Fantasy Beasts & Burdens

[Pith]

"He took sketches of the marks on the bone, and yes, he took Thom with."

The doctor rested his chin in a hand, the other supporting the arm at the elbow as he regarded Fredrick's attempt to coordinate what looked to be an increasingly uncooperative body encumbered by tremors and the return of some sort of fever. Or the worsening of the fever, more than likely. He wished he had brought ice into the bedroom, as he was loathe to leave the man alone, but he imagined getting to a point where he could deal with the fever was going to be the least of his present concerns.

"I'm really going to have to insist you get back into bed, Fredrick. You look... distinctly unwell, especially for a simple procedure."

* * *

The eerie sound of echoes as he'd spoken had been nearly lost on Thom, who wasn't attuned to listen for anything strange, but something had washed over him for a brief second as it occurred. It was hard to distinguish that unconscious unease from the general feeling the shop instilled in him, but to his credit, he'd close his mouth shut tight at the very instance he'd been cautioned to silence, and it was lost to the sensation of the shop almost immediately.

The scrutiny was hardly welcomed but he said nothing and simply continued to glance between the woman and her motionless companion as her hand jotted over the pages of shapes and Robert worked behind him.

He was grateful for Robert's return, though he couldn't speak to whether or not it had been speedy. With the music on such a tight loop it was impossible to gauge how long they'd been there, two minutes or twenty. But the woman seemed a little more human when her gaze wasn't locked on him and when she spoke to Robert. It was almost normal, though given the setting that was a stretch. At Robert's look he nodded, satisfied in his guess to bring more than had originally been requested. From his pocket he extracted a number of coins and set them on the table in pairs. He had to pause a moment to rip out a few stitches on the inside of his jacket sleeve's cuff, emptying a couple of coins out from within, bringing the total on the table up to the specified amount.

As for the story, he could only hope Robert didn't require him to pay that part as well. He wasn't terribly adept at telling them, and had no earthly clue what sort of tale might satisfy a listener in a place like this.

 

[sspky]

“Of course I’m bloody unwell. That useless ponce stuck me with a curse, didn’t be? Fuck,” Fredrick replied, “Bring me something to take the edge off, alright, and where are my damned shoes?”

Shirt finally buttoned up, he turned in place, scanning the floor for any sign of his lost footwear. He pushed a stray bang from of his damp forehead, before running his fingers through his dark hair, his nails scratching at his skelp.

This really wasn’t very good. Esther could be a proper bitch when she wanted to be, and Samual Crane was still at large. There was a certain figurative (and often, regrettably, literal) incest to their motley circle of acquaintances. There were only so many approachable sorcerers, witches, and collectors of the arcane gathered about London, and due to the considerable mortality rate linked to their peculiar vocation, the number was always shrinking.

If they’d made an enemy of Mr. Crane, it was entirely possible they’d also made an enemy of Esther.

* * *​

Luckily for Thom, no story would be required of him. After placing the small box on the table, Robert knelt down with his notebook and began to write. What it was he offered the old woman would likely remain a mystery, his writing small and the page turned away from Thom’s easy viewing.

Ah, but did Esther love what she read. She had a wild, hooting sort of laugh entirely out of balance next to her prim and proper manner of speech. As she laughed, her shoulders and torso remained ridged, her fingers tapped at the table, and her head bobbed up and down like some unfeathered chicken.

“Good, good,” she said, catching her breath, “Take the box, and take that poor bastard,” she gestured to Thom, “And be gone from here. I’ve too much work to do, and you’re starting to bother me.

At the other end of the narrow, cluttered room, a knocking began at the door.

 

[Pith]

"Haven't the faintest," he lied, having spotted the footwear under the bed when he'd first entered the room. Should Fredrick attempt to find them there he would have to kneel down, which would be the best time to make an attempt with the syringe. Failing that, the man had a fever, tremors, and a fresh stomach wound. He might not be an accomplished fighter, but in this case he was certain where the more efficient place to land a punch would be.

Robert's note mentioning Fredrick to be 'prone to stupidity' came to mind, and he wondered what the other possibly thought to achieve by leaving on his own with unknown wrongs working over his body. Clearly his partner had some sort of plan, so what use was there in running off after him? Like as not they might miss each other, and if he wasn't feeling well after a few short hours of the initial attack it was only likely to get worse.

"And I expect that is what Robert has gone to find out and deal with." He pulled his medical bag up to the table, placing it just in front of the waiting instrument, and pulled out a couple of small glass bottles, glancing at them. "I'm not certain any pill I give you would stay down," he mused. "But really, what are you hoping to do? He's already got a head start on you, he'll likely be back before you make it anywhere."

* * *

Thom made no attempt to view whatever it was Esther took such delight in. Her payment was her own, and Robert's tales were none of his business. The sight of the old woman laughing was enough of a sight for him, though he had to wonder if Robert really was funny, or if it was the sort of humor you could only appreciate if you were a little fucked up and enjoyed all the occult nonsense.

He expected so, so it would be wasted on him anyways.

There was a certain small amusement in being labeled a 'poor bastard' by an old crone he didn't even know, and wondered if it was really that obvious how much he did not want to be there. Still, he was glad to take their leave of the place. Less gladded by the knocking. Part of him immediately jumped ahead to a self-assurance that it was probably nothing--another strange customer come to the dark little shop for unusual wares. Another quieter, more paranoid part of him considered the ultimate truth of really not wanting to run into anyone else who might be looking for something in this place.

"Want me to go on ahead?" he asked Robert softly, a hand sliding easily into his jacket pocket, though it felt odd to break his silence after having been warned. Nevermind Robert was like as not better prepared than him for whoever they could encounter in such a place, he simply had an automatic habit of putting himself between...well, usually the doctor and anything physically risky. But the doctor wasn't here, and he was meant to be helping someone else.

 

[sspky]

“Bloody useless,” he muttered, his hand absently scratching at his newly stitched wound through his shirt.

Robert could handle himself in most situations that didn’t involve direct social interaction or displaying any form of proper decorum. Fredrick was very well aware of this. A quick trip down to the old crones, a trade of services, a swapping of stories, and all would be well and good. But there was a singular reason the two were seldom far apart where work was concerned, and the memory of a bargain made five years earlier brought a throbbing sensation to the tattoo at the center of his chest.

Thumb picking at the severed tip of his ring finger, he turned on the doctor again and snapped, “I’ll take the pills all the same. Or, give me a shot of something -- cocaine. Do you have a gun?”

* * *​

Tucking the little box away in his pocket, Robert offered Thom a shake of the head, apparently unconcerned. Whoever else Esther chose to entertain was none of his business, although he suspected the old woman would want the two of them gone immediately if she had another guest at her doorstep.

When the door swung open and the portly, crooked frame of one Samual Crane scurried into the room, Robert’s expression changed dramatically.

“You?” the round man spat, his left eye opened wide with shock, and his right still swollen completely shut. “It’s you!”

Robert made a little hissing noise and lunged, his pistol already in hand. Behind them, the giant of a man lurched to his feet, his chair toppling over behind him. He was, indeed, as unusual as the taxidermied specimens cluttering the room. While Robert was unusually tall for a Londoner, this man towered above even he, his head nearly touching the ceiling. The golems arms were short and thick, and his hands disturbingly large and long. When he rose, the scent of formaldehyde rose with him.

The audible distortion in the room grew sharply, and that unsettling sound behind the music rushed to the surface, filling the room with the off-kilter cacophony of a menagerie. There were birdsongs and crow caws, yowling, hissing, bleating, barking, braying and naying, but every sound, much like the stuffed animals about the room, was jarringly inaccurate; as if whatever was making the noses were trying their best, and failing, at imitation.

Spotting the familiar pistol, Mr. Crane turned heel and fled back out the door, a string of ‘Be gone! Get away! Leave me be!’ trailing behind him. Without hesitation, Robert charged after him.