The Noose Tightens
Esaia Eldridge sips from his tea with great dislike. Sweden is a nation of coffee-drinkers, not tea. Why, not even the most poor merchant of his youth would drink this. Although, in truth, it’s not the tea that bothers him, but the summon.
The summon of Tam Linn. One of the prerogatives of the Seven is that they have the right to interrogate, summon and call on supernaturals that have to do with their investigations as they like. In the past, some of have called that privilegie excessive, but never to their ears.
Tam Linn enters Evers almost unnoticed. His entry… Esaia have met some of others of the Seven. They’re the kind people who demand attention, whose charisma will draw eyes from every corner of whatever place they’re at. But Tam Linn is the opposite, capable of hiding what he is, which in one aspect makes him so much more frightening.
Because, Esaia notes as Linn seats himself in the table he’s picked next to a window, it’s always the quiet ones.
Linn starts to speak without any regard for proper courtesy.”When you told the teachers of Ochre about how your soul slept in the Vermillion Square, you said something about a voice that gave you that particular piece of advice. Could you please elaborate on that?” Eldridge stiffens at the bland question. Linn wasn’t part of that conversation, and he hadn’t arrived in Fallowfell at the time– of that he is sure.
He clears his throat. “That voice… its timber was genderless, with each word pronounced clearly and without any accent.” “And you heard it but twice?” Esaia nods. Eldrige activates his magic subtly, attempting to discover anything about Tam Linn. His senses reveal… nothing? Tam Linn’s soul weighs nothing. In fact, his body is lighter than a feather, and while some of the fae are have strange anatomies, their bodies should weigh something.
“Did the speaker ever give up a name?” Eldridge shakes his head in the negative. Tam Linn makes a disappointed noise and stands up. “Well. That concludes the interview. And”, now he fixes Eldrige to his chair with a serious look,” the reason why the weight of my soul is zero is simple; I have none.”
With those parting words he exits Evers, leaving Esaia with the question of how he knew.
Perenelle Flamel stabs Sara Eksjö with the needle. She injects the conoction that has Rune’s blood and some other reagents with healing properties and she hopes for the best. Rune and Merith quietly watches her.
“How…. how long until we know if she is going to get any better?” Rune asks. “I could lie and tell you that she will wake up any second”, Perenelle begins,” but you’d smell the lie. We simply cannot tell. She could wake up in ten minutes, ten hours or perhaps never.”
“But-” “Rune, worrying about something that might happen, or might not happen is a exercise in futility. Go to your lessons. I’ll tell you if something happens.” “But I should-” “Rune”, Merith adds,” listen to Perenelle.”
He sighs. “You promise to tell me?” They both nod. He tastes the air, obviously attempting to find out any subterfuge of theirs. “Alright”, he concedes and exits the health-bay.
Perenelle takes up a fashion magazine and starts to read, while watching Sara’s sleeping form from the corner of her eyes. “This didn’t go as I had planned”, Merith says after a while. Without taking her eyes of the pages of the magazine Perenelle retorts,” events rarerly do. Would you believe me if I said that the Plague was supposed to kill one village, and one village only? That it all spiraled out of my control? Of course, what happened afterwards was my fault…”
The trucker gives the man sitting next to him an odd glance. “You sure you want to get off here? This is the end of the road. You got Fallowfell, then just a bunch of mountains and snow?”
The man, tall with blue eyes and long black hair smiles at the trucker.
“I am on a visit to my granddaughter“, he responds.
In Northern Sweden, at a rest-stop, several bikers lounge outside of a bar. Each of them is wearing black leathers, with the head of a white wolf on either their gloves or their backs.
Their easy, casual manner is disturbed as a high roar pierces the silence. The doors to the bar flies open, and a man with blue eyes and black hair strides out. He whistles, and the other bikers gather around him.
“Listen up! Fenrir has escaped the Bastille. Odds are that he is going to make his way to Fallowfell. So we’re going to gather some of the packs, and-” “No you will not.” Several of the bikers snarl, showcasing golden eyes and long claws at the unexpected messenger.
Yellow Carcosa pushes himself through the crowd, or rather, the crowd parts before his unnatural advance. “I come bearing news from the Council.”
The man with blue eyes inclines his head. “You, Garm, are not to enter Fallowfell. Do so and your life is forfeit.” Yellow Carcosa spins around, like a dancer and looks each of the bikers in the eyes. Their yellow eyes become human and their claws shorten involuntarily. “No werewolf is to enter Fallowfell. Do so and their lives are forfeit.”
“So I am to leave my daughter alone? At the mercy of Tam Linn? And what will happen when my father and Tam Linn collide? Who will pick up the pieces?!”
Yellow Carcosa continues to spin. The snow around him has vanished, and the ground beneath his naked feet is brown and putrid black. “Questions. So many questions you have..” Carcosa stops spinning.”I’ll forward them to the Council, who, of course, will consider them seriously”, he offers, mockingly.
“I am sure they will”, Garm says, neutrally.
“In the meantime, I’d like to focus your attention on something; the Council hasn’t forbidden contact with Fallowfell, and while you can’t teach an old dog to sit, I’d suggest… hmm, calling her maybe?”
“Yes that-” Garm blinks. Carcosa is gone.