts up her book so you can see the title. Tales of the Forest Kingdom. You've always hated that name – it's not a kingdom, for one thing, just a forest. A terribly vast, terribly ancient forest, but still just a forest.

“You come from there, don't you? What's it really like?” Cloranthy asks, her eyes widening with a naïve wonder, “The stories make it sound so romantic, so free and passionate...”

Just what kind of stories has she been reading?

>The stories are right. Life is simple there, and beautiful
>It's nothing like that. Life can be brutal there, and short
>I was just a child when I left. I don't remember much
>Other

>>5662863
>I was just a child when I left, and anyone who survives can be considered lucky.
>If that place is a kingdom, then humans are on the lowest rung.

>>5662863
>Other
I suppose it can be, specially compared to the capital. Still, its not the safest place to live as ancient forests tend to be.

>>5662863

>Some of the stories are true - the land, the air, all free and beautiful. You smile grimly - the most dangerous part of the forest was the people living there…

Cloranthy's bright, eager eyes bore into you as you think her question over, trying to find an answer that might somehow convey the uneven tangle of feelings churning within you. Free and passionate? Maybe so, but probably not in the way that she's thinking of. Your village was, technically, on the border – the very edge of the forest – but that was more than enough for you to get a taste of their ways.

“If you're comparing it with the capital, then I suppose you might be right,” you offer eventually, giving Cloranthy a thin smile, “People certainly are more free there, and the land is certainly beautiful. But it's not always the safest place to live. Those stories of yours don't mention the priests, do they?”

Cloranthy looks down at her book, her expectant smile faltering slightly. “The... priests?” she asks, “Um, no. No, they don't.”

“It's probably for the best,” you reply, your own smile dropping away at the unwelcome memories, “If that place is a kingdom, the humans like us are on the lowest rung around. The Veil is thin there, almost completely gone, and the spirits have free rein. I was young when I got out, and I was damn lucky for that. Most people aren't so lucky.”

All is quiet for a moment. You can hear the distant sounds of the archives – a faint rustle of cloth, a muffled cough – before Cloranthy lurches to her feet with a clatter. “We should get back to work,” she announces suddenly, fumbling for her cane, “I shouldn't have... said anything.”

Before she can limp away, you grab her lightly by the arm. “I just don't want you to get the wrong idea,” you stress, looking her in the eye, “These places are dangerous. Very dangerous. Better that you learn that now, okay?”

She holds your gaze for a second more before slipping from your grasp. “Lesson learned,” she assures you, her eyes cooler than before, “But we've got a job to do, don't we?”

-

The most frustrating thing about your onerous task, you consider as you set one letter aside, is only reading one half of a conversation. You might read a letter thanking the priest for information on a certain discussion, without ever saying what that information was or what the discussion was about to begin with. The answer might be in another letter, buried somewhere in the box of papers, but...

“Nothing here. If I read another description of some petty illness, I think I'm going to vomit,” you sigh, fighting the urge to crumple the latest letter up and throw it away, “Have you found anything?”

“Um,” Cloranthy looks up from her letter, “Just another thank-you letter. Some alchemical society from Greyridge. I didn't even know there were any-”

[1/2]

>>5662887

But she doesn't have a chance to finish that sentence before you pluck the letter from her hands. Greyridge – just like the doctor mentioned. Maybe just a coincidence, but this is the closest thing to a lead you've found so far. The letter itself is short, just a brief note expressing gratitude for a book on folk tales that the priest had been able to suggest, but it has a return address written at the top.

“Change of plans. Look for anything else that came from Greyridge,” you tell Cloranthy, digging out another stack of papers and quickly skimming through the first couple of letters. She stares at you in amazement before following suit, delicately plucking out a letter and squinting at the tiny script. Progress is quicker now, and it isn't long before you find what you were looking for.

The original letter from Greyridge goes into a little more detail on their request. This alchemical society – the Golden Antler Fraternity – was looking for more information on “a wild healer beloved by the ravens”, apparently in the belief that it held the secret to some miraculous remedy. The letter asks for any help that the priest might to offer, as a renowned expert in both folklore and early medicines. A very polite letter, overall, the sort that is all too commonly exchanged between scholars.

An alchemical society. You hadn't been expecting this. Alchemy has been out of fashion for years, decades really, and you're surprised to hear that some people still practice the failed science. Then again, an obscure alchemical society might provide good cover for anyone looking to ask a lot of niche questions. You might need to do a little more digging, to see if anyone has heard of this fraternity...

“The priest suggested a book – Folk Tales of Inner Marusia,” you tell Cloranthy, “Can you check with the archivists and see if they have a copy?”

“I don't know,” she replies, giving you a coy look, “Can I?”

“Please?” you add, holding back a sigh.

“I'll think about it, next time I'm over there. If I remember,” Cloranthy muses, idly twirling a strand of her long, curly hair around one finger, “What are you going to do about this anyway? Gonna go down there and start causing trouble?”

A chance would be a fine thing, but without that Writ of Confirmation you're still bound by Master Brehm's instructions. “I'll still figuring that part out,” you admit, “I don't... exactly have permission to travel yet. Not on my own, that is.”

“So ask your instructor. Unless... it's not that simple?” Cloranthy smiles at you suddenly, her eyes lighting up with a wicked sense of mischief, “He doesn't know you're here, does he? And you don't WANT him to know, do you?”

This really wasn't where you intended this conversation to go. “It's complicated, okay?” you tell her, already knowing that she's not going to let it drop.

“I'm sure it is,” she teases.

[2/3]

>>5662892

Against your better judgement, you tell her about your situation – a much abbreviated version of it, at least. Telling the story gives you a moment to consider your options, though. To weigh up your next moves. You're fairly sure that you've got a lead on the case, between what Doctor Samson told you and what you've been able to find in the priest's notes. More of a lead than anything Master Brehm has been able to dig up, you're sure, and that gives you a certain leverage.

You could always offer him a trade – sharing your information in return for your Writ of Confirmation. It's a risk, and it might deliver a fatal blow to your increasingly strained relationship, but that might be worth it if it means Master Brehm is off your back. The alternative would be to share your information and trust in his good will, which is seeming tenuous.

“You just need an instructor to grant permission, right?” Cloranthy suggests, “I could speak with Master Rosenthal, make an introduction for you.”

“You know, that's the second time someone's recommended him to me,” you point out, “I'm starting to wonder if I should be suspicious.”

“Oh, well, he's very popular with... ahem,” Cloranthy coughs delicately, her cheeks reddening somewhat, “Very popular with the students here. He's always been awfully nice to me. I'm sure he'd be willing to hear you out, especially if I put in a good word.”

She manges to make it all sound rather unsavoury, but it might be your best chance to slip out of the academy without drawing too much attention to yourself – and certainly the only way to slip out without Master Brehm knowing about it.

>Take the information to Master Brehm in return for your Writ
>Take the information to Master Brehm, but offer it freely
>Discuss an alternative Writ with Master Rosenthal
>Other

>>5662901
>>Other
Why don't we try just talking to Brehm to see where he stands and whats going on in his head. If he continues to be a stubborn asshole we can move onto getting the Writ either through trade or through the other Master

As tempting as it might be, to go completely behind Master Brehm's back, it could just cause you more problems in the long run. A reputation for causing trouble would be hard to shake, even if you were able to crack the case right here and now. So if you're not going to go behind his back, where else does that leave you?

Talking with him. Face to face. Bitter medicine, maybe, but he might be reasonable about things. And if not, you've still got other options.

“I might need to take you up on that offer,” you tell Cloranthy, “But I'm going to speak with my instructor first. Oh, and... thank you. For your help today.”

Cloranthy just gives you a lazy wave, wearily starting to pack the scattered papers back into their box.

-

When you arrive at his office, Master Brehm is looking surprisingly cheerful. Just for a moment it's like none of this has ever happened, as if he was still the gregarious mentor you've always known. He doesn't even react at the sight of you, happily gesturing to the usual seat opposite him. “Our work is never done, my boy. Take a look at this,” he announces, waving a very official looking letter at you, “A formal request from General Malinkov, about the potential use of spirits in warfare!”

Your entire train of thought is knocked aside in an instant. “Excuse me?” you reply, silently repeating his words to yourself, “But that would be a blatant-”

“Breach of the Accord. I know, I know. And General Malinkov should know that too. Oh, he insists that it would all be purely theoretical. Purely defensive, too, just in case the Reivians start getting any funny ideas,” he lets out a harsh, almost guttural laugh as he slaps the letter down, “This is the kind of foolishness we've got to deal with, as if we don't have enough work to do!”

“What are you going to... do about it?” you ask carefully, looking at the letter as if it was a dead rat.

“Oh, probably just give it to Lowe and see what she makes of it. She'd enjoy it, I think,” Master Brehm smiles, just like he always did, and shrugs, “But I'm assuming you didn't come here to talk about that.”

“The Ravensheugh case,” you begin, cautiously choosing your next words, “I was wondering if you had any new leads.”

Just for a fleeting moment, Master Brehm's face darkens. “Oh, I haven't had a moment to even think about that!” he states, almost shouting the words at you. He's got nothing, you guess, and he's not happy about it. “I've put out some feelers, looking for any other... incidents. But I haven't heard anything back yet. These things take time, of course,” he pauses, giving you a suspicious look, “What have you been up to, anyway?”

This, you answer with a tiny shrug. “I've been in the archives,” you tell him simply, “Reading.”

Which is, technically, not wrong.

[1/2]

>>5662928

Master Brehm considers your words for a long moment, his face almost completely devoid of expression. He's worried, you realise suddenly. Not just worried about this case, but worried about something far greater. The letter from General Malinkov? Perhaps, but you're not convinced. It could be any number of things – his face is a closed book, offering scant clues as to his true thoughts.

Time for you to lay your cards on the table.

“If I happened to find a lead, or even a possible lead, on this case...” you begin, “What then?”

The old man tenses up, his eyes hardening. “Then I-” he starts, only to cut himself off. “Then we should follow up on it. We should follow up on it as soon as possible, in fact,” he continues instead, his tone softening, “What have you found, Lucas?”

“If I found a lead on this case, I wouldn't be able to follow up on it. Not alone,” a pause here, broken only by the ticking of Master Brehm's brass clock, “You know exactly why not.”

A muscle clenches in Master Brehm's jaw, tightening even as he spreads his hands in an open gesture. “The Writ, of course. Things have been so busy lately, so frantic with everything that's been happening. I simply haven't had a moment, but...” he remarks, his tone almost jovial, “But these are all just formalities. Ink on a piece of paper. We've got real work to be getting on with, haven't we? So Lucas, my boy, I'll ask you again. What have you found?”

He might have a smile on his face, but his words feel more like a clenched fist.

>I don't have anything yet. I'm still looking
>I have a lead. An alchemical society in Greyridge
>Other

>>5662944
>Other
Master, even just mentioning this case seems to get you wound up. We need to talk about what happened with the doctor. We both know that conduct wasn't acceptable in that situation and I worry any lead I give you, you'll run off with a hairpin trigger potentially getting yourself or others hurt in the process. So what's going *on*? I've never seen you like this before. Was it just the loss of Nicholas or something more that's eating at you?"

>>5662944

>You haven’t been yourself, Master Brehm. Something is pressing on you. Perhaps I could be a friend to you as well as a student? After all, I have uncovered a lead in the case…

Basically, tell me what’s going on and I’ll spill my clue, old man

“I've found something. It might be a lead, it might just be another dead end. But it might be worth investigating,” you tell the old man carefully, watching as eyes light up with an almost savage interest, “If I tell you what I've found, though, I need to know that you're not going to do anything... rash. Like at the hospital.”

“That was-” Master Brehm starts, only to stop himself again. Narrowing his eyes, he gestures for you to say your piece.

“We need to talk about this. This case, this... whatever it is. You haven't been yourself since this all started. Just talking about this case seems to get you wound up, and I need to know why. We both know that what happened at the hospital was unacceptable – I need to know that it's not going to happen again,” you say slowly, keeping your voice low and level, “Someone could get hurt, or worse. It could blow the whole case. Is it Nick? Is that what-”

Master Brehm cuts you off with a curt gesture. “Nicholas... isn't the first student I've lost,” he mutters, his eyes drifting off to stare at the blank wall behind you, “This has all happened before. I've SEEN it happen before. I know how tempting it can be, to delve into this forbidden knowledge, but good men weren't meant to know such things.”

“We're fighting a losing battle, my boy. Every year there are fewer and fewer of us, yet the Veil grows thinner and thinner. Each little crime leaves a wound, a scar, and we can't stop the bleeding fast enough,” he continues, his voice almost a whisper now, “And more and more, I see promising young students drift away from the order. When I was a young man, we saw perhaps... one or two students turn on us each year. This year – just this year alone – we've had seven, including Nicholas.”

The blunt numbers hit you like a slap in the face. “That many?” you mutter, “But...”

“We don't know. Where they learn it, what gives them the ideas, what drives them to abandon everything they swore to protect... We just don't know,” Master Brehm balls his fist, raising it to strike his desk only to hesitate and slowly lower it again. “All we can do is protect you from it. Shield you from knowing about such thing, or threaten you all with the consequences,” he sighs, “And even that doesn't seem to be working.”

You don't know what to say. You're not even sure if there is something you CAN say. Master Brehm draws in a long, shuddering breath and looks back at you. He smiles, although there's no warmth in it.

“I'm an old man. I won't live to see the day when it all comes crashing down,” he announces, “But for now, I can hunt down those who would threaten the Accord. Maybe, just maybe, I can push that day back just a little bit more. That's worth setting aside our differences, don't you think?”

This question hangs between you for a long second before you nod slightly. “Greyridge,” you whisper, “I think they might be in Greyridge.”

[1]

>>5662974

“The Golden Antler Fraternity,” Master Brehm muses, considering your lead, “I've never heard of them. Not that that's very much of a surprise. The last time I heard about any serious alchemical society was... well, I very much doubt you'd been born, my boy! And they were looking for information about the healer...”

“Maybe the healer really did have some kind of potent remedy – or they thought he did – and they wanted it for themselves,” you suggest, swallowing a wave of nausea, “They wanted to get the knowledge straight from the source.”

Master Brehm shakes his head slowly. “I don't think so,” he says slowly, almost reluctantly, “The rites they were performing in the burial chamber. I recognised some of those glyphs. Whatever they were trying to call up, it wasn't a man. They pierced the Veil, there can be no doubt about that, but they were trying to call up something... else. Something powerful enough that it demanded a blood sacrifice.”

“But I don't know what,” he adds, throwing his hands up in frustration, “Some of those glyphs were new, something I've never seen before – nobody has, as far as I've been able to tell. If these men, these scum, are still in Greyridge, that might be our best lead on learning exactly what they were trying to do.”

“The priest's letters mentioned a book that might have some more information about this “wild healer” that our alchemists were looking into. That might help – I've asked someone to look into it for me,” you add, “If they were interested in it, it's worth checking out. There was one other thing, though, that I've been thinking about. When Ravensheugh's priest died, they never got an answer to their request for a new one. Could that mean anything?”

“It means we never have enough good priests to go around!” Master Brehm laughs, “But, hrm, it does seem strange. I still have a few friends in the capital, I'll ask some questions and see if anything was out of place. Having a priest around might have made things more difficult for our grave robbing friends, after all.” With an enormous sigh, the old man starts to stand. “I'm going to arrange travel to Greyridge. After I figure out where Greyridge even is. You, my boy, get some rest,” he urges, “That's an order, mind you. I know what hours in the archives can do to a man, and I'll need you sharp for this.”

That's an order that you'll be happy to accept.

>I'll be in the dorms. Send word for me when you're ready
>I had some questions first... (Write in)
>Other

>>5663011
>had some questions first
> What do you think about Master Rosenthal? I had multiple people suggest I ask him for my Writ, which could mean he is at least somewhat willing to go behind the back of other instructors

>>5663011
>I'll be in the dorms. Send word for me when you're ready

>>5663011
>I had some questions first... (Write in)
"Has there been any news about the Forest Kingdom recently?"

Between Lucas's dream, the worker's mumbling, and Cloranthy bringing it up, it's on the mind.

“There's something I wanted to ask. A passing curiosity,” you ask, hesitating at the door and looking back, “What do you think about Master Rosenthal?”

Master Brehm pauses. “I try not to,” he replies after a pause, “Why do you ask?”

“I... mentioned my Writ situation to a few people. They suggested that I speak with Master Rosenthal about it. I haven't, yet, but it got me wondering about him,” you admit, “He sounds like he might be willing to, ah, bend the rules slightly.”

“Quite so,” the old man frowns, choosing his next words with care, “Master Rosenthal is young. The youngest instructor in the academy, in fact, and he has a... different perspective on many of our rules and traditions. Rather less strict than many would like, yet he has never actually broken any rules.”

Nothing that can be proven, at least, his expression seems to say. So that's how it is. “I've been thinking about home lately,” you add, the question spilling from your lips without thinking, “Have you heard any... news?”

“From the forest? The situation, as I've heard is normal – as normal as things ever are. The Woodland Church stays in contact, as they are obliged to do, and they insist that they are adhering to the terms of the Accord. The letter of the law, if you will, but perhaps not the... ah,” the old man pauses, wincing in advance, “The spirit.”

No news. But that doesn't necessarily mean good news.

-

Despite your best efforts to clear your mind and relax, you can't seem to put a halt to your restless thoughts. You wish Cloranthy hadn't asked you about the forest, hadn't stirred up your memories of home. It's not something you like to think much about, even at the best of times. The forest, the Woodland Church, all of it – it's a chapter of your life that you'd rather leave behind.

You still remember the time a priest from the Woodland Church came to your village. There were rites to be carried out, and all had to obey. There was a sacrifice – just a beast, thankfully, a deer – and sacred herbs were burned. The acrid smoke had followed you everywhere, even when you hid inside your ramshackle dwelling, and the whole village had suffered terrible nightmares that day. By the end of it, though, the priest declared that the spirits of the forest were satisfied. You never saw the priest again.

But you still think about it.

A knock at the door rings out and you practically leap up to answer it, grateful for the distraction. “I'm sorry about my sister,” Clarissa announces as soon as you've opened the door, “I heard that she was distracting you while you were working. I'm sorry. She can be... eager. Overly so. I'll have a word with her later, if you want.”

“No, well, she actually helped out,” you reply, shaking your head, “I should be grateful, actually. I wonder, though – what exactly did you tell her about me?”

Clarissa just looks away, pretending not to hear the question.

[1/2]

>>5663040

“I didn't exactly... mean to tell her about you,” Clarissa says eventually, once she realises that you're not about to just drop it and move on, “But we were talking about other things, and I mentioned your name in passing. I wasn't expecting her to latch onto it quite so much, but she wouldn't stop asking. It all got a little out of hand.”

“I see,” you nod grimly, “And these “other things” were the Forest Kingdom, weren't they?”

“Well, yes. She's always been fascinated by them. I blame those dreadful stories she reads. When she found out that you were from the forest, or close enough to it, she wouldn't stop asking me about you. I never thought she'd actually go and bother you about it, though.” she sighs, running a hand through her hair, “I hope she didn't upset you. She said you seemed... tense.”

Tense. That's certainly one way to put it.

“Don't worry about it, I'm fine,” you assure her, although you're not sure how true that really is, “I think I ruined her image of the Forest Kingdom, though.”

“It had to happen eventually,” Clarissa remarks with a faint smile, “It's probably better this way, coming from someone she-”

A pause. “She what?” you prod, waiting patiently for the answer.

“Someone she likes,” Clarissa finishes awkwardly, “She said she likes you. That's pretty rare, you know. She doesn't like most people. Ugh, that makes her sound terrible. You know what I mean, don't you?” Just as Clarissa is wincing at her own words, there's another knock – this time from the dorm door. Her turn to be grateful for the distraction, Clarissa hurries to answer it. A tall man with slicked back dark hair waits behind, a small chest tucked under one arm.

“Ah. Hello. I'm looking for Lucas Hearne,” the man begins, his voice soft and musical, and his eyes soon flick over to you, “I don't think we've met. My name is Isaac. Isaac Rosenthal. I believe Cloranthy might have mentioned me? We were talking earlier, and your name came up. I've been meaning to visit for some time, actually, but I never quite had the chance.”

Clarissa gives you a faint look of warning before retreating into her bedroom, leaving you alone with the instructor. Immediately, you can tell why he's so popular with the girls – he's got the kind of face, beautiful rather than handsome, that they seem to go for these days. Sitting down at the dining table, you gesture towards an empty seat. Rosenthal sits, placing the wooden chest down in front of him. It sits there like an ill omen, your gaze drawn right to it.

“I'm sorry about Nicholas,” the young instructor begins, “I hope I'm not disturbing you at a bad time.”

His words take you by surprise. This, you realise, might actually be the first time that someone has offered their sympathies. The first person to treat Nicholas like an actual human being.

[2/3]

>>5663059

“I argued for leniency, you know, before the trial,” Master Rosenthal continues, his voice low, “I didn't think his crimes – such as they were – warranted such a severe punishment. Needless to say, they didn't listen.” He sighs quietly, looking down at the wooden chest for a moment before glancing back up. “These are his personal effects. They would have been sent home, but his father refused to accept them. They were going to be destroyed, otherwise, but I was able to sneak a few things out. I thought maybe...”

He finishes this thought with a small shrug, pushing the chest towards you. Numbly opening the chest, you look through the sparse contents. A set of keys, probably for his old family home. A couple of necklaces and medallions, some ancient coins that he had liked to collect. Trinkets really, nothing of any serious significance.

“Thank you,” you say at last, closing the wooden chest. Rosenthal gives you a nod, a sad smile, then gets up to leave.

“I'll be around,” he remarks, just as he's at the door, “If you ever want to talk.”

The door closes with a firm click, and a short-lived silence falls. A few seconds later, and Clarissa's door opens again. “What?” you ask sharply, looking around at her, “Were you listening in?”

“Yes. I was,” she answers simply, honestly, as she comes to sit beside you. Opening the chest, she looks inside and grimaces. “I don't trust him,” she adds after a moment, “Rosenthal, I mean. He tries to be everyone's friend. It's not professional.”

>I think you're right. Something's not right about him
>Maybe being professional isn't always the best thing
>I don't care. He's not my problem either way
>I think... (Write in)
>Other

>>5663069
>I think you're right. Something's not right about him
>Carefully inspect Nicolas's belongings for any weird runes and the like

>>5663069
>I think... (Write in)
"Just met the guy so I don't really distrust or trust him. Regardless of his intent, I do appreciate him getting this to us. I hate how everyone basically pretends Nicholas never existed now."

>>5663076
Supporting

It always comes down to professionalism for her – probably some kind of military thing, you expect. Still, it seems more than just a passing distaste. There was almost something visceral in the way she looks, just from thinking about the young instructor. Her sister, you realise after a moment, that must be it.

“I don't know. Something's not right about him...” you murmur, trying to put your words into feelings, “I've just met him. We've barely traded a few dozen words. That's not enough to say if I trust him or not, but... I appreciate this, bringing me this. I feel like everyone just pretends that Nicholas doesn't exist now, and I hate it. It's just... I hate it.”

Clarissa starts to say something, then reconsiders and falls silent. Touching you lightly on the shoulder, she gets up and heads into the kitchen to busy herself with making tea. While her attention is elsewhere, you turn your attention back to the chest and take another look at the contents. The keys are engraved with a tiny address – a town called Penn's Garden – but are otherwise unremarkable. Taking each of the necklaces out in turn, you examine them carefully. Nicholas always seemed to have a lot of necklaces, other bits of jewellery like that. A strange habit for a young man, you always thought, but he seemed to like them. Nothing seems out of place.

Last, you sift through the antique coins until one catches your eye. One of the coins is scuffed and scratched, the only one of them that's in poor condition. Nicholas, you recall, only collected pristine coins. He was very particular about that.

Turning the coin over in your hands, you take a closer look. One face displays the Sun King's seal – as expected – while the other side shows what seems to be an odd monument. A watchtower, maybe, or a lighthouse. Glancing cautiously back into the kitchen, you slip the coin into your pocket.

You're going to have to do some research.

-

Halfway through your cup of tea, Master Brehm sweeps into the dorm with a triumphant gesture. “Greyridge. Small town in the north east, mostly for logging and some small-scale mining. Very new settlement, too young for any guardian spirits to have taken root. About eight hours away by carriage – time enough for a quick nap,” he announces quickly, slapping his fist into the palm of his hand as he talks, “Ah yes, Lowe. I've got an assignment for you. Homework. Something to keep you busy.”

“Yes sir,” Clarissa replies with a wince, “I'll get it done.”

“Good girl, good girl. Lucas, my boy, get your coat – it might be cold up in the mountains,” Master Brehm orders, “You feel it, don't you? The thrill of the chase?”

You're not sure about that, but it feels good to be making some progress. To be moving forwards.

“Just don't get carried away,” Clarissa whispers to you as you're leaving.

[1]

>>5663105

“No record of any organisation called the Golden Antler Fraternity, but that's not surprising. Any two-bit, small time group of idiots can get together and think up a grand name, but that doesn't mean shit in the grand scheme of things,” Master Brehm explains, his voice raised over the clatter of the carriage's wheels, “For now, it's just a pretty name.”

You murmur a vague agreement, you gaze fixed on the scenery passing you by. Although you don't want to admit it, you're looking out for anything that resembles the monument on Nicholas' coin. It's hardly likely that the answer is going to come and slap you in the face, but you can't help but hope. There has to be a catalogue for coinage somewhere in the archives. Maybe Cloranthy could be persuaded to lend a hand again...

“Now then. Make sure to keep your badge out of sight when we arrive,” the old man continues, “No sense in spooking anyone before we're ready. Anyone, anyone at all, could be a potential enemy.”

“Don't get carried away,” you mutter, repeating Clarissa's advice, “Anyway, what's our cover story? Do we have a cover story?”

“Hm, good question,” he thinks for a few seconds, “We'll be surveying the mills for new mines. How about that?”

“But you don't know anything about mines,” you point out, “Neither of us knows anything about mining. What happens if someone tries asking us about... about anything?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. It doesn't need to be a perfect disguise – we just need an excuse to go poking around. We're not going to be here long enough to warrant a flawless cover story,” Master Brehm waves away your concern with a gesture, “These country yokels will believe anything we tell them, anyway. The natural trust for authority is one of their only redeeming qualities.”

He always seems to forget that not everyone was born and raised in the capital.

>I'm going to take a pause here and pick things up tomorrow, same time and same place.
>Thank you for reading along today!

>>5663142

Many thanks, Moloch, this is good stuff.

File: Master Brehm.jpg (85 KB, 850x1259)

85 KB JPG

There's a chill in the air when you arrive at Greyridge. Nothing unnatural about it, so far as you can tell, it's just a cold part of the land. It's an ugly town, and there's no way to hide that – the ragged stumps of felled trees surround the town, while the nearby hillside shows scars from mining work. Clusters of wooden shacks and log cabins huddle together in loose groups, with a few larger structures ruling over them.

Most of the timber is moved south, where it gets turned into rifle stocks. That's what Master Brehm said, at least, one of the fun facts he had been able to dig up before you set off on your travels. Eight hours is a long time to spend in a carriage, and you probably heard each bit of trivia at least twice each. Maybe he plans to test you on it later.

An unsettling sight on the way into moonlit town. Just on the outer edges of the town, a few sullen townsfolk stand by a burning funeral pyre. The mourners – women, mostly, older women - don't seem to pay any attention as your carriage slowly rattles past, but Master Brehm watches them sharply. If they're going to the trouble of burning their dead, they must be having some kind of trouble.

You take rooms at a small, dismal guest house, the sort of place that actual mining surveyors might stay at. Master Brehm lets out a disgusted grunt at the sight of the thin doors and flimsy locks, but says nothing else and vanishes into his room. Sitting down on the edge of the hard bed, you take out your revolver and check the cartridges. It occurs to you, then, that you might actually need to use the weapon here.

-

You're not sure what wakes you, if it's some noise or just a bad vibe in the air, but you find yourself jolting awake in a dark, disorientating room. For the first few seconds you're not sure where you are, but then your thoughts catch up with you. Looking away from the unfamiliar ceiling, you rise from your uncomfortable bed and pace the room for a moment.

No use trying to get back to sleep just yet, not until you can shake off this restless feeling. Throwing on your coat and slipping your revolver into your deep pockets instead, you creep from the guest house and look around the silent town. The moon is vast, grotesquely swollen, and the silver light it casts gives the whole town a dream-like feeling.

You wander, searching for any sign of the alchemical society but not really expecting to find anything. Just learning the town is good enough, getting a taste of the air and a feel for the mood. Listening to the land – that's what Master Brehm calls it. The land isn't saying much at the moment, but you know better than to rush things. It'll take as long as it takes.

[1/2]

>>5663785

Two large buildings sit in the middle of the town, the town hall itself and some kind of communal kitchen for the workers. Pausing outside the town hall, you glance down the noticeboard for anything of note. Warnings against drunken behaviour, pay rates for various jobs, but nothing to indicate life is anything other than normal. It mentions the post, however – this must be where the workers send and receive their letters.

Moving further out from the town centre, you steal past the rickety wooden shacks. Most of them have name tags pinned to their doors, with enough scars in the wood to suggest the tags are changed regularly. Not too surprising – you can't imagine anyone wanting to stay here for very long, even with a generous wage.

Before you realise it, you've reached the far edge of town and the remains of the funeral pyre. Grimacing slightly at the bitter scent of smoke that still clings faintly to the ground, you tentatively approach the charred remains. It was a careless job, indifferently done, with the bones left out for whatever passes for wildlife around here. Swallowing down your nausea, you reach into the ashen remains and lift out a blackened skull. Turning it over in your hands, you look down at the shattered hole left in the back of the skull.

Well now.

-

Morning. Just slightly warmer than the night before, with the sun barely seeming to pierce through a layer of misty cloud. The working day hasn't yet started, but you can already see small groups of workers filing towards the communal kitchen for their morning meal. Elsewhere, a few women – a rare sight, it seems, in Greyridge – are going about their chores.

“Why would anyone want to hide in a forsaken place like this?” Master Brehm grumbles, rubbing his reddened eyes. He slept poorly, you guess, if he slept at all. “Because nobody would look for them here, of course,” he adds, answering his own question, “Nobody would want to look at this place long enough to find them.”

“What's our plan?” you ask, quietly ignoring his complaints.

“Still a work in progress. Give me some time to think, would you?” the old man replies, giving you a stern look, “If you want to get started, by all means go right ahead. But I want to take a walk first. Listen-”

“To the land, right,” you finish for him. It looks like you're going to be taking the lead on this one.

>The letters were sent from the town hall. You'll start there
>The kitchens will be busy now, perfect for listening in on the town gossip
>The funeral pyre is worth investigating. Maybe you can find some of the mourners
>Other

>>5663786
>The funeral pyre is worth investigating. Maybe you can find some of the mourners

Ever since arriving in Greyridge, the image of that lonely funeral pyre has been stuck in your head. Searching the remains, finding that broken skull, has only made it worse. It's getting harder and harder to imagine an innocent explanation for it, but would they really be so open about trying to cover up a crime? Whatever their reasons for the pyre, one thing remains the same – there was a body. Blood has already been spilled.

Stalking off through the town, you cast your eye about for any of the mourners. There aren't many women in town, and it isn't long before you spot one of them. She looks younger by daylight, but ground down by life. Watching her from a distance, you follow the woman as she carries a basket to the river. She stops at the sluggish waters, setting the basket down but making no move to start washing.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” she calls out suddenly, without even so much as looking around. Jolting in shock, you very nearly turn tail and flee before composing yourself. Touching the revolver in your pocket for reassurance, you slowly approach the woman. “You're not here to work, are you?” the woman adds, finally glancing around at you, “What, then? The scenery?”

“The people,” you reply, “Sorry for startling you, ma'am.”

She laughs, although there's no humour in it. “You didn't startle me one bit, so skip that talk,” she states bluntly, “What do you want?”

“Saw you last night, by the funeral pyre,” you tell her simply, matching her direct tone, “You burn a lot of bodies around here, do you?”

“It's easiest. Ground here is too hard for a decent burial, most of the year. Top layer isn't so bad, but you can't get down deep and a shallow burial is just going to attract pests. So, we burn them,” the woman explains, finally kneeling down to start unloading her laundry, “Horrible thing, though. That boy couldn't have been any older than you are.”

“What happened to him?” you ask. The woman just ignores this, acts like you didn't say a thing. Holding back a sigh, you take a few steps closer and sit down by the riverbank. “My name's Lucas. I'm not here to make trouble, if that's what you're thinking,” you assure her, “Just trying to figure a few things out.”

“Brianna,” she answers, with a certain reluctance, “They're saying it was an accident at the mines. Boy was fooling around, showing off, and he fell. Didn't fall far, but he cracked his head right on the rocks below. Quickest thing in the world, they way they told it. Here one second, gone the next. But that's the way life is, isn't it?”

No kidding. “They're saying it was an accident,” you repeat, “Any chance that it wasn't?”

Brianna doesn't turn around. “Just telling you what I heard,” she replies, her tone deliberately indifferent, “Got no reason to think anything else of it.”

[1

>>5663807

“They laughed at first, you know? Before they realised how bad it was. The other men, they saw him fall and thought it was just the funniest thing around. Just the kind of place this is, I suppose. There was one thing I heard. One thing that seemed strange,” Brianna pauses to think, “After the boy fell, one of the other men came down to check on him. Didn't call out for help, just seemed to sit with him for a while. Like they were talking back and forth, only that boy was dead the moment he hit the ground.”

Closing your eyes for a moment, you picture the scene – a young man lying splayed out on the rocks, blood oozing from his shattered skull as another man sits beside him and merrily chatters away. A morbid, ugly scene, but as Brianna says, that's just the kind of place this is. Or maybe it's something more.

“Who was he?” you ask quietly, “This man. The talkative one.”

She purses her lips, caught between a natural caution and the need to unburden herself. “I think they said it was Booker. I don't know him much – keeps himself to himself, mostly. This time of day, he'll probably be up in the hills if you're looking for him,” she tells you, “Although if you're not looking to cause trouble like you said, you might think twice about that. Seems awfully particular about his privacy, that one.”

“This Booker. Has he got any scars? Burns, around his face like this?” you ask, gesturing around your ear, “Anyone else in town like that?” It only takes Brianna second to think it over and shake her head. Someone like that would be memorable, you suppose. “What about the Golden Antler Fraternity?” you try next, “Name ring a bell?”

“What, are you looking to join up?” she lets out a contemptuous laugh, “No, that all sounds like fancy capital business to me. Nothing like that around here, I'm sure of that. You've got some funny ideas about this place, Mister Lucas, I'll say that much.”

So much for that. The whole alchemical society might as well be a name on a letter and nothing more, so far as you've been able to tell. You've got a new name, but how much is that going to be worth? Either way, it's time to plan your next moves.

>Regroup at the guest house with Master Brehm
>You've got other plans... (Write in)
>Other

>>5663826
>You've got other plans... (Write in)
Let's give the town hall a once over

>>5663826
>You've got other plans... (Write in)
Yeah, quick town hall investigation

>>5663826

>try to find Booker at the mines, or someone who knew the dead guy

>>5663826
We don't have to go yet, but I doubt they cleaned out the blood wherever the boy fell. Might be able to find it with smell alone.

It might just be a name on a letter, but that letter had to be picked up by someone. That means someone, at some point, must have visited the town hall. It's a long shot, expecting them to know about a few letters from way back when, but you're feeling lucky. Rising to your feet with a soft grunt, you give Brianna a nod. “Thank you, ma'am,” you tell her, “Thank you for-”

“Oh, knock it off with that “ma'am” stuff, will you?” she sighs, rolling her eyes, “And don't you go bothering hard working folk, you hear?”

“Got it,” you assure her, “I'll just bother the slackers.”

Her laughter is still ringing in your ears as you walk away.

-

The town hall is surprisingly busy when you arrive, with a small cluster of clerks feverishly writing at their desks while a large man looks out over them from the second floor. The clerks don't even look around at the sound of your entrance, and nobody moves to stop you as you climb the stairs to the second level. The large man is already waiting for you there, an expectant look on his face.

“Good morning,” he begins, his voice flat, “You're from the capital, aren't you? Tell them that we'll make our quota when they send us some decent workers. These oafs are either sneaking away in the middle of a shift or... or killing themselves out there!”

“I heard about the accident, yes. But I'm not here about your quotas,” you assure him quickly, “I'm just here to-”

“So it's NOT about the quotas?” he stresses, his shoulders easing slightly as he relaxes. Turning his back on you, he lumbers away and collapses down into an oversized chair. “If it's not about the quotas, then what is it? Why would the capital send a man like you?” a snort of laughter escapes him, “You're not here to work, that's for damn sure.”

You might not be as big as someone like Johannes, but you're not exactly scrawny either. “I've been tasked with writing a report on the region. Primarily concerning the mines, but in a more general sense as well,” you lie, grasping at Master Brehm's cover story, “Why exactly are you so struggling with meeting these quotas?”

“Because these brutes the capital sent me won't work hard enough, obviously. I've had to hire in travelling workers just to make up the numbers, and those lot are HARDLY reliable. Short of picking up a pickaxe myself, I'm not sure what else I could do,” he sighs angrily, flapping a hand at the papers scattered across his desk, “Write THAT in your report, if they're thinking about replacing me.”

“Nobody's talking about replacing you,” you promise, hoping to calm him down before he throws a full-blown tantrum, “I'm just curious. Just trying to get all the facts. I might be able to make a case for a few extra workers – good ones, too – if you help me with that.”

The foreman's eyes narrow with suspicion, even as a faint hope glints deep within them.

[1]

>>5663867

“I've heard some interesting things about this town, actually. They're saying there's an alchemical society here, of all things,” you remark, sitting down without waiting for an invitation, “The Golden Antler Fraternity, they're calling themselves. I'd be fascinated to learn a little more about them. Do you know where I can find them?”

He gives you a blank look. “Never heard of it,” he replies eventually, “Maybe you haven't noticed, but we're not exactly big on scholarship out here.”

“Interesting. Their letters certainly came here,” you point out, raising a curious eyebrow, “They were sent from here too.”

“We get a lot of letters. I don't concern myself with each and every single one. Maybe someone has been joking around, sending letters under a name like that, but I've never seen any sign of a club like that here. Unless-” his eyes widen with shock, “You think our numbers are so low because the men are too busy with this... this fraternity thing!”

You're not sure if he's mocking you or not. “That, uh, remains a possibility. But it's not our main concern at the moment,” you reply, struggling to keep a straight face, “Forget the alchemists for now. I wanted to know about the accident. A worker fell to his death, wasn't it? It sounds like working conditions aren't very safe around here...”

“He wasn't working!” the foreman blurts out, jolting upright in alarm, “He was playing around on the edge of the cliff, trying to act tough in front of the other men. Damn fool thing to do, but it had nothing to do with the work here!”

Just listening to this man is starting to stress you out. “Of course, of course. I'll need to include it in my report regardless, but I can't see why we'd hold you responsible. There were a number of witnesses to the accident, I believe. A man named, ah, Booker was among them, yes? I might need to speak with him, just to get his version of events.”

“Be my guest,” the foreman mutters sullenly, “He's got a shack in town. If he's not there, he'll be at the mines. Maybe.”

“I see,” you give the foreman your most officious smile, “Thank you for your cooperation. I might be back with some follow-up questions, if anything else comes up.”

He just nods slowly, gesturing towards the door.

-

You keep an eye out for Booker's shack as you walk through town, eventually finding it near a cluster of other buildings and a few crumbling stone walls. There's hardly anything left of them – barely anything higher than your knees – but it looks like there were other buildings here once, much older buildings. Knocking lightly at the door gets no answer, and the lock rattles in place when you try the door.

But the door isn't especially sturdy. It might not be subtle, but...

>Try breaking the door down and searching inside
>Try searching for Booker at the mines instead
>Other

>>5663895
>Try searching for Booker at the mines instead
I don't think his neighbors and by extension the town would appreciate us kicking down doors just yet.

>>5663895
>Try searching for Booker at the mines instead

>>5663895
>Smell the air or poke around with spirit sight from the windows
We don't need to look too closely yet.
>Try searching for Booker at the mines instead

>>5663895
>Try searching for Booker at the mines instead

You consider the door for a good long moment. If it's about as sturdy as your bedroom door back at the guest house, a single good kick would be enough to get it open – and probably leave it hanging off a single hinge. While it might be satisfying, and you've always wanted to try it out, you're not sure how the neighbours might take it. It's not exactly something you could just hide, is it?

“Another time,” you promise yourself with a sigh, stepping away from the shack. You settle for a quick circuit of the shack instead, trying to peer through the grimy windows for any clues. There are thick cloths hanging in place, but you can just about make out a bookshelf on the opposite wall. You'll check for Booker at the mines, or maybe see if any of the other miners have anything to say for themselves. As you walk out towards the low hills, you spot Master Brehm standing silently by the broken ground. You start to call out a greeting as you hurry over, only for the words to die in your throat as you realise what he was looking at.

The rocks are still stained deep red in places, with faint smears to show where the body was dragged away. Hardly any effort at all was given to cleaning up after the accident, the townsfolk simply leaving it for time and rain to wash away. Looking away from the blood, you gaze up at the hillside instead – a sheer drop, a thin ledge, and an unforgiving wall of ragged stone. It's not hard to imagine the young man shimmying across the narrow ledge, but it's harder to imagine WHY. Just fooling around, Brianna had said, just playing up for his audience.

“I heard about the accident,” Master Brehm says quietly, “What a pointless mess.”

Kneeling down by the jagged rocks, you touch the bloodied stone and close your eyes for a long moment. Tentatively opening your senses up to the spirit world, you search for any imprint left behind – from the death itself, or from any profane acts carried out afterwards. But there's nothing. For now, at least, the spirit world remains quiet.

-

“You won't believe this, my boy, but I found someone who's heard of our alchemical society,” Master Brehm remarks, a triumphant smile creasing his lips, “An old man – and that's old by my standards. He said that there was another town here once, long before this one, and this Golden Antler Fraternity had an office there. He was just a child, then, and he didn't know anything more than the name. Oh, there was one thing he mentioned.”

“What?”

“He often saw fires burning up in the hills,” Master Brehm answers, dropping his voice to a ghoulish whisper, “And heard the most terrible chants.”

That all sounds far too familiar for your liking. “It sounds like these new men might be carrying on their work,” you suggest, “Whatever that was.”

“Maybe. Or they borrowed the name for a veneer of legitimacy,” the old man lets out a nasty laugh, “As legitimate as any of those old lunatics ever were!”

[1]

>>5663937

“Booker? He was here this morning,” the miner says, looking around at the craggy hills and trading glances with a few of his colleagues. They either shrug or shake their heads, turning back to the hillside and resolutely ignoring you both. “If you find him, tell him he's a scumbag for skipping out on another shift,” he adds, scowling immensely, “Bastard. Him and all his shitty friends.”

The foremen mentioned something about this, you recall. “What, you mean he just turns up and goes straight back home?” you ask, gesturing back towards the town, “And he still gets paid?”

“Nah, he's not back at home. I already tried that once, to drag him back here and force him to work. Either he wasn't home, or he was doing a damn good job at hiding and staying quiet,” the miner clenches a fist in anger, “No, he turns up. He makes a good show of working for a while, and then he's just... gone. Nowhere to be seen. First time it happened, we thought he got hurt somewhere. Searched all over the damn hills but couldn't find hide nor hair of him.”

“But it's a maze up here, some places,” another man points out, gesturing to a tangle of uneven ridges rising up from the hills, “You could search for days without covering even half of the ground. He always shows up by the end of his shift, making some lame excuse or pretending like he was here all along. We just “didn't notice” him, he says!”

“I see,” Master Brehm murmurs, letting the burly men go back to their work. “Things are starting to come together, my boy, the pieces are starting to fall into place! You know what I mean, don't you?”

Before the miners can turn away completely, you call out to them. “Hey, one more thing!” you ask, “Do you ever see any fires burning out here in the hills?”

The miners fall silent, a cold air descending over the conversation. “Nope,” one man says bluntly, “But sometimes we find the signs of them. Ash and charred wood, like a big bonfire was burning. You wouldn't see the light much from down in town, though. Line of the hill would block it, see?” He gestures, pointing to the raised ridge looming over the shallow bowl of the mining site. “One time, a buddy of mine said he was going to find out what was going on. Said he'd spend the night up here, get a proper look,” he continues, “Found him the next morning, neck broke from a bad fall.”

“Dangerous place to go wandering around at night,” the first miner points out, “Wouldn't recommend it to anyone.”

“Mm, I see,” Master Brehm nods wisely, letting the miners retreat out of earshot. “What do you make of that, eh?” he whispers, giving you a daring wink, “If we wait until the end of the shift, we might be able to spot your man here. But if we wait until nightfall...”

“We might be able to catch him in the act,” you finish. It looks like it's your game – but how are you going to play this?

>Here's the plan... (Write in)

>>5663964
>Here's the plan... (Write in)
Primarily lets wait until nightfall to catch him in the act, but before that we should at least be around at the end of shift to actual get a visual ID on Booker so we know who to look for at night. Don't talk to him at the end of the shift so we don't tip him off, but just get a look at him.

>>5663964
>Wait until nightfall

>>5663964
>Try and catch him and the end of the shift
Safer and more reliable than trying to find him at night.

“I say we wait until the end of shift and keep an eye out for Booker. Just watch, don't do anything to spook him. Then we'll make our move at night, see if we can catch him in the act,” you suggest quietly, tapping one finger against your chin as you think, “If nothing happens, fine. We can change our plans for next time.”

“But you think it'll happen tonight, don't you?” Master Brehm asks quietly, his face deadly serious, “That's good. Learn to trust your instincts, my boy. They say that the guardian spirits speak through them.”

Sitting down on the low rocks, you think back to Persephone's words. “I think... I think I might have a guardian spirit, actually. Back in Ravensheugh, I felt something strange. Like something was calling my name, calling out to me from the spirit world. That's what it feels like, isn't it?” you ask, “That's what Persephone told me, at least. What do you think?”

“I'm inclined to disbelieve it, purely on the basis that Persephone told you that,” Master Brehm admits with a short laugh, “But I think she might be right. We'll discuss this back at the academy, my boy. If it's true, I'll need to make some arrangements. There's a process to follow, you know.”

“Paperwork to sign, you mean?” you joke.

“Not quite, not quite,” the old man says with a rueful expression. But he doesn't say anything more than that.

-

You pass the rest of the shift in relative quiet, wandering about the hills and trying to learn the lay of the land. If you're going to be creeping around by moonlight, you want to be sure of your footing. A few miners start talk briefly with you, although they tend to lose interest after you mention your cover story. None of them have much hope for the mines here, once the easy pickings have been stripped away, but they don't ask any difficult questions. They don't really care much, anyway.

By the afternoon, the shift seems to be coming to an end. With a tiny nod, one of the miners points out Booker to you – a surprisingly slender man, given his trade, with very pale hair and eyes. An easy man to recognise, even by night. He doesn't look much like a hardened criminal, though, but you weren't expecting him to.

He passes you close by as the miners are leaving, but he never even glances around at you. Waiting a while, you join the last of the miners as they march silently back down towards the town. You try not to show it, trying to keep your face as blank as possible, but your heart is hammering in your chest all the way. It only starts to slow once you're safely back in the guest house, preparing for nightfall.

“These men might be dangerous,” Master Brehm warns, slowly loading cartridges into his revolver.

“I know.”

“They won't just go quietly,” he adds grimly.

“I know.”

“Be ready for anything.”

[1]

>>5663987

Another night with a bright moon, thankfully leaving you with at least some light to work with. You take your pocket lantern just in case, leaving it dark for now. The revolver feels impossibly heavy in your hand as you walk, the weight of the cartridges seeming to drag your whole arm down. You've fought before, in the sparring rooms and training halls, but this different. This is real.

Master Brehm doesn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. He could be out for a pleasant stroll, for all his expression shows. The only time when he seems concerned is when the ground starts to grow harsh underfoot. You have to slow your pace to match his, picking your way through the loose pebbles and broken rocks of the foothills.

And all the while, you can hear the faintest sound of whispering coming from some impossible distance.

Eventually you reach the ridge, dropping low and creeping the last few feet before peering down into the lowlands beyond. A reddish glow burns from within the maze of broken rocks, the light burning like the beacon atop the Eternal Palace. Master Brehm gives you a firm nod, and you continue your advance. As you get closer, you start to make out the sound of chanting – strange words, inhuman words, words that ought not to come from human mouths.

With your heart pounding in your chest and the inhuman words burning in your ears, you squeeze your way through the narrow rocks and stare up at the bonfire burning ahead of you. The fire itself writhes like a living thing, sometimes forming something like a human silhouette before breaking apart in a flurry of sparks. There are several figures surrounding the fire, at least five that you can see, and they-

A deafening bang rings out as Master Brehm fires his first shot, a warning shot perhaps, and the cultists flinch down in a flurry of panic. The fire flares brighter and brighter as the incantation is broken, the wind suddenly rising into an animalistic howl. A second shot rings out as the cultists break and flee, with Master Brehm lunging after them. Before he can get more than a few paces-

The world seems to explode around you. White light and heat rips out, almost knocking you from your feet. When you recover, the bonfire is gone and a near complete darkness had swept in to engulf you. Even the light of the moon barely makes a difference, barely manages to reach you. It's enough, just enough, for you to spot a single familiar figure fleeing the scene. Not thinking, you chase after the slim man.

He stumbles as he runs, and you shout a warning after him. At least, you think you do – your ears are still ringing from the blast. You shout, maybe, and the man slows. Then-

[2/3]

>>5664001

The man stumbles again on the uneven rocks, lurching around to face you. It's definitely Booker, his pale eyes seeming very wide and very white in the moonlight. His expression is twisted into a rictus of fear and hatred, the kind of expression that you've never seen on a human face. You aim the revolver at him, but he hardly seems to notice the weapon in your hands.

You shout an order for him to kneel, or you think you do, but he doesn't obey. He's not that much older than you are, you realise, maybe a year or two but not-

He moves, suddenly, as quick as a viper. Not to draw a weapon, but to sweep his hands through the air in the first stages of some occult glyph. A hard, flat crack rings out as you squeeze the trigger, your revolver discharging with a flash and a kick. Your shot goes a little high, a little wide, but it still finds its mark. Booker drops in an instant, his hands flying to his neck as he falls.

Hastily lowering your revolver, you hurry over to the young man. His legs kick spasmodically against the rock as he struggles, blood seeping out through his clenched fingers and pooling beneath him. Rolling madly in their sockets, his eyes lock onto yours as you kneel beside him and he grimaces, showing teeth that glisten with a sheen of blood. Abandoning his attempt at stopping the bleeding, his hand falls limply to his side.

“This... means... nothing,” he hisses, the words gurgling out of him as a reddish froth gathers at the corner of his mouth, “There will... be... more.”

“What are you talking about?” you snap, “More who? More of your kind? More-”

Then you see it. His hand jerks as he talks - as he distracts you - his trembling finger sketching out a hideous symbol on the bare stone. You lash out without thinking, striking his hand with the butt of your revolver and feeling bones break. Booker howls, throwing his head back and letting out a long scream that tapers to silence.

He's gone.

-

You sit by the corpse for a long time until a shuffling noise from behind causes you to jerk around. It's Master Brehm, and the rather miserable looking captive he drags alongside him. They both look at the dead body, and the captive lets out a long groan of dismay. “Good work, my boy,” the old man announces, although there's no pride or glory in his voice, “I managed to catch this one before he fled.”

“The others?” you ask softly.

“Dead, mostly. One of them fled, I think. I was sure that I managed to hit him, but I haven't been able to find a trail. Or a body,” Master Brehm sighs, “Oh well. I've very much looking forwards to see what THIS specimen has to say for himself.”

It's almost enough for you to feel sorry for him.

>I'm going to draw things to a close here for tonight. I'll be aiming to resume next Saturday
>Thank you for reading along

>>5664012
Thanks for running!

I will endeavor to wake up earlier on weekends

>>5664012
Sad to miss this. TFR!

>>5664012

Thanks again Moloch, your output is impressive

You both stare at the shattered door and ransacked shelves in sullen silence, the mood slowly darkening. Finally, Master Brehm takes a step forwards and nudges the door open a little wider, revealing more of Booker's dishevelled shack. Books have been torn down from the shelf and scattered about, their pages ripped out and crumbled up, while anything that could be broken has been.

“Bastard,” Master Brehm says simply, kicking at the debris littering the floor, “He must have come back and cleared the place out. They must have had something here, something they didn't want us to find...”

Something important enough for the surviving cultist to stop and thoroughly trash the place, even though he knew you would be following him. As you're crouching down to sift through the debris, a thought occurs. “Why trash the whole house?” you wonder aloud, “If he didn't want us to find something, why not just take that one thing with him? Why take the time to tear up every last book and page?”

Master Brehm lets out a snort of contempt. “Spite,” he decides, “When faced with defeat, these people revert to their true nature – mindless, bent only on destruction.”

That doesn't sound quite right to you, but a stray page catches your eye and stills your tongue. Picking up the crumpled page and smoothing it out, you look at the sketched drawing for a long moment before glancing across as Master Brehm. The old man paces back and forth in front of the shack, tugging at his moustache as he thinks to himself. Quickly, quietly, you fold the page in half and tuck in away in your pocket before Master Brehm returns to the ransacked hut.

“Just leave it, my boy. It'll wait until the morning,” he urges, reaching down to help you to your feet, “We'll have plenty of time to tie up any loose ends later, and I'll want you thinking sharp for that. Get some rest, and we'll pick this up by sunrise.”

But the first hints of dawn are already creeping into the sky outside. You won't be resting for long.

-

You don't sleep, instead spending your time staring at the crumpled page you retrieved from Booker's house. It's nothing much, nothing that would've caught your attention at all just a few days ago, but now you can't stop thinking about it. The sketch itself is crude, a quick and scratchy image of a watchtower, or perhaps a lighthouse, but you've it before – on the antique coin found in Nicholas' belongings

But why? Twice now, you've seen this tower connected to the forbidden art of necromancy but the real meaning eludes you. It's maddening – so much so that even if you did sleep now, you'd likely see the damn thing in your dreams. You don't get a chance to find out, though, as a harsh knock on your door signals your return to action.

[1/2]

>>5668710

“You don't need to worry about that cover story now, by the way,” Master Brehm begins, savouring the steam rising off his cup of tea, “I've pulled rank. Had the foreman here put his boys to work on handling some of the heavy lifting for us. Had them out searching the area overnight, looking for our missing suspect.”

“Any luck?” you ask, prodding listlessly as your unpleasant breakfast.

“Not a bit,” he replies cheerfully, “He's probably out dying in a ditch somewhere. They did find something, though – a cave, out in the hills. Seems like someone was living there recently, although the men didn't look around very much. Leaving it to the experts, they said, but I suspect they just got scared off. You know what these country folk are like.”

Murmuring a vague agreement, you gesture for Master Brehm to continue. “And I had the foreman dig out everything they knew about Booker and the other men. It's not much, and I doubt there's anything incriminating there, but it's something to check over. It's not all glory and adventure, my boy, there's always plenty of gruelling work to do!”

“What about the other homes?” you suggest, “Were any of the other homes searched?”

“You mean by our runaway? Not that we can tell. I had the men search over the other homes, but there was nothing abnormal. If I had to guess, I'd say Booker was their leader – or at least the only one of them with a hint of education. I certainly wouldn't say that Siddal is any kind of thinker, from what little he's been saying.”

“Siddal?”

“Our prisoner,” the old man explains, flapping one hand in an impatient gesture, “He's over in the town hall. They have a quaint little jail cell there. Usually for the town drunks, but it'll do for holding our man until the carriage is ready and we can drag him back to the academy. We should be ready for a few hours, by the by, and I don't want to linger for too long.”

“Getting tired of the scenery around here?” you ask. So much for having plenty of time to tie up the loose ends, you think to yourself.

“I was sick of the scenery before we even got here,” Master Brehm growls, shaking his head, “No, I need to go back to the archives to do some research. Fires in the hills... it all feels familiar somehow. I've read about this before, I'm certain of it. Well, it'll have to wait a little. I'll handle reading the reports on the local men – it's drudgery, I'm sure, and there's no sense in wasting your time on it too. What do you want to do?”

>I'll stay and help with the reports. It'll be easier with two of us
>I want to have a look at this cave in the hills
>I'd like to speak with the prisoner, see if he's willing to talk
>Other

>>5668712
>>I want to have a look at this cave in the hills

>>5668712
>Speak with the prisoner

>>5668712
>I want to have a look at this cave in the hills

“I want to have a look at this cave first of all,” you decide, finally risking a mouthful of your meal. Bland, but unlikely to kill you and better than nothing at all. “You said that the miners didn't look around very much, right?” you add, “It should be just like they left it, then.”

“I'd expect so,” Master Brehm nods, reaching for his tea before pausing. He seems to think for a long moment before taking a drink. “I dare say that I shouldn't need to tell you this, my boy, but do be careful up there. If those men really did get scared off, there must be some reason for it,” he warns, “Maybe they're just the superstitious type around here, and they're getting worked up about nothing. But maybe not.”

“I'll be careful,” you assure him, “I'd like to speak with the prisoner as well, if we've got the time.”

Master Brehm doesn't reply to this straight away, and even when he does answer it's just with a shrug. Taking that as your cue to leave, you quickly finish the last of your meal and ready yourself for the hike. Outside, one of the miners is waiting for you – to serve as a guide, apparently. Letting him lead the way, you find your thoughts creeping back to the watchtower.

-

“It's just in there,” the miner announces, pointing towards a narrow fissure in the rock, “But I'm not going in there. Took one look inside before, saw something on the wall in there. You're the expert here, they say, you can go first.”

“Just wait here, then,” you agree, although you can't completely keep back a smile, “And get ready to run.”

It's worth it, just to see the look on his face. The smile soon falls from your face as you squeeze into the dark cave and ready your pocket lantern. Just up ahead, the cave walls have been decorated with splashes of paint and swipes of chalk. Not exactly the kind of glyphs that you had been expecting, more like an attempt at art. A landscape, a sunset, a night sky that was alive with stars...

Not just a random scattering of stars either, you notice. A constellation, the Silver Chariot, has been carefully sketched out amidst a sea of other stars. Taking charcoal and parchment from your pack, you sketch out a rough version of the landscape scene before moving on. Deeper inside the cave, you spot the first signs of recent life – a crumbled pile of bedding, stained and filthy.

Other things too, further in. Remnants of some preserved food, and a number of empty glass vials that smell strongly of medicine. Some kind of analgesia, maybe. Chalked at the bottom of the wall, where it would be seen by anyone lying on the bed, is a line of shaky script written in a crude, ugly language. Aklo – the clawmark script of ancient heretics. You read it a few times, struggling to parse out the antique language until you're sure of the translation.

“Have we no choice,” you whisper aloud, “But to burn it all to cinders?”

[1/2]

>>5668744

You sit for a while, considering the phrase. By itself, it doesn't mean anything to you – it doesn't seem like a quote from any text you've ever read. It feels more spontaneous than that, like a note you might leave yourself as a reminder of some trivial task. But to use the Aklo script for a commonplace thing like that!

Whoever wrote that would have been educated, you reason, probably from the academy itself. Well educated, and very much interested in keeping their thoughts a secret. In the olden times, Aklo was used by scholars who threatened the orthodoxy of the time and wished for their writings to remain obscure. As a language itself, it was nearly wiped out – it reached the point where writing anything in Aklo was seen as a sign of guilt, and punished accordingly.

And the words themselves – the mention of fire again, like so many other things you've seen lately. You move to shift the rancid bedding, looking for any other writing that it might conceal, but you find something else entirely. You find a Dho game, or a debased version of a Dho game at least. The wooden board has been crudely carved into shape, metal wire pressed into the wood to form the shape of the maze.

The shape itself is abnormal, the path slashed out with sharp and abrupt angles that seem almost impossible to follow. A normal Dho game would be used as a tool of meditation, to open up the mind and peer into the spirit world. Safe enough for a trained student like yourself, but a risky thing for novices to play around with. At worst, it could invite possession – as Joel was possessed in Ravensheugh, and driven to mutilate himself.

Could this be the same board? If so, it might grant a glimpse into the spirit that caused that gruesome incident. A chance to learn more, perhaps, but...

>Play the Dho game
>Leave, but bring the game back
>Destroy the Dho game
>Other

>>5668754
>Leave, but bring the game back

>>5668754
>Play the Dho game
Safe enough for our expert skillz

>>5668754
>Leave, but bring the game back

You've played a Dho game before, true, but not like this one. There are better men for a task like this, and you're not too proud to admit that. You'll bring the game back to the academy, and then it can be given a proper examination. For now, you push down your curiosity and tuck the malformed thing under your arm. Maybe you're imagining things, but even the wood feels unpleasant – soft and almost spongy, like it was rotting from within.

Giving the cave one last look over, you squeeze back out into the morning light and give a nod to the miner. With an obvious sigh of relief, he turns to lead you back into town. “Say,” you ask him as you walk, “Do you know much about the stars?”

The miner hesitates, as if you were trying to trick him somehow. “A little,” he offers at last, his voice guarded, “Not as much as a scholar like you, I expect.”

“The Silver Chariot. The constellation,” you continue, “That rises to prominence in midwinter, doesn't it?”

He thinks again. “I think so,” he says slowly, “Midwinter. That sounds about right. Not for a few months yet, if you were hoping to catch a good look of it.”

Then you've got a few months left, you think to yourself, a few months to figure out the next move.

-

“By all the gods and spirits, that thing is ugly!” Master Brehm remarks, peering down at the malformed Dho game with disgust, “You didn't try playing that thing, did you?”

“No, I didn't,” you assure him.

“You didn't THINK about playing it, did you?” he presses, frowning hard at you.

“No. I mean, of course I didn't,” you lie, handing the board over. Master Brehm takes it with distaste, listening as you tell him the rest of what you found in the cave. “Aklo script – that has to narrow things down, right?” you ask, “There can't be many people around who know how to write that stuff, and most of them-”

Master Brehm holds up a hand to silence you, glancing meaningfully at the workers milling around nearby. “You wanted to speak with Siddal, didn't you?” he asks, pointedly changing the subject, “We've got time, if you hurry about it. He might not be so talkative when we get back to the academy – it has that effect on people. But here, alone... Just don't let him rile you up. He's not worth losing your temper over.”

Nodding your thanks, you hurry over to the town hall. The jail, or what passes for it, is a small shack behind the larger building. It doesn't exactly look the most secure place in the land, but it would serve well enough for a few miserable drunks or self-pitying rogues. It seems to be holding Siddal too, at least. The guard at the door steps aside as you approach, opening the door for you and stepping well back.

[1/2]

>>5668754

>play the Dho board

Nothing ventured, nothing gained

>>5668790

Whoever was in charge of restraining Siddal, they weren't messing around. The man's hands have been bound tightly at the wrist, his thumbs bound separately to prevent him from forming even the most rudimentary of arcane gesture. Even at a glance, you can tell that it's a wasted effort – he's not going to be pulling any kind of crafty tricks in here. He looks dull, defeated and exhausted.

“You're the one who killed Booker,” he says suddenly, looking you up and down.

You have to fight back a flinch at this. His is low and flat, toneless, but the words feel like a vicious accusation. “That's correct,” you answer simply, keeping your face blank as you sit opposite him. A second chain runs from his wrists to an iron ring set in the floor, keeping him from moving far at all. Even so, you feel oddly vulnerable to be sitting so close to him. “Booker was your leader, wasn't he?” you continue, “He did all the thinking. You just followed his orders... right?”

“Booker said-” Siddal starts, only to cut his words short. Slumping back in his chair, as best as he can given his bonds, he gives you a sullen look. You wait a moment to see if he's going to say anything else, but he maintains his stubborn silence. You're not going to get much out of him like this – you need to get him to open up somehow.

Leaning forwards slightly, you consider your approach.

>Threaten him. He has no idea how bad things could get if he doesn't cooperate
>Reason with him. If he explains what really happened, you might be able to argue in his favour
>Sympathise with him. You know what it's like to be caught up in a bad situation, and he needs all the help he can get
>Leave. This is pointless
>Other

>>5668802
>Sympathise with him. You know what it's like to be caught up in a bad situation, and he needs all the help he can get

>>5668802

>Sympathise with him. You know what it's like to be caught up in a bad situation, and he needs all the help he can get.

Good cop might be the most productive approach here

>>5668802
>Sympathise with him. You know what it's like to be caught up in a bad situation, and he needs all the help he can get

We all know that Brehms will default to bad cop if he talks to this guy.

>>5668802
>>Threaten him. He has no idea how bad things could get if he doesn't cooperate

“You're in a bad place right now, Siddal. That's your name isn't it? Siddal?” you begin, softening your voice as you idly look away, “You've been caught up in a bad situation, that's all. I know how that feels.”

“You don't know shit,” Siddal spits. It's not much, but at least you've got him to open his mouth.

Turning your full attention back to him, you lean a little closer. “I know exactly what it's like to find yourself sitting in a cell like this,” you insist, borrowing a little of Nicholas' experiences to lend weight to your words, “It hasn't sunk in yet, has it? It doesn't feel quite real yet. It takes some time, but you don't have time to waste. You need all the help you can get, and you need it now – not later.”

He scowls at you for a moment, but he doesn't curse you out again. Better and better. “So what?” he mutters, “You're going to help me out of here, is that it?”

“We can help each other,” you correct him, “Help me to understand, Siddal. We just want to understand what happened here. Booker told you something, didn't he? Something that brought you up to that hill, that bonfire.”

Siddal looks long and hard at you, cogs turning in his head as he considers your words. Then, with the slightest of shrugs – the most that his bonds will allow – he begins to speak. “We just wanted to know,” he begins, a weary defiance in his voice.

“Know what?”

“Know the truth,” he explains, shaking his head slightly, “We just wanted to know how things really are. Booker said that the world was bigger than all this, bigger and better, but it was all hidden from folks like us. That's what the Veil really does, it just keeps the little folk from knowing what the world is really like. You can't explain it, Booker said, you can only see it for yourself.”

How convenient. “And that's what you were doing on that hill,” you state quietly, “You were calling up a spirit that would show you the truth.”

“It would guide us, show us the way...” Siddal draws in a shuddering gasp of air, “All we had to do was repeat the words Booker told us, and do what he did. I didn't understand none of that stuff, I just... I know there's got to be something more than this! Breaking rocks and felling trees all day while the folk like you-”

A sudden silence, sharp as any blade.

“Folk like me,” you prod, “What about folk like me?”

“You all just laugh,” he hisses, “Because you know something we don't. Something we live our wholes lives searching for, never finding. And you and your Accord, you just hide it from us. Well, maybe we SHOULD burn it all down!”

“And do you really think that's going to make things any better?” you ask softly, meeting Siddal's reddened eyes.

“I... I don't know!” he splutters, thrashing at his chains in a sudden burst of energy, “But what have I got to lose, huh?”

[1]

>>5668842

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. You've got questions that you want to ask, but you hold your tongue and leave Siddal to sweat. His burst of energy is short-lived, and he soon slumps back again. “Man, I never had a chance, huh?” he says at last, “None of us do. Not if we stick with a “good” life, not if we try and fight back against it. We just get hammered down all the same.”

“Booker lied to you, you know. There isn't some great truth hidden behind the Veil. I've seen beyond it, and it's nothing that you want to go searching out,” you tell him, “But-”

“Yeah, yeah. I knew you'd say that. Booker said people like you always say that,” Siddal grumbles, although he doesn't sound fully convinced, “I don't even care, man. No matter what I say, it's not going to change anything. Just leave me alone, would you?”

He's about at his limit, you sense. He's had his little outburst, and now a more cautious mood is creeping in to silence him. You might be able to squeeze a few last answers out of him, but even that might be pushing things.

>Leave Siddal alone
>Try some last questions... (Write in)
>Other

>>5668855
>Try some last questions... (Write in)
Booker's home was ransacked, probably by your missing friend. Any idea what was taken?

“Booker's home was ransacked last night. Probably by your missing friend. We're all wondering why they would go to all that trouble,” you ask, your voice firm but quiet, “Have you got any idea what they might have taken?”

Siddal looks at you with weary irritation, shaking his head slightly. “Don't know,” he mutters, “Booker had lots of... uh...”

“Books?”

“Yeah. Books. We used to poke fun at him for that. Booker and his books. I don't know, he was really precious about them – wouldn't let anyone poke around in his place, even us,” Siddal recalls, his mouth twisting into a grimace at some unspoken, unpleasant memory, “But if anyone DID break in, I don't know what good it would do them. They wouldn't know what to take. Although...”

A pause. “There was one book he mentioned. He was real proud of finding it, said it was as rare as any book can be. Expensive too, although I never figured out where he got the money for it,” Siddal furrows his brow, “Something about folk tales, he said, although he acted like it was far more than that. Like his whole life depended on it.”

Folk Tales of Inner Marusia. You're sure that must be it – the book mentioned in Machen's letters, the book hinting at the wild healer of Ravensheugh. A rare book, and now it might be out there rotting in some ditch. It's like a bad joke. Finally allowing yourself a scowl of frustration, you start to get up before Siddal calls out to you.

“Hey!” he calls, his eyes flashing wide, “Hey wait! You said we'd help each other!”

“I'll put in a good word,” you reply, leaving him to his cell.

-

Master Brehm listens to your report in silence, mulling over Siddal's words with a grim look as the carriage rattles away from Greyridge. “Hm,” he mutters at last, when you're finished telling your tale, “I've heard that before. Some grand story about a hidden truth, something that the common man isn't allowed to know. A common enough lie, and sadly quite effective at luring in the easily duped. Not just fools either – even scholars and powerful men can be lured in with the promise of a secret.”

“I know something you don't know,” you remark, “One of the most powerful phrases in existence.”

“Exactly so, my boy, exactly so. And even if there was some grand truth, well... maybe it's been hidden for a good reason,” the old man laughs, “I'm old enough to prefer it that way. Life is complicated enough for me, thank you very much!”

“But you see how men like Siddal allow themselves to be used, lured in by these sweet promises,” he adds after a long pause, “A man like Master Rosenthal might argue that men like Siddal are innocent – victims, essentially, or at least unwilling participants in the crime. That kind of laxity will be the death of us, Lucas. It would be the first of countless cuts that would bleed us dry. So you see, justice must be carried out – swiftly, and without mercy.”

[1]

>>5668887

The carriage ride is long and awkward. You were constantly reminded that Siddal was riding with you, secreted away in a locked compartment behind the main body of the carriage. You've seen the compartment before on the academy carriages, but never asked what it was for. Luggage, had been your assumption. In a way, that isn't so far from the truth. Master Brehm assured you that Siddal wouldn't be able to hear anything, but you're not so sure. So whenever the old man starts talking about justice or punishment...

You're able to sleep after a while, thankfully, and you don't dream of anything. By the time you wake up, the carriage is just starting to rattle up to the academy. For whatever it's worth, you're home.

-

Persephone and Johannes are busy with a game of Kingmaker when you arrive back at the dorm, both staring at the board with intense concentration. “Lucas, come over here and take a look at this,” Persephone calls out, not even looking up at the sound of your return, “Look at this and tell Master Stubborn over here that he can't win.”

Sighing inwardly, you look at the pieces scattered across the board. “I have no idea what I'm looking at,” you admit after a while, “You know I'm terrible at this game.”

“Yes, I KNOW that. But it should be obvious, even for you!” she rolls her eyes, “I'm trying to convince our dear friend to just concede and save us all the time, but he won't do it!”

“Technically speaking, I'm still in the game,” Johannes warns, nudging one of his pieces across the board, “Victory is unlikely, yes, but not impossible. So no, I'm not going to just let you win. If you want to win, you're going to have to put in the hard work. You ARE familiar with the concept, aren't you?”

“She knows enough about it to know she doesn't like it,” you remark.

“Exactly!” Persephone agrees, moving one of her pieces with a flourish and clapping her hands together lightly, “So really, you're just being incredibly selfish by making me do this. Selfish, heartless, and-”

This could go on all night. “Excuse me,” you interrupt, “Isn't anyone going to ask how MY day was?”

“Later. This is important,” Johannes rumbles, staring hard at the board as he plans out the best way to delay the inevitable, “This is a matter of principle.”

“First hard work and now principles? Those are two of my least favourite things!” Persephone groans, giving you a pleading look, “Talk some sense into him, won't you?”

>Persephone's right. This is just wasting everyone's time
>Johannes' right. You need to see this through to the end
>You're both stupid, this game is stupid, and I'm stupid for humouring you
>Other

>>5668909
>Persephone's right. This is just wasting everyone's time

Wouldn't you rather just start a new game fresh with what you learned from this last one instead of drawing out a defeat?

>>5668909
>>Persephone's right. This is just wasting everyone's time
Gotta learn how to take the L and try again homie. Watch the guy equate this Exorcist work and lecture about self discipline or something

“Persephone's right. This is just wasting everyone's time,” you point out, “Look, isn't it better to take what you've learned this time and try again later? Start from a clean slate instead of dragging this defeat out?”

“Exactly, exactly. You see? Lucas knows what he's talking about – that's why he got promoted,” Persephone nods eagerly, reaching across and knocking Johannes' king over, “And have I mentioned how delightful it is to hear you say that, Lucas?”

“Say... what?” you ask, almost afraid of what her answer is going to be. Seething quietly to himself, Johannes packs his remaining pieces away and stomps away to his room.

“That I'm right,” she purrs, watching her opponent retreat. Patting the chair opposite her as an invitation, Persephone leans casually back and studies her fingernails. “So, how was it?” she adds, “Your day, I mean. Since it's so terribly important that it had to interrupt our game.”

“Interrupt! But you-” you begin, only to give up with a sigh. Some fights, you know you can't win. “My day was fine. We saved the day, in fact. I, um, I shot someone,” you pause, not quite sure why you just said that, “In the throat.”

“Nice shot. Clarissa would be proud,” Persephone nods slowly to herself, “You know, the word on the street is that she's going to be promoted soon. So you'd better make the most of your time being special here. Oh, and there was a particularly unkempt girl here asking after you, but she didn't say what it was about.”

That... sounds like Cloranthy. Maybe she found a copy of Folk Tales and wanted to tell you. She'll probably be in the archives, but-

“Lucas?” Persephone asks, her voice softening, “Did you really shoot someone?”

“...I did,” you reply, nodding slowly, “He was leading some kind of rite, calling up some kind of spirit. I told him to stop, told him to back down, but he wouldn't do it. He made a move, like he was going to call up another spirit, and I just... shot him. I didn't really have time to think about it.”

She considers this in silence for a moment, her pale eyes gleaming straight into you. “I see,” she murmurs, “But... the throat?”

“I wasn't aiming for his throat!” you snap, letting out a groan of disgust as she laughs. Just for a moment, just for one single moment, it seemed like she was taking this seriously. But of course not. You're about to lay into her for real, but then she holds up a single slender finger and lets out a soft gasp of surprise.

“I forgot! We might be getting a new member of the team soon!” she announces, “Isn't that exciting? I just finished moving some of my things into the spare room, and now I'll have to move them back out again. You'll help me with that, right?”

This woman is impossible.

[1/2]

>>5668950
She's a little shit ain't she? And I mean that completely endearingly.

>>5668950

“I saw a dead body once.”

Persephone announces this, almost casually, as she's packing spare clothes into a case. You look up from the box you had been about to carry out, waiting for her to say something more. But she doesn't. She doesn't say anything after that, just staring down at the pile before going back to her work folding clothes.

You don't know much about Persephone, about her life before coming to the academy. She never mentions any family or sends any letters home, but that isn't uncommon around here. The few things that she has mentioned about her previous life have usually been exaggerated or contradictory, things that you've never paid much attention to. This feels different, though, this feels... real.

“Anyway, I've got it from here. I can finish off the last of this,” she declares, looking up from her spare clothes, “Thanks for being a sweetheart, Lucas!”

You look back at the stack of boxes in confusion. “I haven't actually done anything yet,” you point out, “I don't even know how you talked me into helping you in the first place.”

“That doesn't matter. Don't get so hung up on the little details. You have my undying gratitude, and that's the important thing,” Persephone tells you, coming over and giving you the slightest hint of a kiss on the cheek – her lips barely brushing against you before she pushes you a step back. “Now go on, go and save the day or whatever it is you do around here!” she scolds, “I've got to pack my unmentionables, and I shan't be doing THAT with an audience!”

Still struggling to catch up with the conversation, you simply leave with a sigh and a shrug.

-

Later, in the relative safety of your dorm, you sit and write notes about your recent investigations. You've got a few hints to go on, and Master Brehm might be able to dig up some more information about the rites that were taking place, but aside from that... it feels like things have come to a dead end. For now. Reaching into your pocket, you take out the sketch of the watchtower and smooth it out on your desk.

“I'll be keeping my eyes out for you,” you murmur, pinning the sketch to your wall, “Just you wait and see.”

Talking to a crumpled piece of paper. You've really reached a new low now, and this is only after two investigations. A whole lifetime of this work might explain a thing or two about Master Brehm. Soon enough, you might be getting a new member in the cohort – a newcomer to this strange life. Fresh meat for the grinder, maybe.

Best of luck to them, then.

>Okay, I'm going to take a quick pause here and pick things up tomorrow. It might be a shorter session, but I'll see how things go.
>Thank you for reading along today!

>>5668989
Thank you for running!

>>5668989

Thx moloch!

Sounds like breaking the veil is just a secondary task to the main goal.

Might be some greater spirit who won't care about the veil once it's in full power, or an ongoing crisis or disease as a side effect from the veil. The modified dho might be an attempt to reach that greater problem without destroying the veil.

The kicker is that these guys don't seem to care too much about dying. They're willing to give their lives and those of innocents, and for what?

File: Harriet Maxim.jpg (195 KB, 932x2082)

195 KB JPG

“Lucas, my boy, this is Harriet Maxim. She's going to be joining us for a while,” Master Brehm announces, nodding to the young woman by his side, “We don't have enough cadets to form a new cohort yet, so I was asked to take her in for a while. Keep an eye on her while I run some errands, would you? I have complete confidence in you, Lucas!”

With that, he pushes her a step forwards and marches out of the dorm. Harriet herself – a charming young woman in expensive clothes – looks around in a kind of daze before hurriedly bobbing her head in something like a bow. “Harriet please, just Harriet. I'm just... oh gosh, I'm excited to be here,” she begins, her words falling out in a rush, “I hope I'm not imposing!”

“Not at all,” you assure her, hoping to calm her down a little. It's pretty rare to see someone joining the academy at her age, but not unheard of. “So, ah, tell me about yourself,” you add, hoping to find something to hang a conversation on, “What were you doing before this?”

“Well, I was expecting to help with my father's business out west in Dacia, maybe even take over one day. He's in the silk trade, you see, and quite... um... successful,” she flushes a little, nervously tugging at the collar of her richly decorated blouse, “He didn't actually want me to come here, but I finally convinced him. Well, actually, I just told him I was doing it anyway. So, um, I might be disowned now? I don't actually know yet.”

Oh dear. “Dacia, you say?” you repeat, catching onto the name of the wealthy port city, “Johannes is from Dacia as well, I think, I'm certain that he mentioned his parents working there. You'll meet him sooner or later, I'm sure.”

“How delightful!” Harriet remarks, her eyes widening, “I wonder if I know his parents at all. I've met a lot of the families. You know, through the business.”

“No, ah, I think they were... dock workers,” you explain awkwardly, “You probably didn't meet them.”

“Oh,” a pause, “Probably not, then.”

-

Eager for the opportunity to escape, Harriet carries her suitcases into the spare room – her room, now – and busies herself with unpacking. You wait for her to finish, listening to the various crashes and yelps of alarm as you try to think if you own anything fragile. When she finally emerges with a sheepish grin, you gesture for the empty seat opposite you.

“So,” you begin, spreading your hands in an expansive gesture, “What do you know about all this?”

“All... this?” she repeats, looking at the dormitory around her, “Exorcist business, you mean. Well, um, I know about the Accord – people shouldn't mess around with the spirit world, basically, and spirits shouldn't mess around with our world. That way, everyone stays happy and business stays good. Close enough?”

“Close enough,” you sigh. She's got a lot to learn.

[1/2]

>>5669740

As you talk with Harriet, you really start to notice how different it was for you. When you first came to the academy, you were scared – scared of what you were, scared of how large the world seemed all of a sudden, scared of... just scared, really. There was none of the giddy excitement that Harriet seems to feel, the same energy that threatens to bubble over at any minute.

True enough, you were much younger than she is now when you were brought to the academy. Disagreements with her father aside, her arrival here also seems reasonably free from trauma. Between them, those two aspects could account for a lot. Even so, there's something that just doesn't feel right to you. Maybe this is some kind of test, something to teach you about handling a new novice – one day, you might have a cohort of your own to guide.

That's a terrifying thought. You have enough trouble looking after yourself, let alone five apprentices. Where would you even start?

The first thing Master Brehm did, when you were placed in his care, was to take you on a tour of the academy. A long, boring tour that only served to impress upon you the importance of your work. The sort of tour that would have given you good reason to abandon joining the academy, if only you had the choice. That... might not be the sort of thing she needs to hear right now, although it might help to calm her down a little.

“The grand temple of Sheol is just down in the capital, isn't it?” Harriet asks suddenly, “I've heard that they've got a magnificent clock inside there, it's supposed to be bigger than a house!”

“So they say,” you reply carefully. You've never actually been to the temple – it always seemed like a rather gloomy place, even by the capital's standards – but you've heard it mentioned now and then. It certainly brings in the tourists, although the temple prefers to call them “pilgrims”.

“I'll have to visit it later,” Harriet muses, “Maybe when I get a day off, I can... hey, what are you laughing at?”

“Sorry, sorry. It's just, you're not going to have many of those once your training begins properly. You'll have a lot to catch up on, starting this late. They're not going to be wasting any time on little things like days off,” you explain, smiling ruefully at her comment, “I hope you're ready for it.”

“I'm not afraid of hard work!” she insists, slapping her hand on the table, “Just, um, does it have to be right this instant?”

You shrug. “Don't look at me. I'm not the one who decides your training,” you explain, “I'm just looking after you for a bit, that's all.”

“Oh,” Harriet pauses, “So what do you want to do, then?”

>You should give Harriet the tour. It'll be a good start for her training
>Cloranthy was looking for you earlier. You should visit the archives
>You could take Harriet to the capital and see the grand temple of Sheol
>Other

>>5669741
>You could take Harriet to the capital and see the grand temple of Sheol
Might as well use the little free time you have now.

>>5669741
>tell her about guardian spirits, along with checking on your own.
She should know what it means when something is calling her by name

“Well, I was thinking of taking a stroll down to the capital. Maybe see some of the sights – I hear the grand temple of Sheol has a particularly interesting clock,” you answer, keeping your face blank and neutral, “You'll be okay on your own for a few hours, won't you?”

“Aw, c'mon!” Harriet protests, “You're not-”

“I'm not,” you assure her quickly, “Want to come with me? You might not have much free time from now on, so you should make the most of it while you can. Anyway, it'll be educational. Probably.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Harriet leaps to her feet and practically drags you out of the dorm. Once outside, though, she slows down enough for you to take the lead and guide her through the academy hallways. The place can feel like a maze at times, even for someone with years of experience, so you hardly blame her for hanging back. Nodding greetings to the few familiar faces you pass on the way, you soon emerge into the morning light.

“We've still got a decent walk before we reach the capital,” you warn, “Got anything you want to ask me about?”

“I've got plenty of questions, don't you worry about that, but I'll save them for later. When we're doing the proper training stuff,” she replies, shaking her head and flashing you a quick grin, “This is still free time, remember?”

“I'm just saying, we've got to pass the time somehow,” you explain, gesturing to the winding road leading into the city, “Tell me about yourself. I don't know, when did you get your first experience with the spirit world?”

Harriet thinks to herself. “I don't really know,” she admits after a while, “There wasn't really some big special thing. I just heard things other people couldn't hear and talked to things they couldn't see. For a long time, my folks just thought I had an invisible friend. They only started taking it seriously when I was older, and... well, you know.”

You consider this with a sudden wariness. If she was open to the spirit world from such a young age, she should have been brought to the academy for training. It's not safe for anyone, let alone a young child, to be walking around unprotected. Learning to close your inner eye was the first thing they taught you when you came to the academy. There's definitely something strange going on with her.

“Did you even hear anything calling out to you?” you ask carefully, “Calling your name, I mean. Calling out to you in particular.”

“I don't think so. Why?” Harriet tilts her head, giving you a curious look, “Was that what it was like for you?”

“Not at first,” you reply, “Do you know about guardian spirits?”

“I know a little. You get them in towns and stuff. Forests and mountains. I think my house even had one, but it's a super old house,” she explains in a flurry of rapid-fire words, “I mean, it's the oldest house in the city AND it was built on something even older. Pretty cool, huh?”

[1]

>>5669765

“I don't really get it though,” she adds after a moment, “I mean, why is that allowed? If they're spirits, they should stay on their side of the fence, right?”

“It's... complicated,” you answer, the question taking you by surprise. This is pretty basic stuff, even for someone outside the academy. “When you call up a spirit, you have to pierce through the Veil. It's forceful and it leave a lasting wound. That's why it's forbidden. But a guardian spirit doesn't pierce through the Veil like that. It's more subtle than that,” you continue, “It happens over time, years or even decades. Think of it like a farm – the people work the land for generations, all the while giving thanks to the land itself for their livelihood.”

“Over time, the spirit world reacts. It hears those thanks, essentially, and a benevolent spirit is drawn to them. It's a long, slow process, but the spirit can be drawn into our world without damaging the Veil or breaching the terms of the Accord,” you finish, adding as a careful afterthought, “But people can have guardian spirits too.”

“Really? That's cool!” Harriet hurries forwards a few paces, spinning around and looking you dead in the eye, “Can I have one?”

She's acting like it's a new puppy or something. “It's not as easy as that. Nobody really knows what attracts a guardian spirit to a person. Not for sure, I mean – we'd be here all day if I told you about the theories,” you shrug again, “Anyway, I thought you didn't want to talk about work.”

“Hmm, maybe. But it doesn't sound like work, listening to you explain it,” she remarks, smiling brightly at you, “Maybe it won't be so bad, if you're the one who'll be training me up.”

Answering this with a non-committal murmur, you let Harriet rush off ahead towards the city limits. As she moves on ahead, you allow your inner eye to open ever so slightly. Immediately, the world takes on a ghostly hue as the spirit world spills out and overlaps it. The Veil is strong here, thankfully, but you soon hear an insistent whisper reaching out to you from the depths. There's certainly something out there that knows you, and Harriet herself...

It's like a dark cloud is following the young woman, hanging thick and heavy around her head. It's so dense that it seems impossible for it to go unnoticed, and yet she skips ahead without a care in the world. If that's a guardian spirit, it's nothing like Persephone's ghostly companion. It's not trying to possess her either, or doing anything as far as you can tell. Just... following her.

Slamming your inner eye shut, you hurry to catch up with her. Even with your eye closed, though, you just can't look at her the same way.

[2/3]

>>5669786

You've got to admit – it really is a big clock. Maybe not quite as big as a house, but certainly as tall as one. The intricate clockwork device ticks away the hours and minutes, all while boasting dozens upon dozens of articulated figures that endlessly turn the decorative cogs. The rest of the temple is equally impressive – a great wide dome of white marble – but the clock is the real attraction.

“I heard that it represents Sheol himself,” Harriet whispers, leaning close in to you, “But I don't really get it.”

“When a man dies, they say his soul goes to Sheol's machine where he works away his worldly burdens,” you whisper back, “His sins, his triumphs, everything that made him the man he was is worn away, and then the newly cleansed soul can be returned to the mortal world as a new life. That's why disturbing the dead is such a serious crime – it doesn't just breach the Accord, it goes against the order of life itself.”

Harriet considers this for a long moment. “If it's true,” she replies softly, linking her arm with yours as the great clock sounds out the hour. A tiny brass door opens at the base of the clock, allowing a little marionette to glide free and – seemingly – escape the machine. The crowd cheers, although you don't share their joy. You just watch as the marionette trundles along its little track, circling back around into the machine.

-

“Well?” you ask, looking at Harriet through a veil of steam from your cup of tea, “Is it everything you thought it would be?”

“Hmm? I don't know. I thought it would be...” she purses her lips as she thinks, “Different. It's hard to describe. I don't really know what I was expecting, or even what I hoped it would be, so why do I feel so disappointed?”

“Don't worry,” you assure her with a wan smile, “I have that affect on people.”

She laughs, the sound shockingly loud in the otherwise hushed temple, and slaps you lightly on the arm. “That's not it, don't be so silly. It's just... here we are, at the heart of Sheol's faith, and we're drinking tea in a charming little shop,” she explains, lowering her voice, “Out there, you've got people selling trinkets, charms, even toys for the children. I just thought it would be... different.”

“Costs a lot of money to run a temple like this,” you suggest, “Those giant clocks can't be cheap.”

“I know, I know. Actually, I don't know. Not really. There's a lot that I don't know,” Harriet smiles suddenly, her eyes flashing bright, “But that's okay, because I've got you to teach me!”

That's... worrying.

“I'm kidding, I'm kidding,” she adds with another laugh, “I know you've got your own stuff to do. Still, I appreciate you bringing me here today. I really mean that, Lucas. Do you want to head back? We probably shouldn't stay too long...

>It's time to head back
>Let's talk a little more... (Write in)
>Other

>>5669802
>Ask if Brehm or any of the instructors have taken a close look at you
Eh, it's not hard to spot it, they'll find out on their own.


>It's time to head back

>>5669802
>It's time to head back

>>5669802
>head back

“You're right, we probably should get back,” you agree, looking over at the giant clock – it might be ridiculously ornate, but it still serves to tell the time well enough. Harriet takes your arm again as you're leaving the grand temple, practically hugging herself against your side. Normally you wouldn't exactly complain about something like that, but you've seen the spirit following her around.

It's like Master Brehm said. Some truths are hidden for a reason.

“Tell me,” you ask as you walk through the city streets, “Have you spent much time with Master Brehm yet? Or any of the instructors, really?”

“Hardly any time at all, actually,” Harriet gives you a curious look, “Why?”

“When I first arrived, they wouldn't leave me alone. Kept checking me over, asking me all sorts of questions. Just trying to figure out what sort of boy I was, I suppose,” you lie quickly, “Just wondered if they'd done the same with you.”

“Nope!” she laughs, “But you've certainly been asking me some strange things!”

-

Back at the academy, you find the whole cohort waiting for you – Master Brehm among them. “And just where have you two been?” the old man asks, although there's no anger in his voice. Quite the opposite, in fact. You almost want to defend yourself, to protest your innocent, just from the look he gives you. “Never mind that now,” he continues, before you have a chance to say anything, “Get some warm clothes on, both of you. We're going out.”

“Out?” Harriet asks, “Out where?”

“Just a little bit of mountaineering, nothing too strenuous,” Master Brehm replies, cracking his knuckles in grim anticipation, “They say that clean mountain air is good for your health, you know. Besides, I have a few errands I need to run with the monks.”

“You still haven't explained why you need US for that,” Persephone points out, looking exceptionally unhappy about the coming expedition.

But Master Brehm just answers her unspoken question with a hearty laugh.

-

The hermit monks have a strange relationship with your order and the academy. They represent a kind of offshoot, a different path that your order could have taken – a path of solitude and contemplation, mystical study instead of direct action. These days, they're viewed with an odd mix of reverence and contempt. Reverence, for the knowledge they have been able to obtain, and contempt for their reluctance to use that knowledge for anything.

Judging by the misshapen parcel Master Brehm carries under one arm, you have an idea of why he wants to visit the monks. They have a mastery of the Dho games beyond anything found outside their mountain. Why bring everyone else along, though?

You'll have plenty of time to think it over, at least.

[1]

>>5669833

There's only one path to the top of the mountain – a long, winding stairway carved into the ancient rock itself. Just travelling to the mountaintop is an ordeal, one intended to focus the mind and purify the flesh. It also keeps away all but the most determined visitor, which probably suits the aloof monks fine enough.

Shivering at a gust of cold mountain air, you hurry ahead to catch up with Master Brehm. “We need to talk,” you murmur to him, glancing back at Harriet, “About her.”

“Of course,” the old man nods grimly, “You noticed, did you?”

“I don't know what I noticed. But there's something strange about her,” you continue, “She knows too much to be a complete outsider, but nothing at all about other things. I don't get it. And she said she was young when she first saw into the spirit world, but-”

“We suspect that she's had... training,” Master Brehm explains carefully, “Not academy training. Something new. We're all very interested to find out exactly what, and where she got it from. Bought and paid for by her father, I suspect, but wealthy men have a way of buying silence along with their services. Did she mention anything at all?”

You start to shake your head, only to pause. “Only that her father didn't want her to come here,” you offer, “There was a disagreement about that, apparently.”

“Hrm,” he grunts to himself, lurching over a particularly crude step. It's hard going for him, the path to the mountaintop, but he's taking care not to show any sign of weakness. “The spirit world knows her,” he adds, “It's drawn to her. I'd like to know why.”

“So that's why we're taking this miserable hike,” you guess, “Although I don't see why-”

“What's the matter, scared of a little hard work? Kids these days, no stamina at all! A good bit of exercise will teach you some discipline, stop you all getting soft!” Master Brehm laughs aloud, causing the others to look around in surprise. “Besides,” he continues, lowering his voice to a low murmur, “There's a man up there who might be able to help you. You're still hearing it, aren't you?”

The guardian spirit. You nod slowly.

“I told you we'd look into it,” he assures you, “And here we are. Our answers are just one staircase away.”

One long, miserable staircase away.

-

You're not sure how long you're walking for. Time starts to lose all meaning on a mountain like this, all sense of the outside world fading away until the stone steps before you are all that matter. Eventually, as the snow is starting to pile up around you, you arrive at the final few steps. The monastery itself looks more like a fortress, the grey stone cold and unwelcoming, but the vast door grinds open as you approach.

“Best behaviour now,” Master Brehm warns, “Don't embarrass me in front of the monks!”

Something else, beneath the humour. Nervousness?

[2/3]

>>5669845

Your first thought upon seeing the monk is that of some terrible, wasting sickness. He's too thin for any kind of good health, his skin drawn tight over bone and his eyes half-open in their sunken sockets. He doesn't seem to notice the cold either, his slender frame draped in a simple robe of thin yellow cloth. But his grip is firm when he shakes your hand, and his voice is steady when he introduces himself.

“I am Roerich,” he says simply, “My brothers are deep in their meditations, so I shall attend to you all. Please excuse them, no disrespect is intended.”

“None taken, I assure you,” Master Brehm assures the man, following as the monk gives a serene gesture. He leads you through the grey stone hallway until you emerge in a wider chamber. The floor has been set with a complex pattern of raised tiles like some enormous Dho game, while a cold wind blows in from openings in the stone.

“Please, I invite you to stay. Contemplate the wider world – I'm told that the view is quite magnificent,” the monk says softly, before touching you lightly on the arm, “Young Master Hearne. A word, please?”

“I am told that you are known to the other world. It calls out to you, but you have not yet answered,” Roerich whispers, “We will assist you with that, but it can be a difficult process. It may be hard, you may see things that are fearful to you, but you must not shy away from them. You will emerge stronger, in harmony with the other world.”

Swallowing heavily, you glance back at the others. They crowd by the openings, gazing out across the jagged mountains below. Suddenly, you wish you were there with them. “What...” you rasp, “What's going to happen to me?”

“You must cast your mind into the other world, to find that which is calling out to you. But you need not do it alone,” Roerich murmurs, “In fact, it is often better not to. One of your companions can join you. Just one – a duo is harmonious, but more than that would bring disorder to the other world.”

“Who-” you begin, although Roerich silences you with a shake of his head.

“I cannot answer this for you. I do not know you, Young Master Hearne, or your friends. But I would say, bring someone you trust. They may catch a glimpse of your inner heart, and you may catch a glimpse of theirs. It can be an intimate thing,” the monk explains, “But the choice is yours and yours alone.”

You look back to your cohort. Clarissa peers out across the mountains with a cold concentration, while Harriet chatters eagerly away to anyone who listens. Johannes seems more interested in the monastery itself, the carvings cut deep into the ancient stone, while Persephone remains apart from them all, aloof. You're fairly sure that any of them would join you, if you asked, but who should you choose?

>You'll take the rite alone
>You won't take the rite
>You'll take the rite with... (Write in)
>Other

>>5669856
>You'll take the rite with... (Write in)
Clarissa.

Figure she hasn't had the most recent screentime compared to the other two (and I don't really care about Johannes). And hey maybe it'll help her awaken to her own spirit.

>>5669856
>You'll take the rite with... (Write in)
Clarissa

>>5669856
>take it alone
None can see inside our heart

>>5669856
>You'll take the rite with... (Write in)

Persephone. She already has her own guardian spirit, so she should be able to help us find ours

>>5669856
>Clarissa
she might see something about Ixtab on the way

You need someone solid, someone reliable, and that brings one name to mind straight away. Murmuring an apology with the withered monk, you cross the wide chamber and approach Clarissa. She tenses slightly as she senses your approach, but says nothing. You just stand together for a while, looking out across the mountains.

“Some view, huh?” you begin, just to break the silence.

“Some view,” Clarissa agrees, looking around, “Sorry I wasn't able to welcome you back, earlier. I was working on an assignment from Master Brehm, and I lost track of time. It was actually quite fascinating – he asked me to prepare a report-”

“On the military potential for spirits,” you finish for her, “Purely defensive, of course.”

Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “Did he ask you to help with it?” she asks, a note of irritation creeping into his voice, “I told him that I didn't need or want any help, so he can-”

“Nothing like that,” you assure her quickly, “He just mentioned it earlier, that's all. Anyway, that's not what I was meaning to talk to you about – I need your help with something. I need you to watch my back, okay? There's this ritual, you see, and-”

“Done,” Clarissa interrupts, “I'm ready when you are. Just say the word.”

That was easy. You weren't expecting her to put up much of a fight, but you thought you might need to convince her a little. Giving her a grateful smile, you return to Roerich. “We're ready. As ready as I can be, at least,” you tell him, “So what happens next?”

“Follow,” the monk whispers, leading you both from the chamber. You drift through the halls for a while, climbing higher and higher until you arrive at a stout doorway. You can hear whispering, you realise, the Veil must be thin here. Clarissa gives you a reassuring nod as Roerich opens the door, opening the way ahead.

The chamber within is smaller than you expected, and thick with a luminous mist. You can see flickering shapes in the mist, distorted faces and images that swim away whenever you try to get a closer look. Lingering at the threshold, Roerich gestures for you both to enter the chamber before slowly pushing the door closed.

“Wow,” Clarissa murmurs to herself, swaying from side to side as she tries to take a step forwards. Lurching like a pair of drunks, you make your way to the centre of the room and sit down within a carved stone ring. So close that your foreheads could touch with ease, you lock eyes with Clarissa. “Last chance to back out,” she whispers, her voice low and solemn.

“Shouldn't I be the one saying that to you?” you ask back, “Although I know what the answer would be.”

“Not a chance,” she confirms, closing her eyes.

You close yours too, allowing your inner eye to open wide, wider than it ever has been before. The eye opens into a doorway, and you both step through.

[1]

>>5669883

There's a bell tolling somewhere, a bell that calls the faithful and the faithless alike. Your eyes fly open at the sound of it, a sudden nausea washing over you at the familiar sight of your childhood home. It's been so long since you were here, but it's like you never left. Panic threatens to engulf you, but then you feel a heavy weight on your shoulder.

“Hang in there,” Clarissa says grimly, squeezing your shoulder before reaching down and fumbling for your hand. Clinging to each other for safety, you lead Clarissa out from your old bedroom and down the stairs. Outside, the bell has been joined by the rumble of crude drums hammering out a beat. Beneath that, a low moan of countless dismayed voices.

A thick mist has descended over the whole of the village, the air heavy with the stench of burning herbs. The mist is thick enough that the people surrounding you are little more than distorted silhouettes, wavering streaks of darkness that fade out completely at even the slightest distance. The priest and their sacrifice are the only ones clearly seen, but you dearly wish that was not so.

A hunched giant in filthy pelts and a horned skull for a mask, the priest slouches through the village and strikes out with their sickle at random. They drag their sacrifice behind them on a long rope, dragging the wriggling bundle through the dirt with callous cruelty. But it's not the beast that you know it should be, that you know it really was. A beast would not have a familiar face, with pleading eyes and trembling lips. A beast would not have Nicholas' face.

This time, you're the one who holds Clarissa firm. She wavers, very nearly stepping back from the grim scene approaching, but you squeeze her hand tight enough for the pain to cut through the terror. Even so, you can't stop her turning away as the priest swipes their sickle down and the blood gushes free. The murmurs of dismay that surround you sharpen, screaming now, but even their noise won't be enough to drown out the words of the priest.

You know what happens next. You REMEMBER what happens next. You break. You flee back into the safety of your home and hide out the last of this terrible night. The priest will be gone by morning, but you'll be changed from the experience. Your eyes were opened that night, and you've been keeping them closed ever since. You never heard what the priest said that night, but now – despite every fibre of your being urging otherwise – you stay to listen.

“Your hands will be soaked with blood when all of this is over,” the priest warns, their words seeming to imprint themselves upon your heart. Letting their sickle drop to the ground, the priest places their hands upon your face and smears the hot, sticky blood over you. It drips heavily down you until it covers your eyes, blacking out the scene completely.

And in the blackness, you hear the voice.

[2/3]

>>5669895

“Lucas, my boy. My dear, dear boy,” the voice sighs out, painfully familiar and yet utterly alien at the same time. You claw at the thick blood coating your eyes, suddenly desperate for any glimpse of the speaker. The blood peels away like a second skin, like some cloying membrane, but when your eyes are finally able to open the speaker is nowhere to be seen. Neither is the village, the priest, any of it.

You're sitting in a lecture theatre, back in the academy. Row after row of chairs is filled with an intangible floating form, the scratchy silhouette of a person and nothing more. At the head of the lecture theatre, a rotting corpse presents the lesson itself.

“The five aspects of man,” Master Brehm's cadaver rasps, tapping the chalkboard with his cane, “Strength, Knowledge, and the Rule of Law. You know these, Lucas, the pillars of our order. But also Mercy, which we have rejected, and Community, which has rejected us. What else?”

“I don't know,” you stammer, the question taking you by surprise. But you remember this too, from your first few days at the academy. It's just so hard to think...

“You KNOW this,” the rotting corpse howls, “The five aspects of man, and the three aspects of the unseen world. Name them. NAME them.”

“Death,” Nicholas says, the words gurgling from his slit throat, “Embodied by Sheol, great spirit of the dead. Served by his Psychopomps, the spirits that guard over the dead and await all life.”

“Essence,” Clarissa continues, strips of charred and blackened skin peeling away from her burning body, “The purest element of spirit itself, served by the inhuman Elementals.”

“And Atavism,” Persephone whispers, the words barely seeping from her torn, ravaged body, “The spirits of the beasts and the trees, which ruled before men came to be and will rule after men have vanished.”

“The three aspects of spirit,” the voice – which had once been Master Brehm but was now a formless mass of shadow – announces. “I am the one who has been calling out to me. I am the one you have been calling out to. I offer you a union, and the harmony that a union provides,” the spirit continues, “You need only say my name.”

You can feel it, the word hanging just on the tip of your tongue. The name is...

>Death
>Essence
>Atavism

>>5669902
>Essence

>>5669902
>Essence

>>5669902
>Death

>>5669902
>Atavism

“I know you, as I know myself,” you say, the words seeming to writhe and take shape in the fog-thick air around you, “I name you as Essence, the purest aspect of spirit itself.”

“Know yourself!” the spirit howls back, the churning black mass contracting for a second before a bright spark of life flares within the dense core. With a roar of light, of heat, the spirit blossoms out into a raging ball of fire that swells through the lecture hall. You feel a sudden terror, the sense of making some terrible mistake, before the flames wash over you. No pain, somehow, but the nagging whisper at the back of your mind is burned away in an instant. In its place, you hear a more familiar voice calling out your name.

“Lucas? Lucas! Are you in there!” Clarissa cries, “You're going too far, you need to come back. Follow my voice!”

Like you're moving through syrup, you turn away from the beautiful destruction of the fire and look back to the closed door. It shakes slightly, as if someone was pounding on it from the other side. Fighting against some terrible gravity, you slog towards the door and rattle at the handle. It moves, but only slightly. Tugging harder at the door to no avail, you feel a new heat begin to swell behind you. This time, it's a killing heat – the dispassionate flame that burns the guilty and the innocent alike.

Fear chokes you, but it also lends you strength. Drawing back, you hurl yourself at the door and feel it buckle beneath you. Again you throw yourself at the door, and this time it burst open to send you flying into-

-

Into a bedroom. Not your bedroom, certainly not. Your bedroom would never be so richly decorated, so filled with fine and expensive trinkets. It's a girls' bedroom, no doubt, and the girl herself is standing frozen in front of you. Clarissa looks pale, sickly, but nevertheless relieved to see you. She moves forwards and reaches out, almost to throw her arms around you in a tight hug, but something stops her. She grabs your arms instead, her grip tight enough to shoot two bars of pain up your body.

“You had me worried sick!” she hisses, shaking you a little for good measure, “Don't you EVER do that to me again!”

“I won't,” you assure her, “What-”

“Shh!” she interrupts, gesturing furiously, “You can't let them know you're awake!”

Blinking in confusion, you carefully pry yourself free from Clarissa's painful grasp and listen closely. True enough, you can hear sounds of life – voices and footsteps – from the floor below. Clarissa grimaces, gesturing for you to stay silent as she eases the bedroom door open ever so slightly. It's dark outside, but a warm golden light seeps up from below. It sounds like a party of some kind is going on below, but the sounds are too muffled to know for sure.

[1]

>>5669918

Creeping out onto the balcony, you flinch back and drop low as a door crashes open, the noise of the party growing suddenly louder. Almost as soon as it began, the loud noise is snuffed out as the door closes tightly shut but the heavy thud of footsteps remains. A muffled laugh, the rustle of clothing, and then you hear a few words.

“Can you imagine?” one voice – a woman's voice, shrill and wicked – calls out, “Two girls, AND one of them is a cripple! So much for the great General Lowe!”

“The best he can hope for is marrying them off. Well, marrying ONE of them off at least. Might as well just get rid of the defective one, hope the older brat isn't somehow rotten as well,” the other voice – male, slurred and bitter – drawls, “And either way, there ends the family name. How very tragic.”

The woman laughs giddily, and you hear something crash as she shambles through the floor below. You almost follow before glancing back to Clarissa, her face pale and childish as she peers through the door. You lock eyes for a second before she flinches, turns away from you and reaches for the door. You lunge forwards before she can close it completely, slipping into the darkened bedroom even as she scurries a few paces back away from you.

“I remember this. I was... young. But not so young that I didn't understand what they were talking about,” Clarissa whispers, “My father had been promoted. We threw a party to celebrate. Those people down there, they were his colleagues – they were supposed to be his FRIENDS – and to hear them talking like that... Talking about him, talking about US...”

Leaving that thought unfinished, she turns away completely even as you're reaching out to touch her shoulder. The moment you make contact, you feel a sudden wave of sadness roll over you as your mind fills with-

[Nothing I ever do will be good enough none of these people are worth half of him or us or any of us they can all go and die and take their filthy stinking gossip with them but all this world really is is full of SHIT and it's all the same wherever you go whatever you do and I wish they would all just go-]

-

“Away!” Clarissa shouts, jolting up and away from you. You lurch back as well, so far back that you nearly hit your head against the stone wall behind you. You're... back. Back in the monastery, back in the real world. The thick mist still fills the air, but it's not thick enough for you to see the dreadful expression on Clarissa's face as she hurriedly gets to her feet and hammers at the sealed door.

“We're done in here!” she shouts, still pounding at the door, “We're done! Can you hear me out there? Can you... I don't think there's anyone out there. Shit!”

“Maybe...” you pause, “Maybe they got called away on... important monk business?”

“Important. Monk. Business,” Clarissa repeats slowly, somehow making each word sound like a curse.

[2/3]

>>5669944
>“And either way, there ends the family name. How very tragic.”

I assume marrying matrilineally isn't a thing or at least a very common thing in this setting.

>>5669944

“Look, there's nothing we can do until they come and open this door up for us. You probably woke up half the monastery with that knocking, we just need to give them some time,” you urge, gesturing for her to calm down a little. You don't often see her get so rattled, but it's pretty understandable given the circumstances.

With a disgusted look, Clarissa sits down on one side of the room and leans back against the wall. “I don't want to talk about it,” she says simply, without prompting, “So don't even ask.”

“Okay,” you reply, just as simply, “I won't ask.”

“I hate people like that. Two-faced people, saying one thing to your face and another behind your back. People who won't ever stand up for anything. They seethe in anger at your successes and cheer with joy at your failures, but they won't ever do it to your face,” she continues, slowly clenching and unclenching her fist, “I can't stand them.”

“I thought you didn't want to talk about it,” you point out, listening carefully. Was that the sound of footsteps outside, or was it just your imagination?

“I don't. I mean, I didn't. I don't know. This is so embarrassing,” Clarissa says, covering her face and letting out a low groan, “At least you've got some actual trauma. I just got... bitchy gossip and a shit party. Just do one thing for me, okay? Don't tell anyone else about this – especially Cloranthy. She doesn't know about any of this, and I don't... I don't want her to know.”

You're about to reply to this, only for the rattle of the door to cut you short. It eases open to reveal Roerich's wizened face, his half-closed eyes peering through the mist. “I do apologise for the delay,” he rasps, “I'm afraid that I was discussing a matter of some significance with Master Brehm. He was quite insistent that we finish our discussion. I will, of course, convey your displeasure to him and-”

“No no, that's fine,” Clarissa interrupts hastily, “I'm sure it was... important. Whatever it was.”

“Oh yes, yes,” the monk whispers, with what might be the faintest hint of a smile on his bloodless face, “Important monk business.”

>I'm going to pause things here for today, I think. I should be able to continue next Saturday
>Thank you for reading and voting today!

>>5669970
Thanks for running!

>>5669970
Thanks for the run!