Thunderhead (PM before joining)

[C. H. Ashpool]

Ulftember 25th, Sign of the Patriarch.

It started as what you’d call one of those days.

The overcast and pregnant sky hung heavily; the threat of rain was a constant and silent presence, like a school proctor watching his wayward student take a test. The coach bumped along awkwardly over a cobbled avenue, its wooden wheels catching the mortar at odd angles which made for an awfully uncomfortable ride. I was tired. Not the kind of tired you get after a long day of work. I was tired-to-the-bone; the kind of tired you get being woken up two hours too early. And not much goes bump in C. H. Ashpool’s night.

Thankfully my benefactor (we don’t talk about him) had me ride in style as part of my contract. We had just gotten to the Duchy of Richard DuBoue by the time it had started to rain.

“Just my luck,” I grimaced, clearing the condensation from the coach’s window with my sleeve.

It was a small fishing village, a comfortable one at that: full of well-kept streets and shops with colorful awnings. I made a note to visit again, next time I’m not on contract. The coach came to a stop, though, and the delightful smell of fresh-baked bread hung in the air despite the drizzle. Bread had a strange and human quality about it – made from a practically bone-dry nothing, it breathes life and warmth in rising even before it’s stuffed into the fires, finally emerging in perfection. In my case, emerging burnt to a cinder.

A portly man stumped over to the coach, maintaining a firm grip on his hat.

“Name?” he insisted, as the coach door yawned open.

I normally don’t give my full name, to protect the ones who are responsible for my raising. My name is a mishmash of sorts. Cassius and Horatius were two monks who found me as a newborn on an unlucky day. A stillborn, rather. I had been dropped at the monastery steps, my mother nowhere to be found. Having already delivered my little and lifeless form its last (and first) rites, they had prepared to load me into the crematory when the spark of life reentered my bones. And I screamed the scream of a babe who’d been torn from two wombs, not just one: First the quiet calm of my mother, then the peaceful finality of death. It was a terrible wail.

So I’ve been told.

And because of the miracle at the cloister’s door, Cassius and Horatius both took it upon themselves to raise me according to their ways. So I don’t often let on that I was born of bad omen and raised by an order of mystics. I just give my surname.

“Ashpool.”

He waited.

“Just Ashpool.”

[C. H. Ashpool]

“I’ve got an appointment,” I muttered, drawing a sealed letter from my cloak.

Received, inspected, and with a sidelong look of disapproval, the heavy-set genteel man welcomed the driver to stable his horses. With a flick of his head and a silent order, I rose from the coach and stepped into the DuBoue streets. A squeak of protest chirruped from my robe’s pocket as I did.

He grimanced. “You’ll find investigator Hegar at the Old Lobscouser Inn, boy. Big building, lots of white smoke from the chimney.”

I nodded, drawing my hood well over my brow and put a hand into my cloak to reassure Mortiferrofax that there was no cataclysm being wrought in his pocket. It’s his cloak. He just lets me wear it. To tell you something about overweight rats, they don’t like being disturbed unnecessarily. What they love is peanuts. I made a mental note to pilfer some, the next chance I had.

I hobbled on over to the Inn, feigning a lame leg and leaning heavily upon my walking stick. The robes hid my profile rather well, and I’ve found that a little misdirection could really help in subtle ways. The folks I’d rather not deal with gave me a wide berth, ask few questions, and try to be helpful. It was the true predators who would smell a wounded fawn and crawl from the woodwork. And it was always fun to ruin their day.

I entered in a waft of stale beer and the thrum of what I felt as a residual magical energy, the paw print of something that had had its fill and left. It just felt wrong, like a dismembered child's doll had been repaired, but with limbs in all the wrong places. I asked for the investigator, and was directed to an incredibly irritated man, sitting at the back of the Inn with a tired look on his face.

“You’re late,” he said as I presented my letter of appointment.

“I was delayed (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23603-The-False-Saint-Disciple-to-None.&p=191617#post19). It couldn’t be helped,” extending my hand. “Ashpool, at your service.”

He was a solid-looking man in his mid-fifties, and moved with intent and directed aggression. He snatched the letter, thumbed the seal and read it thoroughly.

“Take a seat.”

I drew back my hood, grunted as I fell into the wooden chair, and propped my stick against it. Morty nestled fatly in my pocket, poking his head out to take in the new smells.

“I understand you’ve been experiencing a haunting. A brothel, ri-” I began to ask.

“The workhouse. Three weeks, now. Can’t keep the staff calm. And it’s not just a haunt. People have gone missing. Some murdered,” a somber look found its way to his face.

“Children.”

He nodded. “Not killed. Only the ones trying to keep them from being taken. But they were disemboweled.” He stiffened. His body language and inability to separate himself emotionally told me he’d suffered loss as well.

“Disemboweled, eh?” I checked my coinpurse. “This might sound like a strange question,” I paused, “but would you mind if I get something to eat while we get started?”

[Vigil]

As the strange cleric attacked a lukewarm game hen with both tooth and fork, a meal that had been cooked under questionable methods typical of a dive such as this mind you, Hegar told him all he would ever need to know about the Krindall workhouse in New Belfast. The Irish capital and port city was a place of great commerce and wealth amassed from technological hegemony from its fledgling industry. However, Irish culture remained mired in both tradition and anachronisms that had been adopted out of necessity and a hedonist sense of luxury. The Irish embraced both slavery and mercantilism out of a desperation to increase labor in their factories, as well as amass as much wealth in Corone as possible in order to hold both political and social power over the native government who would inevitably come to blows with them. It had worked out wonderfully for the Irish and disastrous for everyone else who fell victim to their greed and moral sense of right as they became a more indomitable force within Coronian society and bought their way to the top of the hierarchy with less than honorable means. However, the irony of it all was that there was never enough for the Irish and eventually a very old and reviled tradition was proposed years ago in an effort to act as a source of social welfare for their prospering state.

Workhouses.

Like it or not, wealth among the Irish had never really been well distributed, especially to younger generations as the older grew more miserly and the young felt a natural urge to make alms with the Coronians in an attempt to assimilate. That said, poverty among the Irish was flagrant in its larger cities and it wasn't uncommon to find tin cities of squalor in their parks populated by paupers and all manner of human refuse referred to commonly by the more brash Irish citizens as the 'leftovers'. The sight of such squalor and poverty amongst their grandiose palaces of Georgian manors and other shared spaces began to bother many of the Irish gentry who argued that something ought to be done about that. Much to their chagrin, it was a collection of young civil servants who sought to hearken to the days of yore and embrace civic tradition by solving the poor problem in the only way a Victorian society knew how. The irony lost upon all but the oldest of Irishmen who were predominantly Catholic, the Krindall workhouse was among the first dozen workhouses to be commissioned and established in the following years. What had started off as an act of Christian charity to the countrymen they had both robbed and hoodwinked, had soon turned into indentured servitude. It was true and a joke common among the Coronians that not even the Irish could escape their own greed.

Built under the same model of late Victorian workhouses that had been before their time, Krindall Hall had became home to over thirty percent of the city's impoverished. The Hall had been divided into six different buildings and four different courtyards that divided the poor by both sex and age. Men and women were separated and even at an early age children under the age of 14 were separated from the general population. All of those at Krindall wore the same grey, unisex uniforms that had been washed and worn by many before them. The food was meager, but even those that were both poor and indentured rarely complained of the cuisine when it came free, if only in less than desirable portions. The hallmark of Krindall, much like every workhouse, was its labor and was an innovation that any miserly Irishman could feel proud of.

Out of an act of good faith, several factories that populated the city as well as the shipyards employed the workhouses in a desire for cheap, effective labor in order to properly wean themselves off of a dependency on slaves to run their machinery which had always been a point of conflict and discontent among the Irish. Children of age were contracted out to textile factories to run the looms that were dangerous and considered by the sensible to be automated deathtraps. Those that remained among the workhouse paid for their right to stay indoors either by working in one of the city's coal mines or trying their hand at the docks where a canary always needed an able-bodied man to tend the nets of the next biggest haul.

In truth, it was a system of welfare that worked about as well as it had for every generation of the English on their cursed isle who tried it. Organization and management of the workhouses was poor, and many of the houses had become destitute and home to many of the Irish's dissolute as its costs far outweighed any sort of gain to be had by free, public labor. It had been namely the criminals who called it home, seeking asylum in a government workhouse in between jobs, but couldn't afford anything in New Belfast without surrendering much of their newly acquired wealth. Thieves, addicts, murderers, pedophiles, rapists, prostitutes and the mentally ill all began to flock to the already crowded Krindall Hall and established a pecking order that they lorded over even those that had legitimate cause to seek refuge in a place such as this.

Krindall Hall was the most notorious of them all, and until recently had been home to the worst the city had to offer. That was, until social reform hit and the city government cracked down on the violence and social disorder that had become so prevalent in these workhouses that it was even beginning to disrupt the labor it offered the public. Such a place, ever since it’s alleged haunting and string of disappearances and murders had undergone lockdown as the police began to investigate. However, for once the Catholic Mission had taken a keen interest in a workhouse's doings and sent for those at a particular cathedral in the city of Radasanth to act as their liaison to the police and discover the truth behind it all.

"That very man," Hegar added, "Is prepared to meet you and pay for your services should you agree to his terms. I act as his proxy while he deals with matters of more importance to the Mission at the moment."

"What sort of terms are we talking about here?" Ashpool asked, "I don't work for free and I have little desire to share the company of the people you described provided that your man desires I stay the night there."

"Oh," Hegar waved a hand in an effort to dismiss the notion, "Those of Krindall Hall are perfectly docile now that the police and city have intervened. Years ago, it might have been dangerous, but with a careful eye the standards of such places has grown tremendously with many substantial donations by the city's more prominent citizens."

The cleric snorted as he stared at the man who offered him his newest meal ticket. When Hegar looked at him balefully and he was sure that the Irishman had taken his gesture in the wrong meaning, Ashpool elaborated with a disarming smile, "You misunderstand me, Hegar. I would gladly sleep on a cot and share a meal with the workhouse residents in the confines of Krindall Hall. I might even find many of those who share my company to be kindred spirits, despite their crime or poverty. However, I am less than inclined to make the acquaintance much less share the same living space of another Irishman if even half of what you have described about your compatriots is true."

Glaring at the cleric who sneered at him, Hegar was flushed with anger and blustered at such an indignant man. However, eventually he calmed himself and pursed his lips in thought, finding himself at a lost for words. "I see."

[C. H. Ashpool]

“But I accept your terms, given that my retainer includes room, board, and my standard fee.”

I stood swiftly the moment my contact looked relieved.

“Thank you for the meal, Hegar. In truth,” I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, “it’s better than I’ve had for some time. Next time, your guest eats no better than the common folk.”

Heads turned in approval as I walked out. I set my gaze at the door, turned, took up my stick, and left for Krindall Hall.

So that was my best White Knight impression. Hero of the common-man. Champion of the people. It starts with an image, whether in truth or by design. Give to the desperate a stranger in a costume; hearts and minds will follow. Their purses, too.

Hegar called out after me, “ask for Liam!”

Noted.

Irish, though. The name was foreboding as hell. Ire-ish. Ragelike. Furyborn. It all conjured up the image of a mad rabble, all pitchforks and torches and conviction. How the blazes they got to Scara Brae is a mystery, but they all but brought Ireland with them. I just hoped they wouldn’t kill my rat. People get nervous around them, fears of disease and filth.

So what’s a plague or two, anyway?

Morty isn’t anything like that. For a rat, he’s fastidious. He’ll put his nuts (don’t laugh) on one end of the room, push the hulls into the corner, crap in the third, and sleep in the fourth. I put him in a circular room once, and he had a panic attack; the little fellow just shut down and made a sound like a saucepot boiling over. We didn’t try that one again.

As the infectious tinge on the air dwindled away the further I got from the Inn, the more massive the workhouse came to be. Krindall Hall was an abomination of the noble trade of masonry. It looked like a quarry threw up a building, planted a flag, and claimed the land for Ireland. The whole thing was done in brick, stone, and in some places solid mortar over wood – but I’ve seen places like these before. They’re held up by the collective will of its inhabitants, the smug sort of determination to scrape out living and better their situation; not by sweat and blood of labor alone.

I was greeted with a dour look by an urchin scrubbing graffiti from the building.


YOUR A PISS-HEAD

I grimaced at the clumsy work, and did so apostrophically. A message has got to be about an audience. Instead, he wasted his moment to lash out at an unnamed persecutor. Misdirected anger makes avid listeners out of the worst kinds of people.

"Time to learn that lesson now, kid. "

The rain had really picked up though, and for what it did to help wash away the boy’s handiwork, it beat at the ground and soaked through my robes. I barely got past the threshold in time for a wicked crack of lightning to split the eggshell sky.

“Where’s, Liam!” I called, holding the door open, walking-stick in hand.

Thunder swelled, rattling the windows against a white noise of heavy rain.

Shit. So much for the White Knight image.

[C. H. Ashpool]

Dead stares and wary looks. That’s all I got in response for that heavy-handed entrance. Even the kid outside craned his neck in the building to get a good look. I had to do something fast to soften my image if this was going to go anywhere at all. I sighed, shook my head, and did the only thing I could do.

Shtick.

I shrugged, turned, and walked blindly into a column. My arm jutting out stiffly, my leg bent awkwardly, I toppled over in a display that earned a burbling chuckle from the workers. I let the stick roll from my hand as I flopped to the cold floor. Must have been the only laugh they’ve had all day. The gent that would soon introduce himself as the Headmaster’s Second silenced them all with a carbuncled and reproachful look.

He slowly walked over and helped me to my feet, to my thanks. From the floor up, he was dressed in a pair of worn shoes and a well-tailored tweed jacket and matching bowler hat.

“Nasty fall, chum,” he said and extended his hand. “Crane.”

“Ashpool, at your service,” I removed a glove and shook it. “I’ve been called to aid in, er, the figuring out in whatever seems to be going on.” I tried to avoid the word investigation. I sorted myself out, took up my walking stick, and rubbed the goose-egg forming on my head.

“A-yep. Heard you were coming,” he doffed his hat. “Let’s take a walk.” I fell in stride to his right, ambling on with my exaggerated limp. The halls of the workhouse were amazingly well-kept with a few patches of fresh paint here and there, likely over bloodstains and signs of struggle. If that kept up, it would certainly make things harder.

“What can you tell me?” I began, as we descended a wooden staircase.

“You’re about to see for yourself. Hope you’ve not eaten,” Crane warned. “It’s made quite a mess of things. The sooner this all gets sorted out, the sooner we’re all back to our normal lives.”

As soon as he said ‘lives,’ a flood of stink made me wretch. It was a sweet garbagey smell, like burnt hair and something that was dug out of a drainpipe. He handed me a pouch of camphor and storax to hold to my nose as we went further down, but it did little to mask the wafting miasma. I just made certain to not open my mouth. It was an unmistakable smell: a violent death.

What I saw was awful. A man and woman, both gutted, their innards used in what looked like some form of visceromancy – divination through viewing a subject’s entrails. The small intestines were tied in a ring, with the larger ones stretched out to form a large X. The man and woman sat hunched at the center, holding hands in a mimicry of life. This was powerful stuff, considering two had been killed to feed into the spell. The blood had dried, but this kind of major-league juju would linger for years. I now realized that the fresh paint masked a mere symptom – what I saw was the direct cause: the dead alpha-cell in a massive disease.

I made a brief sketch of the particulars of the ritual, took in the details of the room, and left.

"Welcome to your own personal crisis. My name is Cassius, and I will be your guide," I muttered.

[Vigil]

Liam Duigenan had been busier then usual, and he wasn't in one of his better moods. After he received a telegram from St. Mary's Cathedral, the central hub and headquarters of the Catholic Mission in Corone, requesting his presence and expertise in the hope that he could provide the local authorities and the Mission with an insight into a very gruesome crime, he dropped everything he was doing and left Radasanth for the Irish capital immediately. He had been in the middle of an investigation concerning of a young Irish couple who had been slain two weeks ago in the middle of the night, having been beheaded and their blood used to paint garish and racially-charged slurs on the walls of buildings at the scene of the murder. It had made all the headlines and being both politically charged and one of the first investigations in which the Catholic Mission and Radasanthian authorities had chosen to cooperate, it had left Liam as the liaison between the two. For a murder that had made all the headlines and was threatening to cause race riots between immigrants like the Irish and the natives, it had become Liam's top priority.. until he came here.

At the beckoning of the Mission and other councilmen at St. Sedna's, Liam had left the city to attend an investigation closer to home with the aid of two other Irishmen who operated in different parts of the country as inquisitors on the Mission's behalf. A group that operated in utmost secrecy and was known only by the trail of violence and blood they left in their wake, the unofficial inquisition in Corone did not have many followers, and Liam had only ever known himself to be the only inquisitor to work out of St. Sedna's and in the city of Radasanth. Still, however, he was unsure of why at the Mission's insistence and demand that he drop everything and run to New Belfast, especially over something that was no where in the vicinity of importance of what he had currently been dealing with. Still, however, Liam left his affairs in capable hands and while he attended to other affairs in the Irish capital, he could only read the paper and wait with bated breath as he watched his other investigation unfold.

Back in New Belfast, Liam had spent the better part of his waking hours in the workhouse with the two other Irishmen interviewing all 336 inhabitants of Krindall Hall. Most were uneducated and impoverished, blaming their lot in life on Church officials like Liam or politicians, or anyone who had two crowns to rub together and call them their own. The other thing Liam had noticed most of the people of Krindall had in common was that they were criminals. They hid it well, but Liam had been around long enough and was too cunning to be bested by a people he was not above calling degenerates. Most of them had been convicted of petty crimes such as pick pocketing, theft or assault. It was only once Liam had learned that there were convicted murderers who walked about the Halls like wolves in sheep's clothing that he attempted to focus on them. Most had nothing to say of interest, and as far as Liam could attempt to question, many of them didn't care enough to give him the time of day. One such individual had even gone so far as to spit on him when the old man had attempted to get something out of him.

He and Liam both agreed that after the man received attention for four or five broken fingers that he would become much more cooperative.

All in all, the Irish hadn't found much about the individuals who had been eviscerated and their insides played with. A man and a woman who had scarcely known one another amidst the segregated population were murdered in front of one another and their insides had been torn out by a madman to be played around with. To the authorities, whoever had committed the murder was clearly a lunatic and they focused most of their efforts on questioning violent offenders and the mad for answers, but for Liam and the other inquisitors it smelled of black magic.

Now as Liam left the pantry he had been using as his interview room, having stayed in it for most of the day, the old man closed the door behind him, but not before beckoning the man inside from joining him. A short, fat man who was a reputable thief and too smart for menial work like this, Liam had been on to Thomas Harrison from the start. Walking the thief out of the main dining hall and to the scene of the murder, Liam and Thomas scarcely looked at each other. The old man had a hunch and while Thomas had spent much of his time avoiding and dodging Liam's questions, he had made himself vulnerable after feigning stupidity to a number of Liam's inquiries. Eventually, the thief broke down and admitted he had been in the area during the murder. In order to corroborate his story, Liam intended to take him to the scene and question him there. Perhaps the garish and lewd circumstances of the murder might goad the thief into telling more.

Making for the staircase and bracing himself for the horrific and ungodly smell that awaited him, Liam and his newest witness descended into the depths below.

[C. H. Ashpool]

I rounded the corner, fleeing the new and terrible smell I’ve discovered (a whole fogbank of ass, seriously) when I bumped headlong into an impossibly thin and severe-looking man holding a sweating fat man in tow by a badly broken pinky-finger. The intent set in his brow and the quivering lower lip of the other made it clear who was top-dog, and who was the bitch. Quite the odd-couple.

“You really don’t…probably…might not want to go in there,” I began as I placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. “It only gets worse from here.”

I was met with an immediate and stern look from the man, a quiet but clear gesture of hands off. I got the message, sighed, and turned on my heel to go in after them to be sure nobody turned their stomach inside out all over what could be a very sensitive, mystical tableau.

Mr. Crane gave me a fatherly pat on the back. “I’m on my way back upstairs. You know where to find me, friend. Your lodgings will be in East Wing, room seven. I’ll leave you with Liam and his new little friend.”

I nodded in thanks. So this was the guy. He didn’t look especially tough, but the purpled fingers of tubby’s left hand spoke otherwise. I sat back and let the two of them sort things out.

“I swear I d-d-didn’t see anyone!” he cried between a few hurried breaths before his ear was boxed. It sent him sprawling down into the gore and earned a shriek of renewed horror. He was being forced to look at what would likely scar him for life, and thief or no thief, it was a rare sort of person that deserved that kind of treatment. Rarer still, the kind that deserved to be murdered and their corpses profaned. I understood his ends, the same as mine, but it doesn’t mean I truly believed in his means. Besides, when a witness gets all hysterical, he’ll admit to being a bowl of guacamole before daylight ends. “No porkies*! Honest!”

I smirked. Fat guy. Food reference. Hah.

“Who did you see!?” the older man smoldered. “I have two people who saw you running from the room three weeks ago, one more who said you tracked blood through the hallway that same morning.” A swift kick to the thief’s gut punctuated his inquiry. Three weeks? No wonder the stench. I’m going to have to burn my robes after this. Morty will not be pleased.

“He’ll kill me!” he blubbered. “He’ll do things!”

“TELL ME.”

The response was unintelligible, but it communicated terror quite well.

“What else did he say?” I chimed in. “I’m certain that if you prove yourself useful, we’ll be able to make some kind of arrangement for you, Lunchbox,” I took a calm glance at Liam. “Right?”

“W-w-ell he did say something,” he fumbled, wiping a smear of snot from his face. Say what you will about a murder, but true panic isn’t a neat or pretty thing. Not ever.

“What’s that?”

“Something about saving children. Then he made a sound like angry dogs. A whole pack of ‘em. All barking at once! I swear that’s all I know!”

“A sound like what!?”

“Honest!”

I gave Liam a grave look. “A word with you, when you’re done here.”

It was Abyssal. The Dark Speech. It ranks somewhere between pennies on a grindstone and a burning hornet’s nest. Hearing it can shake your sanity, even destroy your mind. I would know, because I speak it. And there’s only a few other kinds of beings that speak Abyssal aside from the folks who’ve learned it through study. I left the way I came, climbing the stairs back to the hallway.

We needed to find a library. Or a church archive. Anything with old books.


* Cockney rhyming slang. Porky pies. “Lies.”

[C. H. Ashpool]

The hallway was a much different scene the second time around; people weren’t hurrying about between errands or heading to their quarters. The corridor was nearly still and almost perfectly silent. The belabored sighs of the stairs echoed all the more as I reached the landing, almost drowning out the quiet shuffling of everyone pretending to go about their own business. One didn’t bother and just stood, slackjawed.

“What do you mean, saving children?” the grey-haired and comely woman pled. Her hands had been knotted and weathered from what had to have been untold years of hard work – likely leather or garment repair. Now they trembled, clutching a bonnet which concealed a half-eaten hunk of bread.

“Too early to tell, miss...”

“Early,” she took a breath. “Eunice Early. The folks here are eager for an answer – anything’s better than just waiting for someone else to be taken.”

I hated being in this position. I didn’t have the answer they needed, but I knew how to get it. The means wouldn’t exactly be something I could share, either. All I needed were a few things to collect and the right questions to ask. The foci were the easy part. It was who I needed to speak to that disturbed me.

More like a what.

“I need to speak to your religious leader. Do you have a priest? A holy-man or healer?”

“We’re trying to avoid the need for a healer, sir.”

“No, no. It’s a matter of professional interest, not practice. Who, for example,” I paused, lowering my voice and trying to phrase this as delicately as possible, “would be tasked with confiscating and cataloguing religious contraband?”

“Prior O’Connell, but why?”

I wasn’t in the business of Why. It just wasn’t in the cards. When ghouls and restless spirits of ancient grudges wreck house, the inevitable Why isn’t the point. It’s the How that matters. Trying to answer “Why” would be purely speculative at this point and it would too-easily get me killed. All it would take is a few questions, and whoever managed to cause this mess would have a new target.

“I’ll get back to you on that. Would you please take me to O’Connell?”

I checked the staircase in the instance Liam was done with his chewtoy, but he wasn’t in sight. We left the workhouse and made our way through the rain to a small, slope-roofed vestry-house near the back of the nearby churchyard. It was separated by little more than a stone path, unassuming and simple and white.

“Prior O’Connell, we’ve a man to see you,” Ms. Early called as she wedged the door open. A fresh faced man, easily in his mid twenties, quickly donned a stole and made himself presentable as he came to the door.

“Ashpool, at your service.”

“O’Connell, at yours. Do come in. Feel free to hang your cloak. It’s dreadfully wet outside.”

"Fine like this."

Having been shown the kindness of a portion of Ms. Early’s baked goods, I dropped a good-sized piece into Morty’s pocket. The rat needed some exercise, but a bite to eat would save me the effort of repairing the hole he would eventually chew in my robe. Ms. Early left us, with my thanks.

“I am investigating the matter at Krindall Hall, brother. Trying to work my head around a few things, and needed to know if I could trouble you for your time.”

“An awful business,” he nodded. “How can I help? I’ve mostly only been called in to perform last rites. I didn't see anything.”

How quickly he jumped to his own defense was interesting, but of no consequence. “I need to browse a few books. Something likely in the archive,” I paused. “Contraband. Or accounts of witch-trials. Wherever you’d keep those kinds of things.”

“You are free to sift through the brazier any time you wish,” he huffed.

“Surely the church has a record of these things. Know thy enemy, and all that.”

“That was Sun Tzu.”

“Son-Who?”

He dismissed the segue with flourished hand. “That information is restricted, Mr. Ashpool.”

“It’ll do more good than bad. I’m following a potential lead. With the correct rites, it could even undo what curse has been laid.”

The moment I said curse, I had his attention.

“That’s right. This is intent, not happenstance. Your cooperation would be appreciated.”

[C. H. Ashpool]

“But why would somebody do something like this? There are innocents!”

In my line of work, innocence is always a relative term. It’s a rare thing to find in true form, especially when it’s hidden away between layers and layers of naïveté. The philosophy of the term gets cloudy as soon as someone begins to take advantage of that very fact.

“And to those trifling few, I’m certain there will be mercy. But should the right hand of your God show mercy to those responsible for this mess,” I paused, “then consider me His left.”

It’s rare for me to speak in these kinds of terms. As often as I’ve rubbed elbows with a malevolent presence, I suppose it’s a little ridiculous that I don’t believe in any greater being. But when faced with a true believer, I find it easiest to leverage his own spiritual vocabulary against him.

Grunting worked wonders when reasoning with trolls.
With statesmen, abstract bureaucratese is the ticket.
Clerics get the ol’ weapons-grade “holy hands.”

This one snorted, though. “What kind of curse are you talking about? What makes you think-“

“The bodies splayed out in a ritual pattern. Both of them facing each other and holding hands, right-to-right, left-to-left.” I showed the brief sketch made of the ritual. “The bodies positioned in infinitas – one’s life energy passed through the other an innumerable number of times before they were both killed,”

“But that could-“

“And the placement of the entrails coincides with all cardinal points. Focus on a direction determines the range and trajectory. This was omni-directional – indicated in every way except up and down. It’s the axis that this whole mess spins on.”

“What kind of-“

“I’m working on that, goddamnit!”

He paled, adjusted his vestments, and stood. “Vulgarization of the Almighty’s name will not be tolerated in this house, Mr. Ashpool.”

I sneered. Respectfully. “You and I both know that his True Name hasn’t been spoken for years. The word you use is itself a vulgarization. And you’re changing the subject.” I gave him the stink-eye. “Are you going to help me, or not?”

He told me I had an odd way of showing it, but he could tell I was sincere. He agreed. He led me down into the bowels of the church – past relics and shelves of confiscated grimoires thrumming with power for those with the belief to fuel them. It was rather well-kept, considering the subject-matter in question. In fact, the dust had been disturbed on these shelves not too long ago. Prior O’Connell lit an oil lantern with his candle and sat in the corner – watching me with a scowl.

The first book, Rothschild's Nyaxxfulatheph, was one on witchcraft, or at least what was a combination of the church’s understanding of it and few texts it had managed to seize. It was all heavily biased stuff, though it gave an impressive nod to the power behind the ritual washing of a household’s floor. Lots on rootwork. The few pages on ritual sacrifice simply identified it as a source of immense power. I set the dense little leather-bound reader aside. I have to hand it to these church types - they might not be the brightest pages in the manuscript, but they sure can bind a book.

The second book had its cover torn from the binding: the title page reading A Sorcerous Guide to Campfire Stories. It shed a considerable amount of light on revolving energies within a bound area. Creating redundancies magnified the fuel behind things like curses, and it became clear that the act of killing was what released potential energy into the world. I started getting a bit nervous that I’d have to sacrifice something to even come close to setting up a counterspell. Page 42 was particularly interesting - serving as an entwined spell tome of summon marshmallow and cast magic-missile. "Fun for parties" it said, merrily. Who even likes campfires, anyway? Who the hell lives in a land of make-believe?

"Bunch-a friggin' nerds, that's who" I muttered.

O’Connell stirred. The prior was slumped in his seat and snoring comfortably. Two hours I've been at this, and he made it too easy. I shifted clockwise at a snail's pace, putting my back between him and my reading material.

A few books more, finally getting to the good stuff, and I’d found a ratty old book on demonology - On Ephemeral Geometries. The real scary stuff. I’m sad to say that a lot of the useful pages had been torn out or were written in script I couldn’t understand. I did find, however, what looked similar to the ritual that had been used. I'd call it an effort of professional sleuthing. Everyone else, well, they'd have noticed the silk bookmark still hanging from between the pages.

“Well if that isn’t a straight line,” I murmured.


GALLOWS CURSE
fig. 1: Locus of Summoning for the Carnifex viduae.
Protector of children, destroyer of their guardians.

I gulped. I located Carnifex viduae in the appendix and flipped to it.


CARNIFEX VIDUAE: Headsman’s Widow
Origin: Radasanthian
Manifestation: Female
Number: CMXIII
Truename: Unknown.
Other names: Executioner’s Bride. Orphan’s Dam.
Rotation: Counter-clockwise
Direction: West-Northwest
Summoning: Invoked only by two lovers, their energies infinitas. The aberration
lingers until its target is beyond reach, has no other targets, or is banished.

Origin: folk legend began with a duke’s daughter whose only son was tried
for treason. Her husband, the executioner for the same duke, was forced to take
his own son’s life, and later, took his own. The widowed noble eked out the rest of
her embittered days, eventually succumbing to death after an unnaturally long life,
having survived the downfall of the entire duchy.

The Carnifex viduae is a vengeful horror or aberration, and when provoked,
will kill untold hundreds until satisfied. Often takes the form of a mass of writhing
tongues, gibbering mouths, and socket-less eyes.

Gulp, again.

[C. H. Ashpool]

I stuffed all three books in my cloak and slunk away into the gloom, gangly and foul-tempered, not unlike an obscenity-muttering daddy long legs. Liam was nowhere to be found, but I reached my lodgings in the East-Wing without too much fuss and set my plunder down on a little Bible-box. The entirety of my cloak had been saturated with a chilly damp, and I was happy to shrug my way out of it. Morty began to dry himself on the footstool and nibbled contentedly at the splinters – an affect more illustrating obsessive-compulsive disorder than boredom.

“What do you think, little guy? Are we in over our head?”

Morty regarded me with a chirrup and resumed nibbling, shearing away bits of wood and pushing them into a pile for later. I smoothed the cowlick on his back as he arched up toward my hand. Rats are funny little guys. Did you know they’re ticklish?

Ok, so I tickle rats. Don’t make it sound weird.

I cracked open Rothschild's Nyaxxfulatheph again and munched on an apple after pulling an old cotton nightshirt over my head. The fat candles dribbled and pooled wax in the pan, a greasy black smoke dancing above the wick. The book spoke of a town spun into disarray by a bitter presence – children disappearing and their caretakers torn to pieces. Talentless sketches of panicked faces and crime scenes appeared from page to page, mostly matching what I saw earlier minus some liberties taken with interpretation. It doesn't necessarily take a major-league summoner to invoke this kind of presence. All this eldritch recipe calls for is a limitless well of negative energy to feed into the ritual, a big enough grudge to justify indiscriminately culling a herd of townsfolk, and (more importantly) a library card.

Dispelling the ritual before it had run its full course would be the hard part. It’s like trying to stop peeing mid-stream, the morning after a marathon of boozing. Yeah, it’s not the nicest thought, but it’s an accurate comparison. There’s an amount of mental effort required that sometimes just doesn’t come naturally, and having a battle of wills with a pissed off aberration will stretch sanity to the brink.

I sighed and took notes, setting upon a little notebook with a special kind of dread that only sophomores reserve for the few hours before a blind date. I hate shopping trips, especially in places like this. Thankfully the Nyaxxfulatheph was helpful enough with the items I’d need. Church scholars aren’t exactly the most talented in summoning, but when it comes down to banishing an evil presence, there’s none better.


Shit I need:

Staff (have).
Goofer dust (check cemetery).
Twopence (poorbox?)
Lump of gold (?)
Mop and bucket
Iron filings
Quantity of water (it’s raining, genius).
Length of string
One iron piton with hammer
Lump of charcoal
Waxing gibbous moon.
Fresh pair of underwear

Checking a calendar, an old relic from the pagan times, I was in luck. Ulftember 27th was just around the corner, and the moon would reach full phase that night. Hopefully that was enough time to get everything I need. That goes double duty for the fresh underwear.

[C. H. Ashpool]

I woke up to the echoes of a distant shriek, and not the usual one I heard from rolling over on my pet rat. This was the pained cry of someone who had seen something that damaged who they were as a person on a profound level.

“Probably one of those Two Wenches, One Chalice reaction things,” I mumbled sleepily, trying to force myself back into a particularly awesome dream. It was one of those dreams that made me rethink the definition Rhabdomancer* as part of my job description. Then came a pounding at my door and a familiar voice – it was Ms. Early. I padded over, undid the latch, and found myself with a hysterical woman in my arms without so much as a good morning.

“Yes?” I said, trying to avoid the whole I just woke up, and I’m male awkward part about wearing a nightshirt. Seriously, I could be a forward sail on a galleon.

She couldn’t even mouth the words, apart from saying “Prior O’Connell.” She looked absolutely green, and not from all the Ireland whatnots going around.

“Please sit,” I said, ushering her to the simple desk and chair in my room. “Hold out your hands.”

She did.

“I’m going to teach you something that’ll help calm you down. It always works for me. That ok? Close your eyes. I promise it won’t hurt, and it’s perfectly safe.”

She nodded, with tears still flowing. Her eyes clamped shut.

I put a peanut in her hand along with Mortiferrofax and let her feel his fur. He chirruped contentedly and disregarded the sobbing woman, gnawing on the woody shell. Feeling around with her other hand, she gasped briefly then resigned to petting the little guy with a few trembling fingers. Say what you will about women and rats not getting along, but if you subject someone to a force utterly out of bounds with their understanding of reality, anything recognizable tends to be welcome. Besides, among his rodent contemporaries, Morty is one charming guy.

There was a crazy amount of latent energy coming from this woman. Even Morty got the feeling that something wasn’t quite right after a while. It was the kind of energy that would only disappear with time. People usually attribute that to shock or memory eroding thought. From what I knew, it was the slow dissipation of energy surrounding the event that lessened the pain.
“This will take just a few minutes. Please sit still.”

I placed her feet in my washbasin full of water to ground her, put some clothes on (the real reason I asked her to close her eyes), took up my walkingstick, and drew all of my focus into divining the form of whatever it was the fresh metaphysical aura came from. I placed a hand on her shoulder and held my breath.

The world went dark at exactly the same moment my eyes glossed over in white. The material plane swirled around me in a storm of faces and forms – I gritted my teeth and tried to pull Ms. Early’s aura to the forefront. It was a sickly yellow feeling, all bile and pain and wretchedness. There was a footprint left behind – not at the scene, but set deep into this woman’s Anima. I hadn’t the skill to repair the damage that was wrought; the foundation of her subconscious would be scarred forever with this oozing and grinning horror. But I saw it. And I saw what it saw. The beginning of a terrible migraine struck like a tent-spike into my skull.

The aberration had manifested physically in a chair, of all things, but that was subject to change. O’Connell had sat in the library and fallen asleep, and while the Carnifex Viduae watched me as I researched it, it patiently waited for me to leave so it could rip the priest apart. There was a malevolent presence in this aether, though. I felt my headache twist and roil, and its face grinned back at me from the murk. It knew I was researching it before. It knows I’m watching now.

I forced my way back out, my vision returning and the odor of embalming fluid fogging up from the washbasin. Morty had retreated to under my bed.

“This just got a lot more difficult. Ms. Early, I need you to accompany me from here on. Trust me, it's for your own safety. We need to go shopping.”



• Rhabdomancer: One who performs magic with stiff rods. (Shut up.)