The 3:10 to Tirel

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Solo.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

The Ebonheart was a marvel of modern transportation technology.

A massive steam locomotive, one of the largest in the world, a collaboration between Aleraran engineers and Salvic trading companies that was used to transport goods and people from the port city of Tirel on the east coast to the capital city of Knife's Edge. While the trip would take a regular caravan a couple weeks, the rails could get you between the two in three days. One could hear the rumbling of the running gears and see the billowing tower of black smoke from a mile away. Whenever it pulled up to the station, children would flock to the platform and stand in awe at the black-painted majesty of it all, whispering among themselves their dreams to ride it one day until a blast of the whistle sends them scattering.

Trailing behind the engine were several dozen cars that served various functions. The first handful contained enough coal for the train to make the trek without having to refuel at any of the stops along the way. And then you had the freight cars. Nothing special about those. But the fifteen or twenty or however many that followed? That's where the passengers were all stuffed like sardines in dirty tin cans--unless you could afford the bump up to one of the double decker sleeper cars, like I could.

If I was going to spend most of my week in a noisy steel tube, then I was going to do so in style. I sprung for one of the fancy cabins on the top level. The car I was traveling in had three cabins with two beds each and doors to offer privacy. In the middle, there was a quaint little sitting area with a pair of tables with more than enough padded chairs covered in red velvet. At the far end, there was even a little bathroom and wash area. I was quietly thankful for the bottle of perfume stashed inside it to help mask the stenches normally associated with such places.

We were sharing the car with three other people; a pair of lovebirds on a honeymoon trip across the countryside, and an elderly man from Knife's Edge who I had been in contact with for some time.

The most interesting thing about Mirko Soloviev was that he was a purveyor of rare and unique books, scrolls, and records, very much like myself. Other than that, he was a little short for a Salvic man, his skin weathered and spotted by age, hair salt and peppered and receding a bit up top. Even though he was nearing the end of his life, he still had this sparkle in his sapphire eyes and a smirk on his wrinkled face that told of a youthful vigor he still clung to.

The old collector was seated in the car's common area, looking out the window at the endless pine forests that flew by. I sat in one of the plush chairs nearby, one leg crossed over the other, a small tumbler of whisky in my right hand and a trashy horror novel in my left.

Mirko's voice was as demure as his appearance. "Is this your friend's first train ride?"

I looked up from my book at Hype, who had her face mask pressed against the thick glass of the window, her gloved fingers tracing horizontal patterns across its surface and she followed the movement of anything she could focus her amber eyes on. Instead of her usual ensemble of Fallieni ceremonial wraps and robes, she was clad in one of my own dress shirt, vest, and slacks combos with a hood and mask. We had left Knife's Edge that afternoon, and didn't want to raise the attention of the Church while we were in town. We figured this was the safest way to move about.

With how much time I've spent with her, it was easy to forget that Hyperion was just under two years old, and still had a lot of the world to experience with her child-like sense of wonder.

"Yes," I replied before taking a sip of my amber drink.

The elderly man simply nodded and went back to gazing out the window himself. "I've always been a fan of trains, ever since I rode my first one nearly sixty years ago. I was studying in Ettermire, and would constantly take trips through the countryside when I had the spare time and gold. This was long before Vorgruk-Stokes had the lines built here of course."

"Of course," I said as I dog-eared my book and tossed it onto the table. I began hunkering down for another long-winded story.

"Naturally, the Alerarn countryside isn't as wondrous as Salvar's." Mirko gestured towards the monotonous blur of green, brown, and gray that flew past the window. "Even then, their trains were far more advanced than this one, and more comfortable to boot! But once you've seen the inhospitable landscape in and around their capital, you've essentially seen the entire country.

"But Salvar--! The majestic Kachuck Mountains! The emerald greens of the river valleys! The sandy shores of the Gulf of Scales! The steppes out west and in the north! The endless forests of ancient pines and hills of blowing snow past Archen, where man has rarely tread! I could live several lifetimes and still not bear witness to all the beauty this country has to offer!" Mirko shifted in his chair, a million vivid memories of his travels flashing before his eyes. "Tell me, Miss Freebird. Where did you grow up?"

"Radasanth. In Corone."

The old man nodded. "Beautiful city, that. Surrounded by nice countryside, too."

"Have you been?" I asked with genuine curiosity.

His smile grew. "Yes, once or twice. Much like yourself, I've traveled the world over, collecting the accumulated knowledge of this wonderful world we live in. Raiaera, Fallien, Dheathain, Corone--I've been everywhere, and seen everything."

"I was always quite fond of Concordia, myself," I said with a nod. I felt a nostalgic pang in my heart for the forest I made my home, between the dark time with Pode and my ascension to Archivist under the employ of the demon Maladim Karunungan.

"Ah, yes. I have fond memories of Underwood. Quaint little village. Been about forty years since I set foot within those stone walls, I think."

I downed the rest of my drink and set the empty glass aside. "You should go back sometime, then. It's grown a lot--shit, in the last ten years, even. The logging business is booming, and it's drawn in more people to live and work there. The roads leading through Concordia have gotten better, too. Lots of trade caravans have made it their main route to Serenti and Gisela."

Mirko's face scrunched up a bit, the gears in his head turning in an attempt to dredge up a memory. "There was one tavern I spent a couple ale-soaked nights at. The Peaceful Promenade, I believe it was called. Do you know if it's still around?"

I knew the place. Had my nose broken there once. "No, the owners shut it down and moved to Scara Brae years ago."

Mirko nodded. "Shame, that. I bet business isn't as good on that little island."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

The best part about being in the sleeper cars was that dinner was served to us, cooked on the train itself by a line of chefs employed by the Vorgruk-Stokes Trading Company. At approximately 6:30 that evening, a pair of servers presented the five of us with plates of something that resembled shepherd's pie and an assortment of greens. We had this nice regional wine whose name I can't remember at the moment for drinks as well. I was a bit ambivalent about it all, since potatoes and veggies aren't really my thing; but Hype eagerly snatched up her plate and ran off to our cabin to eat in private--she wasn't keen on unveiling her true nature to the lovebirds and the bookseller.

After dinner, the young couple retired to their private room to fool around some more, leaving Mirko and I alone to enjoy the soft rumbling of the train as it continued its path towards the eastern shore.

"Will your friend be joining us again?" he asked as we enjoyed the remainders of our wine.

I shook my head. "Probably not. She gets extremely tired after eating, and usually takes a nap afterwards." A thin smile crossed my face. "I always pick on her for it. She gets so excited that food is in front of her and spends so much energy shoveling it into her face that she shuts down afterwards and has to recharge."

"Could it be that she has abnormal dopamine levels or another condition?"

No, it's probably that I was still experimenting on the parasites that consumed the woman's corpse that eventually became Hyperion, and hadn't quite worked out the kinks of how they would handle hormone and chemical balances and production, but the potential setbacks vastly pale in comparison to how incredibly valuable she has been to me in the two years since she was created. "Whatever it is, it hasn't caused any major issues in our travels. She's a bit excitable, and has trouble controlling her emotions sometimes, but she's easily one of the most kind and intelligent people I have ever known."

There was still a tiny part of me that had trouble thinking of Hyperion as a person. Some cold, logical shred of my subconscious that knew she was born in a lab, an imperfect first run at something that could reanimate the corpses of the fallen and shape them into perfect and perfectly obedient killing machines. I named her Hyperion because she was the first; and she was born at a time that I desperately needed something, anything to fill a massive hole in my heart after the violent death of my old assistant, Nell.

Over the course of a few weeks, after the parasites consumed and converted the body of a woman I had never known into a walking humanoid houseplant, Hyperion began to take on the mannerisms and personality of what I had to assume belonged to the body's previous owner. In her past life, whoever she was had been a bright, innocent, inquisitive soul, and these traits manifested into Hyperion as the days went by. I took her with me on my adventures and allowed her to participate in my experiments and research at first to shut her up, but gradually it was because I found myself enjoying her company and insight. Her bubbling curiosity opened up possibilities and answered questions that I would have never considered in the first place. We shared laughs and drinks together. She was no longer an experiment; she was a friend during a time when I badly needed one.

She ultimately saved my life. Pulled me back from the brink. I would have lost myself to the influence of the Forgotten Ones had it not been for her.

The irony of it all, right? It took a monster to make me human again.

Mirko shifted in his seat, producing a pipe and a pouch. "I have been curious about her ever since you two arrived on my doorstep in Knife's Edge. She does not seem human to me, but she walks and talks like one."

I arched an eyebrow at him. "Is it the mask?"

"It's the mask," he replied, his wrinkled face coming to a slight blush.

I had to be careful about how much I revealed. The Church of the Ethereal Sway, neutered as they have been ever since Salvar's civil war, are still very much a constant and foreboding presence. Should word get out about a walking houseplant, I would have to answer some very awkward questions.

After thinking on the matter for a moment, I finally spoke. "Have you ever heard of a Briarheart?"

The old man tilted his his head back for a moment, staring off into the train's ceiling as he packed a wad of tobacco into his pipe. "You mean like the creatures in the old fairy tales? The ones with bodies wrapped in vine and moss?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Those."

Mirko grunted. "I never would've believed they actually existed. Aren't they the stuff of nightmares? Snatching children from their beds in the dead of night, feasting on their flesh and planting their hearts in the earth?" He lit a match and put it into his pipe, sucking on the mouthpiece to get the weed to smoke.

Not far from the truth, but I wouldn't tell him that they went after adults as well. "I discovered her about two years ago, lost and desperate on the streets of Radasanth. She had come into a tavern right at closing time, tired and hungry, dressed head to toe in rags. Face covered, so I couldn't see what she really was." I made a circular motion with my hand in front of my face for demonstration purposes.

"The barkeep kicked her out, but she was still skulking nearby when I left. She followed me home, and snuck in behind me. Middle of the night, as I was falling asleep, I hear this clang in the kitchen, followed by a shriek. I climb out of bed, grab a dagger, and go to investigate. And I find this frantic little pile of rags and vines, scrambling to hide under the table.

"It was a while before either of us moved, but all she said was 'please' and held out two briar-knit hands. I was tired as shit and more than a little drunk at the time, so I rummaged through my ice box and came up with a handful of ground beef. Which I then handed to her."

An amused look was on Mirko's face. "You didn't even cook it first?"

I gave my shoulders an exaggerated shrug. "I don't think it would have mattered. She snatched it out of my hand and wolfed it down. I went back to bed. Woke up in the morning, and she was curled up on my couch. We've been inseparable since."

The old man grunted, and focused on his pipe. "You're braver than I am, that's for sure. I would have probably burned my house down trying to rid myself of a monster like that."

I let out an inward sigh of relief. I had to pull that story out of my ass, but it looked like that the old fart believed it.

The latch to my cabin door clicked, and Hype poked her head out from around the corner. "Actually--"

Mirko and I turned towards her. I shot her an incendiary glare, which she immediately caught and understood.

Hype's four amber eyes flickered for a moment before she continued. "We eat their hearts, too. Burying them would be wasteful."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Mirko Soloviev let out a hearty laugh, and invited Hyperion to take up one of the empty chairs in the common area. The briarbane obliged, but politely declined his invitation to take her mask off and pull back her black sifan hood. She was cognizant about how others might react to her horrifying visage, let alone what might happen if she were to be confused with a hellish abomination deep in the wilds of Salvar. It was one of the things I stressed the most when we set up Briarheart Books in Tirel--she was to remain masked while in public, and have her story about being a worshipper of an ancient god ready whenever she was questioned about her attire.

As my friend made herself comfortable, Mirko produced a notebook and a pencil. "You don't mind if I ask you a few questions, do you?"

Hype shook her head. "No, that's fine. Go right ahead!"

The old man pressed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and flipped his book open to an empty page. "Splendid, splendid. You see, it's one of my favorite hobbies, collecting the stories of any unique and interesting people I encounter in my travels."

I could immediately sense Hyperion relaxing in her seat at the idea of being called people. The poor thing was a little too self-conscious about the shady circumstances behind her "birth", and one of the fastest ways to the top of her list of friends was not to be referred to as a biology experiment.

"Now," he said with a grandfatherly smile, "where shall we begin?"

Over the next two hours, I watched on as Mirko flipped the switch from kindly bookseller to seasoned chronicler. Every question was expertly phrased to open up its recipient, drawing out the best answers. As time wore on, Hype got more and more excited about the interview, and went into full detail about the past couple of years. She talked about our adventures in the plaguelands of Raiaera in search of a way to cure the necromancer Xem'Zund's plague (tactfully leaving out all the nasty bits about how I nearly took control of the remnants of his undead armies and his Death Lords' territories). She dabbled in stories from the Seventh Sanctum, and the wild experiments we conducted under the employ of the Crimson Hand. She recalled all of the stories in between, from our travels throughout Corone to our research trip in Fallien.

I made sure to steer the conversation away from anything that might be too incriminating, of course. Mirko knew of my shady past, but there were plenty of things that he did not need to know about.

By the time the interview was over Hype was beside herself. She had never gotten so much attention from someone other than myself before. The briarbane kept squeezing my hands with a childish glee to the point where my fingers started to ache. With a yawn, the old man finally closed his notebook and set it down on the table next to his glass, which had been refilled with wine and consequentially drained again over the course of the evening.

"I think that will do quite nicely," he said.

Hype bounced in her seat, bright amber light shining from her mythril mask's eyeholes. "What will you do with my story?"

"You know, I don't actually do anything with the tales I collect." Mirko slid a couple fingers up the bridge of his nose, rubbing the space between his eyes. "As I said, collecting them is merely a hobby of mine. It's something I do to pass the time. I write them all in these notebooks--" he motioned with a wrinkled hand towards the one on the table-- "and occasionally, when I'm feeling a bit sentimental, I'll pull a random one off the shelf and read it over again to remind myself of the places I've been and the people I've met."

"How many stories have you collected?"

"Including yours?" He leaned back in his chair a bit, producing the tobacco pouch once more and stuffing another wad into his pipe. "Over two hundred. Closer to three, maybe."

The briarbane's eyes flared. "That's a lot of people."

"And each of their tales are as unique as yours," Mirko said with a point of his pipe at Hyperion.

She leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees. "Have you met anyone famous?"

That earned a wheezing laugh. "Well, fame is pretty relative, isn't it?" Mirko took a drag off his pipe, blowing out a thick cloud of scented smoke which dissipated into the sterile air of the train car. "But yes, I have met some people that could be considered famous in their own right, I suppose."

"Like who?"

"Well, I once found myself in the company of the Jya in Fallien, while she was still a priestess--"

"Can you tell me about her?"

Mirko shot me a pensive look. I merely smiled at him, a toothy grin that told him that there was no escaping Your New Best Friend Hyperion.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

The sun had long since fallen over the horizon before Hyperion decided that she'd had enough storytime for one night, and slithered off to our cabin to get some shuteye. Mirko and I chose to remain in the common area, gazing at the pinprick lights of distant stars through the window as they hung in the cloudless midnight sky. Astronomy was never my thing, but the scholar was more than willing to educate me on the mythos behind the constellations we watched as The Ebonheart continued its trek to Tirel.

"If you look about six inches up at a twenty degree angle, over to the right, you'll see the star that they call Yngrith. It's seen as the Waypoint Star by the ancient Skavians. They would use that start to navigate their way back home after a hunting trip. A lot of sailors nowadays will still use the star to sail the seas. But it's also where the heart of Mirandir lies." Mirko leaned forward, tracing out with his pipe the rest of the celestial form of the mythical lover laid in the sky. "You can make out her person, running east to west across the nighttime sky."

"And if we were to awake right before dawn, we could see the constellation of Torg?"

He nodded. "In the tales, he was never able to forgive his lover for her betrayal, and vowed to chase after her into the next life. And now they're eternally cursed to chase each other through the heavens. Or so the story goes, anyway."

I had to say, it was absolutely refreshing to talk to someone about normal things. For my thirty-plus years in this world, I've been surrounded by death, violence, and plots. Between being under the thumb of my parents, enthralled by the Red Witch, and working with the Crimson Hand... The conversation was always dominated with "when can you kill so-and-so" and "how much will this cost me", or "you have done me a disservice, Madison" and "now you must pay the blood price". He wasn't asking me for constant updates on the latest concoction of poisons meant for the blades of assassins, or if I had finished decoding the missives taken from our enemy's couriers so we could deal them a decisive blow; he just wanted to talk about stars and shit. He never judged me for any of questions, or my lack of knowledge regarding the legends and tales of times and peoples long gone.

Of course, our talk would eventually have to turn to business; but for the time being, I was content to listen to an old man spin yarns and wax nostalgic.

- - - - - - - -

"It's late." The figure cupped his hands in front of his mouth, blowing on them in a futile attempt to warm his palms up. He silently cursed his luck of having left his fur-lined gloves in the tavern.

"It's not late. The trains always run on time."

"I checked my watch five minutes ago. It's fucking late."

A feminine voice rang across the mostly barren boarding platform, mildly annoyed at having to be awake at this ungodly hour. "Have you considered that your watch might be wrong?"

The first figure looked at his comrade, the gears of his mind cranking out the possibility that he might have been wrong. Ripping the watch out of his pocket, he squinted at the small black arms by the light of the moon. "Does anybody have the time?"

A fourth member of the group chimed in. "It's five past three."

"Dammit." The cloaked figure could've sworn that his fingers were going to fuse to the cold metal as he popped the dial up and spun back the hands of his pocket watch to display the correct time.

Four minutes later, the powerful screeching blast of The Ebonheart's whistle could be heard across the snow-covered plains. Slowly, the monstrous hunk of black metal lurched into view, the luminescence of the moon glinting off of its many curves and corners. The rumble of the intricate machinery grew in intensity until it was deafening. The four fur-cloaked travelers wondered how anyone in the small town behind them managed to sleep through the cacophony caused by the train as it rolled into town.

At 3:10 precisely, the locomotive screeched to a halt at the platform before letting out a long hiss of steam. "Told you," the second figure humorlessly muttered to the first as he knelt down to collect his bags.

The first man sneered at him and shouldered his pack as he and his comrades approached one of the passenger cars. As they drew near, the hinges of a door creaked as it swung open. A sharp-dressed man in the familiar garb of a conductor stepped out, a shimmering flame from an oil lamp illuminating him. He clearly had just been woken up from slumber a few minutes ago, the way he leaned against the side of the train as he went through the motions.

"Tickets, please". He stifled a yawn.

The tallest of the quartet reached into his furs and produced his ticket. The conductor raised a gloved hand to stop him from boarding the train. "There are no swords, bows, staves, or other weaponry allowed aboard The Ebonheart. I will need to search your bags and person before allowing you on board."

The grim man cast a glare at this lowly nobody who dared question him for a moment before moving. With a flick of his hand, he opened up his cloak. The conductor caught the glint of moonlight off the golden hilt of a short sword, but that wasn't the most important thing he noticed--the stranger dug his hand into the collar of his robes and produced a chain with an insignia at its end. It was made of the purest gold, and immediately recognizable to anyone who had spent more than five minutes in Salvar.

Knowing what would happen if he further detained these four passengers, the conductor made the decision to rush them into the car.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

"You're weak."

"Actually, I've never felt better. Or stronger. Or more in control."

"You lost your way. You gave up. We had great things in mind for you, and you turned your back on us."

"I saved myself."

"Keep telling yourself that, child. You may have run away from your destiny, you may now walk down a different path; but know that all roads will lead to your damnation."

"I accepted that a long time ago."

"I gave you the tools to change your fate. I gave you the world."

"And you took from me the only thing that mattered in it. The only good I had in my miserable life."

"You did that yourself. You killed that poor girl with your own hands."

"Stop."

"It was your own two hands and feet that broke her jaw. Guided by your own emotions. Your uncontrollable, blind hatred."

"Don't you fucking dare."

"It was your own hand that drew that dagger across her throat, spilling her lifeblood on the ground. That poor, innocent creature. What was her name, again?"

"ENOUGH!"

The woman in red laughed.

- - - - - - - -

A scream of rage, the crack of wood, a sharp jolt of pain, and a shriek from above me.

Hyperion leaped off the top bunk of our quarters and was at my side before I could even open my eyes. "Madison! Madison! Are you alright? What's wrong? What's happening?"

I couldn't answer. I was consumed by the dream that was still fresh in my mind. No, not a dream--a nightmare.

I examined my right hand a bit closer. The pain was mixed with that certain distant numbness that you feel when you've broken something and your body was going from zero to sixty trying to repair itself because magical regenerative abilities. I wasn't sure which finger went, nor did I care. A few layers of skin had been claimed by the thick, rough boards of the wall as a prize for surviving the blow. It could keep it, as far as I was concerned.

Thick, briar-knit hands were at my shoulder, confused as to whether or not it should shake or squeeze or caress or what. "Madison?"

"I'm fine, Hype." No, I'm not fine. I took a deep breath and rolled onto my back to gaze up at the planks that supported the top bunk. "It was just a bad dream."

Hype's four eyes flickered concern. "But, you're crying--!"

Was I? I reached for my face with my good hand, lightly touching my eyes with my thin fingers. I felt a certain warm wetness. The tear stuck to my finger, even as I pulled it away to get a good look at it.

Nell.

My throat tightened at the memory of that day in that accursed crimson glade. How I let my wrath consume me, how I fell into an abyss I wasn't sure I would ever climb back out of.

Even to this day, I can hear the sound of her cries and whimpering as I slit her throat, tricked by Pode's illusions. Each time that memory flashes before my minds, I want to scream. How I wish I could take it back. How I wish I could go back in time and stop myself, or even wrench the dagger from my own two hands and plunge it deep into my chest to save her life. She didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve any of it. I should have never let Nell come with me. The girl would still be alive today, fretting about organizing the shelves in my store or making sure that my workbench was nice and orderly. She would also still probably try and get me hooked on those stupid silver romance novels she loved so much.

A fresh wave of burning in my eyes caused me to curl into myself. I couldn't take it any longer. A deep, horrible sob wracked my body, and I buried my face into my pillow. Hype's hands rustled as she pulled them away from me.

Hype, who I developed to fill the empty void in my heart because I couldn't cope with the loss of Nell.

We sat in silence for several minutes, while I waited for everything to pass. It wasn't long before I had finally cried my eyes dry and sat up in the bed. The brairbane looked at me, the unmistakable look of pity etched on her face. She knew that I wouldn't open up to her, especially on this matter. I knew how much she wanted to share my burden, but I wouldn't let her. I couldn't.

I simply got up and slipped into a black tunic and a pair of slacks, drying my face off with a spare shirt before turning to the door of the cabin. "I'm going to get some breakfast. Want anything?"

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Reason 46 why I sprung for the fancy cabin on the trip back to Tirel: Our dining car was fancier than those who couldn't afford it. Never let it be said that the Vorgruk-Stokes Trading Company doesn't take care of its customers.

Whereas the travelers packed like cattle essentially had to snake their way through what was essentially a glorified cafeteria line, I was treated to a roomy seat at a table complete with a quartet of neatly-folded napkins, sterling utensils, and an arrangement of seasonal flowers in a clear vase in the center. There were about ten rows of two tables that stretched from door to door. The sun had been up for a few hours now, its light pouring through the windows and bathing the twenty or so of us who were grabbing a bite to eat.

I was still shaking a bit from my nightmare. The images of Nell bleeding to death and refusing my offer of resurrection were only starting to fade.

I took a sip of water and a deep breath. And then another breath. I looked out the window at the pristine blanket of snow that drifted by as The Ebonheart chugged along, feeling absolutely drained and uninspired by what I would assume someone would tell me was wondrous natural beauty.

By the gods, how could I have been so stupid?

"Your menu, ma'am."

The warm tone brought me back to reality. I looked up to see a man, probably not much older than myself, his blond hair combed over and a rich blush decorating his cheeks. He wore a snow white button-down shirt tucked into tan slacks, the ensemble tied together by a garishly out of place black belt and a white apron. He pushed a piece of parchment into my hands.

"Oh, thank you," I managed after a few seconds of trying to force the horrible memories back into the little black box in the darkest, most cobweb-cluttered corners of my mind.

"I'll give you a moment to look it over. Can I get you a coffee to start?"

"Do you have any hot chocolate?"

The waiter nodded, his smile growing further. "Yes we do. I will have it for you shortly."

He turned on his heels and left towards the far door, and I took a peek at the menu. Food is a good way to distract you from your problems.

I was moderately impressed by the selection available. Having about an hour until they started serving lunch, I gave my eyes the task of deciding how much I was going to eat to hold me over until dinner. On offer you had your standard selection of Salvic breakfast plates that were overloaded with meats--sausage, bacon, steak, thick cuts of ham, and sides of eggs in any manner you could want them, hash browns or those little cube things of potato (whatever the fuck they're called--home fries, I think?), and pastries. Then, you had the kinds of things that weak-ass foreigners like myself could tuck into; a selection of toast with jams and jellies, waffles topped with whipped creme and fruit, pancakes and syrup, boring-as-shit oatmeal or grits, and the like.

Hmm, I think I'm in the mood for a couple slices of lightly buttered sourdough toast, a side of bacon, and an orange. Maybe two sides of bacon. Or a side of bacon and some sausage links? How about a nice fat cinnamon roll instead of toast? Hells--why not both? And an omelet... Or maybe in an omelet?!

Maybe this was a bad idea. Everything sounded so delicious. The thought of ordering everything on the menu and riding out the rest of the trip in a food coma was really neat. Except for the baked beans. They could keep those.

My table suddenly jostled, knocking over my glass of water and spilling it all over the tablecloth. I sprung from my chair so I wouldn't get wet, a nasty curse ripping through the otherwise serene environment of the dining car. I looked up at who the perpetrator of the vile act was to find a group of four grim motherfuckers staring a hole through me. They all wore similar dark furs, and had the same sour looks on their faces. The only differences between them were one had a shaved round head, one was a blond squared-jawed asshole with a bad mustache, the shortest one was a ginger with a ponytail sporting a map of the stars freckled on her face, and the tallest and wrinkliest bastard was missing his chin due to bad genetics, possibly from familial inbreeding.

I shot them a sneer that rivaled their own in disgust, contempt, and face-wrinkling. "Watch where you're going, will you?"

Ol' Fathead fully turned to face me in the isle, and took a step closer. "Begging your pardon, sister?"

Before I could ball up my fist and serve him a delicious knuckle sandwich, the man whose face stopped at his lower lip rested a gloved hand on his comrade's shoulder and whispered something in his ear. I could practically hear the rusty gears echoing off the inside Cueball's cavernous skull as his features contorted and knotted up. He eventually decided that whatever was whispered to him was a better course of action than getting his face caved in by a bookseller.

"Excuse me, pardon me, so sorry--" The waiter had returned, cutting through the tension with his trained politeness. He wedged himself between me and the four assholes, setting down the mug of steaming cocoa on one of the dry spots on the table. With expert skill, he produced a towel and began soaking up the spilled water, setting the glass back up in its proper position. "I'll get this cleaned up right away for you. Would you like another water?"

I stared daggers at the fur-robed strangers as they turned and made their way to an empty table. "No, that's alright," I muttered.

I'm going to order six of everything and have it put on their tab, I thought to myself bitterly.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

- - - - - - - -

It was the longest forty minutes of Ratomir's life before that raven-haired bitch finished her meal and left the dining car.

She had no idea. No idea at all who he was, who he was associated with. A single word, just one command, and he could have had her meal poisoned. Sure, she would have found her food delicious at first, and maybe have considered to leave a bigger tip as the delectable flavors danced across her taste buds; but after a few minutes, her pale skin would've taken on the same hue as the wildflower arrangement at her table. He would have enjoyed watching her eyes bug out of her skull, her spidery hands clawing at her neck in vain as her esophagus clamped shut. Ratomir would have of course made a big declaration that she must be choking and rise to help the waif; and in the process of administering life-saving techniques he had learned as a part of his basic medical training, he would have most certainly twisted the knife deeper by bruising or breaking a few of her ribs. Alas, it would be too little, too late. The woman would die, he and his brothers and sister would mutter a quick prayer, and her body would've been unceremoniously dumped out the back of the train for the wolves and ravens to feast on.

"Let it go already, your eggs are getting cold." Ratomir snapped back to reality to catch an arched eyebrow from Petrov.

"Maybe I like 'em that way," the bald man muttered, trying to save face.

His brother's mustache twitched, but he remained silent. Ratomir's gaze returned to the half-eaten plate of steak and eggs, knowing that Petrov wasn't going to believe that for a minute. With a heavy sigh that could have been mistaken for a grunt, he tucked into his breakfast.

The quartet were, quite frankly, utterly miserable. They had only received the missive from Cardinal Nikitovich five hours before the train arrived, and had to scramble to draft up the required documents to board the train and formulate a plan to capture and neutralize their quarry. Once they were on The Ebonheart, they had to find a car to set up their base in. That meant taking over one of the sleeper cars--both the top and bottom levels. That meant dealing with tired, angry peasants at three in the morning. That meant shelling out enough gold to shut them up, or saying just the right threats seasoned with the correct amount of profanity to scare them into compliance.

Ratomir always enjoyed that glint of fear in their eyes when they saw the pendants. It meant that they were aware what could happen to them should they not comply with their orders.

They finished their meal in silence before returning to their car. Retiring to the upper half, the staff were given explicit orders to not let anyone loiter around the lower cabins too long, lest they discover the dire threat to their safety that is aboard the train and whip everybody into a panic. That was the last thing that Anikin in particular wanted to deal with. It was more to his liking that their operations be as discreet as possible. He feared what could happen should word get out that a necromancer was on board.

Anikin stood close to the window and stared at the rolling Salvic countryside in quiet contemplation. He had been a witch hunter for longer than he could remember. How many had he hunted down and killed in Their names over the decades? Younger initiates into the Sway often joked that every time he judged a mage guilty, a new wrinkle appeared on his face. He considered retiring at multiple points, but... No, The Sway's work needed to be done. Always had been, always will be. The grizzled hunter could not abandon his post.

Ratomir threw his hefty frame into one of the padded chairs that littered the car's common area. Petrov sat close by. The fourth of their group, Tanya, was busy unpacking in the cabin at the far end of the car.

As soon as the attendant made sure they needed nothing else and locked the door behind him, Anikin wasted no time getting into the briefing.

"Gentlemen," he began as he turned to face the others, hands clasped behind his back. "I know you both read the missive from the Cardinal, so I will not waste your time with the details. We are here to uncover and capture a practitioner of the arts of undeath, secure him until our arrival in Tirel, where we will deliver him to our brothers and sisters for judgment and execution. The Ebonheart will arrive in Tirel tomorrow morning at seven, so we must locate the heretic by then."

His fellow hunters sat in attentive silence as the veteran spoke. "As easy as it would be to display the All-Seeing Eye pendants we bear on our persons and bully our way to the necromancer, that is not an option. News of our presence will travel fast here, and everyone will whip themselves into a panic. They will turn on each other, and innocent people will be hurt or possibly killed in the ensuing chaos."

Petrov was the first to interrupt. "Then how are we to locate the fiend? We have nothing more than a vague description from witnesses who were at the Estrova manor at the time of the incident. And there's no guarantee that our information is correct in the first place. The witnesses had plenty to drink, and may have gotten a few details mixed up."

Anikin offered a warm smile to the younger hunter. "I can assure you that the information I pulled from them is one hundred percent factual."

It was Ratomir's turn to voice a concern. "And we're certain that he's aboard this train?"

The elder nodded. "The records were checked at the station in Knife's Edge. A person with the necromancer's name purchased a ticket and boarded. We just do not know where he is."

The scant details made available on the necromancer's appearance turned around in Ratomir's mind. It seemed like every farmhand and stable boy south of Archen had shaggy blond hair, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and a thin but tone body. Hardly how you'd picture someone who could raise the dead to look. But then again, he learned long ago that looks were deceiving and not every fiend he would find himself up against looked like the ones from the storybooks.

"Then we should get to work," Petrov said with a nod.

Anikin's smile grew. "Tanya is already on it."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

- - - - - - - -

She was terrified.

Every time she stood at the edge of the abyss, ready to throw herself into it, she could feel hands grasping at her, desperately trying to pull her away.

Nagging doubts. She knew what she was doing was inherently wrong. It was forbidden.

She was a monster. She was unclean.

That's what they always called her, right? When her gifts manifested in her?

She vividly recalled the faces of those who tormented her, the venom that soaked their every word as they accused her.

Witch.

Possessed.

Monster.

She hated herself for it. Even after the Church took notice of her. Even after the Justice looked upon her, pity in his eyes. Not a day went by in her training that she didn't wish she could've ended it all. Each lesson from the Ethereal Texts drilled into her mind that she and others like her were abominations. The gift she carried with her was more akin to a curse; and her kind existed to skulk in the shadows until the time came for the hunters to drag them from their hovels and hiding places and judge them in Their eyes.

This hatred drove her. She would prove to them that she was not a monster. She excelled in her training, and proved her dedication to the Church time after time again. She survived the awful atrocities of the Civil War. She quickly ascended the ranks, until the day she was granted the title that others like her achieved.

And still... This curse consumed her thoughts and emotions every waking moment. While the Church praised her actions and devotions, she knew what they thought of her behind her back. She knew she was nothing more than a weapon to them. Like all things, her skills would grow dull, and she would no longer be of any use to them.

And then, she would find herself at the stake, or on her knees with the sharpened blade of a sword pressed against her throat. Her life would end, much like the lives of the wizards and heretics she snuffed out.

The thought of it made her sick. She was damned, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Breathe deeply.

Exhale.

She edged up closer to the abyss, and threw herself in.

As she fell, she could see pricks of light appear before her in the inky, swirling blackness. They were arranged in neat lines, milling up and down and flickering in intensity. She had done this numerous times before, and understood everything that the lights could tell her.

It wasn't long before her ethereal vision stretched up and down the length of The Ebonheart. The souls of everyone aboard were made known to her in varying brightness and colors. All that was left for her to do was to pick through them, identifying the ones that Anikin and the others would need for their investigation.

The white ones were the devout. They would pose no problem whatsoever. Then there were the gray ones and the yellow ones. These lights belonged to those who held doubt and sin in their hearts, but could be considered good people--if not harmless.

She took another breath, and exhaled. If she were to find what she needed, she would need to focus harder. There were still a handful of souls that tried to hide themselves from her. If she could only bring them into view, she would have the answers she sought.

Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. Underneath her clenched eyelids, her eyes were frantically rolling around in her sockets. Where are they? They have to be here! They must!

Her teeth ground themselves into dust as she concentrated harder on her prey.

And then... They showed themselves to her.

Three soft, tiny globes of light. A pair of them were as black as night, but the last one...

Purple?

That's new.

Before she could examine it further, she felt the familiar pull of hands at her arms. Her time was almost up. Scrambling to memorize the general locations of these three dark beacons along the length of the train, she allowed herself to be pulled back out and into reality once more.

Her eyes nearly bulged out of her sockets as she sucked in air. She never did get used to the feeling of her consciousness re-entering her body after traveling through the aether, nor could she ever cope with the feeling of self-loathing that followed.

Whispers from her childhood lingered in her mind. Monster.

The door to her cabin opened, revealing the towering frame of Anikin, who shed his black hunter's robes for a merchant's tunic. The garish violets and golds clashed with both his brown slacks and the idea that they were to remain inconspicuous while aboard the train.

"Well?"

Tanya took a moment to catch her breath before she croaked the words out. "There are three."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

- - - - - - - -

"Show us another one!"

"Yeah, mister! We want to see another trick!"

A playful smirk grew across Deyan Slifkin's face. Oh, how the young were so easily amused by parlor tricks. He admitted they were just as easy a crowd as those he normally entertained during the midnight hour at some dank tavern somewhere.

"Certainly," he said as he shuffled the deck of cards once more. He only meant to take a short walk up and down the length of the train to stretch his legs and clear his head, but the small pack of children stalked him from the packed coach cars and ambushed him as he reached the roomier private cabins further back. The guy could certainly relate; he remembered all too well the sense of wonder he felt the first time he saw a card trick performed, where the traveling minstrel named the three cards he picked out from the deck with that theatrical flourish of his.

Ever since that sunny afternoon, Deyan carried a deck with him wherever he went, learning all sorts of neat ways to handle a pile of fifty-two. It may have only been a hobby for him, but it was always a very good way to pass the time on long hauls across the frozen wastes of Salvar. A little sleight of hand and a toothy grin always made him a few friends, and helped pay for more than a fair number of bar tabs.

As he shuffled the deck, he turned around a couple possible tricks he could do. Hangman's Shuffle. Back of the Line. Door Number Three.

"Ah," he finally exclaimed. "I know just the one!"

The children's eyes lit up in anticipation, and they crowded around him.

Deyan finished rifling the deck, mashing them together into a nice and orderly pile. He cleared his throat, settling into his storyteller voice. "Have you heard the one about the Three Lovers?"

They all shook their heads in unison.

"Well then," he began with a grin. "In ancient times, before your grandparents' grandparents were born, there were three lovers." Deyan flipped over the top card, revealing the Three of Hearts before sliding it to the bottom of the deck.

"Our story begins with the King of a forgotten land. He was forty-nine at the time." Deyan flipped the top three, revealing the King of Hearts, the Four of Spades, and the Nine of Diamonds before placing them at the bottom. "The king had a queen, who was almost half his age." Queen of Hearts, the Two of Clubs, and the Four of Clubs.

Deyan then flipped over the Two of Hearts. "They were deeply in love, and ruled the kingdom on peace and harmony. However--" his voice deepened dramatically, causing one of the kids to jump back in surprise.

"There was a rival from a neighboring kingdom who had his eyes set on our queen."

The King of Spades.

"This ruler coveted our queen, and sent three assassins to murder her husband so he could have her all to himself." The kids whispered among themselves as Deyan revealed the Three of Clubs.

"Did they get him?"

Deyan shook his head and showed them the Nine of Spades. "The king's guard discovered them before they could make it to his chambers. Only one survived to make it back to their master." The Ace of Clubs.

The story continued as they crowded the hallway of the sleeper car, Deyan weaving his tale of love, betrayal, war, and death as he went through the deck card by card. The children stood enthralled by his every word, amazed at how the cards would always line up with the man's story.

"...And that, children, is the story of the Three Lovers." Deyan moved the Ten of Spades, which was sitting on the face-up Three of Hearts.

They immediately burst out into a round of applause and cheers. Deyan's heart warmed at the display. He had spent so much time on the run lately that he learned to appreciate these kind of moments.

He barely heard the woman clear her throat for the third time. "Hey, can I get through, please?" There was this slightly rude bent to the way she said please that immediately stabbed at him.

Deyan's eyes drifted over to her. She was a bit on the thin side, but well-dressed in a black vest over white button-down shirt. Her raven-colored hair fell down to her shoulders, her features a bit gaunt and bird-like. Piercing sapphire eyes seemed to burn a hole through his soul as she glared at him.

"Oh, yes, sorry," he stuttered as he pocketed his deck in his jacket. With both hands, he herded the lot of unruly kids to one side of the car so the woman could pass. "My apologies."

The dark-haired woman slid by without a word. She paused for a moment at the doorway leading to another car, her hand lingering on the handle.

"Neat trick, though," she said, almost as an afterthought.