Fantasy 𝕯𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝕷𝖆𝖒𝖇'𝖘 𝕮𝖑𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 - IC

[Cosmic_Chaos]

Alixa Kirja

Christmas. Everyone always went wild at Christmas, and Alixa could never understand it. It was always considered a small private affair with family, so she didn't see why it was such a great thing. She supposed snow was something to always look forward to, and she got to wear her thick winter over-coat, but other than that and getting to see her father and brother a little bit more often, she couldn't understand it.

So, when she got a letter from Merlin for some reasearch, of course she was excited. It was something she could do easily, find a book, read it through, note down anything related, find another book and repeat. Although her reasearch will go a bit faster as she was planning on using her family Library, already knowing all of the books in the 2 story building, so maybe this wouldn't take as long as doing research with Merlin in his lab. However, she supposed it wouldn't hurt to continue research at the Cavendish Manor Library. And so, orders received, subject understood, she was already making her way to the library, passing her father on the way.

"Alixa! Good morning, sweetheart. Where are you off to so early in the morning?" Her father asked, his kind eyes, a gentle blue behind moon-rimmbed glasses already wise awake. Like her, a morning person, unlike her brother.

"I have something to look up in the library, this shouldn't take the day. However If I can't find what I need, I might have to go to the Manor, Unfortunate on Christmas, but work is work." She shrugged earning a chuckle. Her father gently cupped her head and brought her closer, leaving a gentle kiss on the top of her head. She fent the light scratching of his beard on her head and she felt like a child all over again, even if it was only for a brief moment.

"I understand, don't worry. And I'm sure your brother would also understand. Now is this top secret or am I allowed to help?" He asked, amusement shining and Alixa couldn't help but let out a gentle laugh, a smile gracing her face. "Its only specific plants and flower properties, I doubt its top secret. You can help me carry the lighter books, father?" She offered, and he laughed.

"Cheeky! But of course! A little bit of Father-daughter bonding couldn't hurt. Maybe your brother would like to join us, if he feels up to reading that is." He suggested and Alixa couldn't help but smile serenely. "Perhaps. Now, I'll race you to the second floor?" She asked and already making herway, leaving her laughing father, who sounded like he was already moving to catch up.

"The Cheek on you girl! I do wonder where you get it!" He laughed as they made their way and she couldn't help but smack the bookshelf on Botany ungracefully before turning to her father, jutting out her hip to look at him amused. "Uhuh. As if you're not cheeky yourself, father." She sniped back, but the pair of them knew it was simply banter. After all, despite all the looks she inherited from her Mother, as well as her inteligence, she was brought up by her father. Who did his damnest to bring her and her brother up, and she couldn't be more thankfull. She grabbed a few books, heafty tomes and hard-backed books, while her father grabbed the thinner books that were on the top shelves. Alixa was reasonably tall, 172cm tall, her father was over a head taller. So he could easily reach the top shelves without the need of a stepladder, being 201 cm. Her brother semed to inherite the tall genes as well, being 183cm.

They made their way to the nearby desks, there for convenience of course, and sat down. Both of them had no hesitation as they opened the thickest book that they could both grab their hands on and started reading.

"Any specific plan we're looking for?" He asked and Alixa hummed.

"We're looking for plants with medicinal properties. So I can assume he's trying to find a way to make it easier to help heal or cure ailments. Or help Sir Godfrey. And this is considered work, on Christmas. Merlin must know this is the best present he could give me. Once we've gone through the books we have here, I think I shall take a trip to the Cavendish Manor Library and continue my research there." She started talking, but it ended in mumbled thoughts, to which her father dutifully listened to. And like that, they spent the day going through the many, many books. They ate small snacks and drank tea that was served to them by their in-house maid, and it was late by the time they had finished. They joined her brother at the dining table, and both her father and her brother managed to convince her to stay the evening to rest before going to the Manor tomorrow to continue the reasearch.

And because she couldn't say no to family, and it was a special day, she agreed. So when her father and herself went to read for pleasure and not for work, it was a pleasent surprise when her brother joined them.

Perhaps she wasn't excited for christmas, but that was fine. Especially if her christmas' were like this, she doesn't know if she'd give this up for the world. Sat next to the heater that was her father with her brother's gentle presence nearby, Alixa couldn't help but melt sleepily into bliss while reading.

If she fell asleep on the sofa and had to be carried to her room, well, that was no one elses business.

coded by: s e v e n

 

[Clouds]

Zane Dawson

The cheerful voices that echoed silently throughout the alleyways, the cold winter breeze and the decorations that gracefully lit up the otherwise plain streets could be viewed from every silly little corner. Wondering if these people were putting on their so-called masks in order to pretend that everything was just fine in their lives or were they truly happy that the holidays had arrived and that they could spend it with their loved ones? Honestly, it was a fifty-fifty percent for both of the ‘ideas’ that welled up inside of Zane’s mind as he watched them skipping around without a care. Some however, the underdogs as they were called, couldn’t bother and just wore their true feelings onto their faces without forcing it. One could separate them if they looked well enough or if they wanted to look that way as it was all about choices they had to make on their own and not everybody was up to that task these days… Why was it even necessary to wear those smiles most of the day in the first place? One would only become more exhausted about it. He ran a hand through the dark strands of hair which were cool to the touch, even the tops of his fingers which were partially frozen could feel so. As he exhaled, the smoke formed into a small cloud but the smell of it was less to be liked by most. Holding his cigarette in one hand as he was slumped against the frosted wall behind him, looking up to the scenery in front of him where the occasional carriage with lots of people went past to go to their parties. Ah, how he missed the smell of his dearly beloved… The touch of her slender hand that would gently caress him which managed to let his feelings of sorrow eb away, her beautifully glistening eyes that would look straight at him, the soft hair that was as white as snow. Gritting his teeth as he remembered her clearly on these days as the snow was softly falling down to the ground, slowly melting away from his sight just like she did.

Feeling the familiar heart ache once more even though she had been gone for quite some time now, she still haunted him in his memories due to the fact that he couldn’t stop the fact from her passing away in time. The “if only” was still vastly engraved into him which resulted in feelings of guilt in return. Trapped in the prison he set up for himself, trapping his beloved in it all together which made him fall even deeper into the depths of his mind. A pitch black darkness that had caught him into its slimy grasp, like quicksand but nastier and slower than one could hope for. An endless hallway with no light at the end, at least not now. Perhaps it was because he didn’t want to escape from her embrace that he put himself into this position, perhaps he wanted to punish himself? Zane himself didn’t even know the answer on those questions, only the fact that he didn’t know how to get out anymore which was terrifying.

As he no longer wanted to wallow in self-pity, he decided to go for a walk instead of just lingering around this dreadful house. Covering himself up so only his eyes and above were visible due to the cold, and also so that he didn’t have to bother to put up this so-called genuine smile that people expected from him while passing by them, merely nodding whenever he was greeted or wished a happy holiday. This was fine for him, he could live with this.

Dozens of smells emerged the closer he got to the shops spread around, the most specific one being the bakeries as they were creating some marvellous sweets, even more than other holidays which piqued his interest as he had yet to eat, skipping breakfast wasn’t exactly the brightest of choices after all. Stopping here and there until he got to the one with the best of scents, letting his eyes roam over the several displayed pastries until some caught his eye. After contemplating on whether to buy or not for a good minute or two, he went into the shop and was almost overwhelmed by the scents as in here they were even more present than outside. His stomach rumbled which caused him to scrape his throat out of embarrassment. Ah… he should have eaten at least an apple or something before venturing out of his premises.

Ordering a mince pie which looked absolutely delicious, together with some gingerbread and a chocolate chip cookie that seemed like it was about to melt once he would bite from the treat. Licking his lips before sinking into his pie once outside of the bakery. The meat was perfectly seasoned, this mixed together with some hard-boiled eggs, ginger and dried fruits. It made his day feel just that bit better. While taking a bite once in a while, he made forth his walk, passing by the several buildings, including some clothing stores, gift shops, the library, and so on.

coded by: s e v e n ​

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[Ravenborn]

Oriana du Corbeau

Thunk. The dull thud of an arrow kissing the target dead center resonated through the training grounds, followed by a low, stifled yawn from a bleary-eyed archer. Idly, Oriana reached for another arrow from her quiver. Dawn had scarcely broken, and the deserted grounds that came with the incredibly early hours of the morn found itself the perfect time for her to practice; she preferred to be neither disturbed nor observed by any other than her beloved raven friend. Naturally, she would justify it as a necessity for her mind to be sharp as her tongue was quick, but she knew herself too well: the prideful streak that ran through her being, scarlet as the light of a dying sunset, would not have allowed another to watch her fail.

Most of the week ran itself quite the same way: she would sneak down to the courtyard and take her leave before another would set foot in the space, where she would loose arrow after arrow as her fingers flirted for familiarity with the newfound grooves and weight that came with her new lover. It had gone far better than Oriana was expecting, honestly. Although she had hoped for at least a little bit of a head start, what with her extensive experience with a slingshot- she had been pleasantly surprised by how remarkably unforeign the sacred brass weapon felt when held; bow and hand rejoiced as though they had known each other for a lifetime.

Still, she welcomed the one fewer thing to worry about on her rather large platter, laden already with plenty of mixed feelings about her present circumstances. Ironic enough that she, creature of the night, stood in the snow, bathed in the soft caress of daybreak; more absurd still was the opulent, embroidered coin pouch that presently sat at her desk back in her quarters, each gold and silver piece weighing on her mind. The Knights were compensated well for their work. Othello had mentioned it in passing out of consideration of her unspoken concerns about being able to continue to feed the poor of Southwark if she took on work with the knights, but this was excessive. Wealth and power, ever the poisonous temptress, and she deigned to share a dangerous dance of self-control with it. It was not a position she had ever expected, or hoped, to find herself in.

Creasing her brow slightly, Oriana brought up the ornate bow, anchoring the bowstring by the corner of her thinly pursed lips. She, living as the nobility did?

Careless, thoughtless. Corrupt.

“I refuse,” she asserted aloud, and as though the thought had stung her, she let fly the precisely nocked arrow.

Much to her chagrin, the arrow lodged itself in the wood just ever so slightly off-center, as though in subtle challenge to her statement. Miffed, she lowered her bow, and subconsciously spun the mildly oversized ring that sat upon her left index finger. The ring was not eye-catching, boasting no precious jewel, and sometimes threatened to slip right off her finger. It was hardly made for the slender hands of a woman, for she had nicked it under the nose of its male owner, and was visually out of place. But it was a piece that held Oriana’s interest, one that she was almost sorry she stole, one that she would never part ways with for anything as shallow as monetary compensation. On the ring, expertly engraved, almost invisible unless one held up her hand for closer inspection, was a singular line of Latin text: Noli umquam oblivisci quis es.

Never forget who you are.

The chilly winter air, so bitterly reminiscent of the night she lost Maria, took hold of something in her nose and twisted it, and for the first time since she found something of herself in her work as a fleet-footed, talented criminal, she felt something close to crying again. The years that she had spent steeling herself, undivided devotion to her cause, believing truly that she had agency for change threatened to crumble before her eyes; once more she felt naked in the wind that mercilessly lashed against her skin. Seemingly sensing her distress, the raven that had been silently observing from a gnarled tree left its perch and landed upon her shoulder, emitting a low gurgling croak all the while as though to share in her unprompted sorrow.

Little time she had, though, to lose herself in the vast white emptiness, for she had heard it before the figure came into sight, the sound of someone coming her way, footsteps light and unfocused. A panicked woman, she thought, and not one trained in combat. The ample information she had gleaned through exercise of her experience as a thief gave her enough time to compose herself; and by the time the middle-aged servant bearing the terrible news came into view, Oriana’s expression had rearranged itself to one of warm interest, mellow hazel eyes betraying none of the episode of uncertainty that had occurred earlier.

Oriana thanked her for letting her know about the details of her first mission; had a little chat with the servant about her plans, if any, with her family, and pressed extra shillings into her palms to get her children something nice, much to the delight of the woman, who gushed about the lovely confectioneries in the local bakery as the new knight listened on.

“And cakes, Lady Palamedes, with chocolate cream upon the borders! Most pleased would be the young’uns, when they hear of it.”

Oriana smiled. “Well then, off you go. Offer my regards to the youngest.”

“Certainly, my lady-” the servant woman piped up, and Oriana held up a hand pausing her. If there was one thing that made her uncomfortable beyond all that has happened thus far, it was this.

“Oriana. Oriana is fine, when no one else is around,” she interrupted, before breaking into a grin, “ we’re not that different, been newly knighted myself, and all of this Lady this and that talk is unsettling.”

“If you so wish, then, Lady-” the servant catches herself, and still visibly unwilling to address Oriana by her name, fumbled for another term of respect she could accord. “Miss- Ma’am Du Corbeau?”

Oriana sighs, and nodded amusedly, indicating that the servant was free to go. As she watched the woman disappear into the distance, conflicted feelings returned anew- only this time, mixed with just anger at the news that had been brought to her.

Five children, dead on Christmas eve. Children with loving parents, much like the servant woman she had just spoken to. Children who would be missed. Her thoughts from earlier lingered like the acrid aftersmell from a long drag of a cigar, but had this not been the reason she had agreed to her current situation? The innocently-nursed spark of a dream for a better place, except now in a capacity greater than just the slum-dwellers of Southwark.

There would be days, months, even years ahead to dissect what it means to be a knight. To find harmony between the use of power and the pitfalls of decadence. But for now, all turbulent seas part in the name of human life. Noli umquam oblivisci quis es. Knight or criminal, she was always just human, connected to others through common humanity, hurting when they suffer, celebrating when they triumph. The spark she held close to her breast, a newborn who had not known the world, she would tread hellfire and brimstone for. The spark, fed with the fuel of injustice and suffering, roars into inferno.

And whatever comes my way, she thought, this I will always remember.

She lifts her bow, and the last arrow leaves her bowstring.

“We’re going, Licorice. Don’t want to spectacularly fail my first mission, now.”

Bird and a woman, picturesque in the snow of Christmas time, gradually painted themselves into the horizon, the last arrow forgotten- she had not paused to check where it landed. But Oriana knew- by the absence of a heavy thunk as she turned to leave- where it had gone.

Swaying gently, cradled by the wintry zephyr- the final arrow sat defiantly, dead center between the split wooden fragments of the first.

coded by: s e v e n ​

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[Shadow]

Elian Shackleton

Snow crunched lightly underfoot, the frozen coat on the tree branches crackling slightly in the fresh, chilling breeze which swept sharply through the gardens. Though, winter's sounds were far from its most salient feature: indeed, the sounds of people were eager to erase the subtleties of nature's melody, even early in the day, night's mist still swirling shyly over walls.

The brusque touch of ice in the air, the way it stabbed his lungs with each inhale of breath drew a slight smile across his lips and he turned his face skywards.
It was a rare thing to see him outside before the birds had begun their songs in earnest, but today, apparently, was meant to be special.

Gifts around a hearty fireplace, the laughter and eager stubby fingers of childhood reaching for bright ribbons to tear asunder, weary parents giving in to easy smiles for a holy occasion such as this, while strangers in the streets found the vigor to greet each other generously as they passed on their pleasant errands for the young day. Or, so it was meant to be.

Elian sought a place to sit and was rewarded with a dry patch on the bench beneath the boughs of an evergreen tree, though it stole the tender warmth of the winter sun even as it gave shelter from the snow. He was only mildly perturbed, having intended to rest only a short time before returning indoors to revel in the coziness therein.

It was, perhaps, the fault of all he had seen during his first few months as Gareth the Knight that led him to view Cavendish manor as a place which could contain comfort and homeliness at all. Certainly the threats that lay without strengthened the appeal of the solace within.
Or perhaps it was simply the effect of the inhospitality that could be felt when one remained exposed to the brunt of the English winter for too long, as he often was these days when he went out for a bout of exercise on the secluded footpaths within the city.

Whatever the reason for it, whatever his hesitations may have been concerning those feelings, it was a part of who he was now and he was no longer eager to relinquish it as he once had been.
For even as the eager anticipation of the day was cruelly, violently torn from the grasp of a people who so genuinely craved it, at once Elian was fortified with the knowledge that he was no humble bystander who could only wring two hands together and appeal to deities for salvation. He yet stood among those who were best positioned to unearth the night's horrors and drag them into the light where they would find no succor.

All at once there was the distinct whisper of an arrow loosing and striking some target: it echoed through the courtyard and he recognized that he had been attending not at all to his surroundings until this moment. He had no sightline to the archer and could not even be certain whether they had just arrived or if he had managed to reach his current post while neither noticing them nor alerting them to his own presence. Suspended inside a choice to be made, he made no move to stand, to find, and engage with them, nor to leave, preferring not to disturb the archer's practise. Instead, his numbing hands burrowed deeper into his coat pockets while his back pressed more firmly against the cold bench to bring back some stability to his skipping mind.

Now, then, his focus was attuned well enough to catch the softened footsteps of a maid tracking through the courtyard. Though he could not have explained it, his breathing slowed, chest tensed, and he grew motionless, waiting, statuesque, to see whether her destination was himself or the archer. Neither could he explain the wave of calm that rushed through him when no figure appeared on the path that led to his perch. Rather than linger another moment, he took the opportunity to step quietly toward the manor while a distant conversation sprung up in the archer's part of the courtyard.

Several long, slow breaths had eased the tightness in his chest before he reached the door and kicked the clinging snow from his boots. He moved inside to the greeting of warmth and could just make out the hushed noises of activity in other rooms and hallways; yet around him, all was still. He allowed himself a moment's pause as sensation threaded needily into his neglected hands and toes. Then, he gathered himself and strode toward the stairs, intending to discard his coat in his room and exchange the thin blouse and vest underneath with some warmer garment.
Elian certainly neither flinched nor cringed when a sudden voice called out to him by his official name.
"Sir Gareth! My apologies, I checked your room and it was empty; I didn't know where you were."

He looked up the staircase and saw the voice had not come from behind him after all, rather it had reverberated somewhat through the hall.
"I was unaware someone was looking for me. Has something come up?"

"Oh, it's terrible, sir! There's been a massacre in the night, and at a boarding school no less!" She wavered then, fighting an evident battle with the tears springing into her wide eyes. "And it's Christmas," she spoke at nearly a whisper.

"Oh," he echoed, "I'm sorry."

That seemed to surprise her, as she wiped a quick hand across her face, although it also had the effect of reminding her of the full message she bore. "Oh, well sir, the carriages are being readied for yourself, and for the other Knights. They may have already pulled around, if you're ready?"
Elian shook his head at once without thinking, fully distracted by the preparations he hadn't been making and neither knew he needed to make.

"Nevermind, I'll be ready shortly enough. Thank you," he said as a quiet dismissal, passing her by on the staircase.

She turned to watch him as he slipped past her, perhaps shocked at the pallor of his face or disturbed by his response devoid of any true reaction to the slaughter of children, on the eve of the Christmas holiday.

With time now pressing upon him, Elian did not undress upon reaching his room, but only collected a pair of gloves and a scarf, hoping it would suffice to keep him from freezing in what now promised to be a long day spent at the mercy of winter's whims.

coded by: s e v e n ​

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Spoiler: uncoded

Snow crunched lightly underfoot, the frozen coat on the tree branches crackling slightly in the fresh, chilling breeze which swept sharply through the gardens. Though, winter's sounds were far from its most salient feature: indeed, the sounds of people were eager to erase the subtleties of nature's melody, even early in the day, night's mist still swirling shyly over walls.

The brusque touch of ice in the air, the way it stabbed his lungs with each inhale of breath drew a slight smile across his lips and he turned his face skywards.
It was a rare thing to see him outside before the birds had begun their songs in earnest, but today, apparently, was meant to be special.

Gifts around a hearty fireplace, the laughter and eager stubby fingers of childhood reaching for bright ribbons to tear asunder, weary parents giving in to easy smiles for a holy occasion such as this, while strangers in the streets found the vigor to greet each other generously as they passed on their pleasant errands for the young day. Or, so it was meant to be.

Elian sought a place to sit and was rewarded with a dry patch on the bench beneath the boughs of an evergreen tree, though it stole the tender warmth of the winter sun even as it gave shelter from the snow. He was only mildly perturbed, having intended to rest only a short time before returning indoors to revel in the coziness therein.

It was, perhaps, the fault of all he had seen during his first few months as Gareth the Knight that led him to view Cavendish manor as a place which could contain comfort and homeliness at all. Certainly the threats that lay without strengthened the appeal of the solace within.
Or perhaps it was simply the effect of the inhospitality that could be felt when one remained exposed to the brunt of the English winter for too long, as he often was these days when he went out for a bout of exercise on the secluded footpaths within the city.

Whatever the reason for it, whatever his hesitations may have been concerning those feelings, it was a part of who he was now and he was no longer eager to relinquish it as he once had been.
For even as the eager anticipation of the day was cruelly, violently torn from the grasp of a people who so genuinely craved it, at once Elian was fortified with the knowledge that he was no humble bystander who could only wring two hands together and appeal to deities for salvation. He yet stood among those who were best positioned to unearth the night's horrors and drag them into the light where they would find no succor.

All at once there was the distinct whisper of an arrow loosing and striking some target: it echoed through the courtyard and he recognized that he had been attending not at all to his surroundings until this moment. He had no sightline to the archer and could not even be certain whether they had just arrived or if he had managed to reach his current post while neither noticing them nor alerting them to his own presence. Suspended inside a choice to be made, he made no move to stand, to find, and engage with them, nor to leave, preferring not to disturb the archer's practise. Instead, his numbing hands burrowed deeper into his coat pockets while his back pressed more firmly against the cold bench to bring back some stability to his skipping mind.

Now, then, his focus was attuned well enough to catch the softened footsteps of a maid tracking through the courtyard. Though he could not have explained it, his breathing slowed, chest tensed, and he grew motionless, waiting, statuesque, to see whether her destination was himself or the archer. Neither could he explain the wave of calm that rushed through him when no figure appeared on the path that led to his perch. Rather than linger another moment, he took the opportunity to step quietly toward the manor while a distant conversation sprung up in the archer's part of the courtyard.

Several long, slow breaths had eased the tightness in his chest before he reached the door and kicked the clinging snow from his boots. He moved inside to the greeting of warmth and could just make out the hushed noises of activity in other rooms and hallways; yet around him, all was still. He allowed himself a moment's pause as sensation threaded needily into his neglected hands and toes. Then, he gathered himself and strode toward the stairs, intending to discard his coat in his room and exchange the thin blouse and vest underneath with some warmer garment.
Elian certainly neither flinched nor cringed when a sudden voice called out to him by his official name.
"Sir Gareth! My apologies, I checked your room and it was empty; I didn't know where you were."

He looked up the staircase and saw the voice had not come from behind him after all, rather it had reverberated somewhat through the hall.
"I was unaware someone was looking for me. Has something come up?"

"Oh, it's terrible, sir! There's been a massacre in the night, and at a boarding school no less!" She wavered then, fighting an evident battle with the tears springing into her wide eyes. "And it's Christmas," she spoke at nearly a whisper.

"Oh," he echoed, "I'm sorry."

That seemed to surprise her, as she wiped a quick hand across her face, although it also had the effect of reminding her of the full message she bore. "Oh, well sir, the carriages are being readied for yourself, and for the other Knights. They may have already pulled around, if you're ready?"
Elian shook his head at once without thinking, fully distracted by the preparations he hadn't been making and neither knew he needed to make.

"Nevermind, I'll be ready shortly enough. Thank you," he said as a quiet dismissal, passing her by on the staircase.

She turned to watch him as he slipped past her, perhaps shocked at the pallor of his face or disturbed by his response devoid of any true reaction to the slaughter of children, on the eve of the Christmas holiday.

With time now pressing upon him, Elian did not undress upon reaching his room, but only collected a pair of gloves and a scarf, hoping it would suffice to keep him from freezing in what now promised to be a long day spent at the mercy of winter's whims.

 

[RiverGamer]

Freya S. Bayer

Winter was a strange season to Freya. One that brought many varied memories both good and grim to mind. The icy breeze that typically would caress her face and the copious amounts of snow being crunched underneath her boots did bring some joy and peace to her when she was outside. With the silence that accompanied the initial snowfall in the dead of night being one of her favourite times of the year.

Being able to think about things was both a blessing and a curse to Freya with one benefit being she had a chance to clear her mind of the happenings of the day. On the other hand, the silence made her think more upon things she’d rather leave for the time being or forget entirely.

Freya just stood in silence on the balcony looking out at the snowy gardens below. The blanket of white snow dulling the typical colour palette of the gardens and making for a picturesque sight that could be mistaken for a painting. The chilly air brushed past her with snowflakes settling atop her pointed hat, slowly turning it the same colour as her pale white hair. The cold breeze didn’t bother her as much as it used to in the past. Having more suitable clothes helped in this aspect but also the thought that she wasn’t as much in danger of the cold getting to her as she had previously. Although she wasn’t 100% safe which she herself wholeheartedly acknowledged.

Christmas too was strange for her to think about with all the festive cheer and family get-togethers making her think back to much different times long since past. A past she wished she could return to and stay in for the rest of her days. Such thoughts always made her solemn and contemplative with a whisper of all her regrets lingering in the back of her mind. She decided she'd focus her efforts on understanding what she was dealing with in the present.

Not like any of it would come easy to Freya though. Right now she just had to think about what needed to be done and what she could do to assist in any way possible. Not that she really knew how to approach anyone about it all. She had barely arrived and had no connections with anyone nor any idea on how to talk to them.. This wasn't exactly ideal when referring to those who would be your colleagues for the foreseeable future.

What Freya needed to do was actually try talking to a few of the others, at least that’s what other folks would probably say. Not that it wasn’t good advice, getting to know people was good in understanding them. However, Freya wouldn’t be able to fully trust anyone for quite some time and would be very cautious with whatever they said or did around her. She hadn’t been told much of her colleagues with only a brief introduction between them out of formality.

The recent news is what stuck out to Freya most in recent memory. The tragedy that had come about struck a painful chord within her heart and she had to fight with herself not to get too wound up about it all.

‘Why did this happen? Why such innocent children?’ Freya had these thoughts swimming around her mind. Young people who hadn’t even reached the tender age of eighteen had their own lives stolen from them. “Poor, defenceless souls…” She muttered under her breath, small clouds of air escaping from her mouth into the cold air.

The massacre was one unexplained and one that brought much fear with it. The reason for such a crime was a mystery to Freya. Who could do this? Why? How? Or, just as importantly, what? Was the perpetrator even human? Was there more than one?. All of this buzzed in Freya’s mind and she had to take many breaths and a look to the gardens once more to keep herself on track.

“No use pondering on my own. I need to do something. Anything”

And, with that, Freya turned to go indoors.

coded by: s e v e n ​

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[Plutoni]

GODFREY

❝ TRISTAN ❞

LOCATION: Cavendish Manor
TAGS: s e v e n Melpomene

Letters. Letters, letters. Marcia had stacked them neatly upon his desk before he'd even had a chance to intervene.

It was a dark dawn that had greeted him as he dressed, the December light long having fallen weak and short under the hand of winter. The lamplight havered in the mirror as Godfrey fixed the pins in his collar, gaze lost somewhere just short of meeting his own reflection, hands moving on memory before sight in the warm dimness of the room. Though the stairs of his townhouse lay dark, hard, pointed silver and soft linen at last sat in their rightful places by the time he reached the bottom, his study already illuminated somewhat by the cold, unearthly light of the early snow outside. On one side, at least - nail-boards and darkness lay across the other, thin whispers of a draught slipping through the broken glass behind. He lit a second lamp, casting some life once more into the practice and casting the smart little pile of paper envelopes before him into stark relief. He eyed them with something that wasn't quite distaste. Something else. The Christmas paperwork - polite wishes from friendlier colleagues and their wives, and as he gave a cursory thumb through them, maybe even a face from his days in the service. Every hand and pen, save that of his own relatives. He hadn't checked in a long time. He certainly didn't know why he'd chosen this year to remember.

✵​

The Cavendish gardens appeared frosted with sugar that morning. It lay there pristine, unmelted under the shadow of the manor, as yet untouched and distant and storybook-sweet in the shade. But it was Christmas, after all - Godfrey supposed it was the day of all days he had to forgive the world such a brief, jealous grasp at the sentimental beauty the postcards so said it had, the flattering likeness that it would fall into the shadow of soon once more.

He stood close enough to the balcony railing for the open edge of his longcoat to just brush against it, arms crossed upon his chest, breath steaming slightly from his nose as he stared out into the manor grounds and the edge of London beyond. He found little will within himself to turn away. It was entirely in spite of a faint inwards embarrassment, almost, for spending so long over such an unsubtly saccharine view as this. Godfrey was almost grateful for the the noise and nuisance at his side - a little irritation alongside the beauty, he mused, would stop his skull from going completely soft. Salt in the sugar. He half-listened at best to Othello's flapping of paper and self-indulgent laugh throughout what Godfrey suspected to be an entirely directionless tangent. If he had a point, he grasped it not; his attention was only caught by the mention of windows, and for that, Godfrey finally turned to meet his eye, brow raised in a feigned, sour interest. But there was little point, it seemed - like that, Othello turned aside.

“A waste of good looks, if you ask me.”

He snorted with little humour, lips just parted to speak before a knock behind them sharply interrupted. Timing. Instead, he rolled his shoulders with slow thought, stretching his neck a touch as if to try and ease the tension borne of being somewhat at Othello's mercy up there as he turned to face the girl that peered through the door to announce their carriages, eye inadvertently twitching at the mention of Sir Percival's perhaps rather mercifully abridged message. Though their touch of eye-contact reassured him somewhat of their mutual lack of understanding, he understood little else of what the dark eyes said. May have said. He didn't dwell. The usual.

He accepted the slap of the newspaper to his chest with all the silent patience he could muster, reaching to catch it in a gloved hand as Othello's hold withdrew, absentmindedly rolling it back up against the breast of his jacket. He didn't need to look. He'd already seen the news on the way there. Merry bloody Christmas indeed. Curiously, he watched Lancelot instead, his expression - sometimes he even thought he got it. Sometimes he remembered there was likely little depth behind those eyes to get. But he was in little mood to engage, just then. Maybe it was the result of him being turned into some kind of unwilling victim of the 'Christmas spirit' that morning. Perhaps, for all his good deeds, he had been bestowed with saintly tolerance.

“Shall we get the show back on track?”

As if it was ever on track.

"Of course," Godfrey replied, tone dry, already walking away. He handed the maid the newspaper, reaching over her head to pull the door wide. "You're brilliant with these surprise gifts, Othello. Just thrilled."

✵
​

It was by chance that he passed by that door on his way downstairs. It was Leonard Lincoln that sat framed in the gap, back turned, almost too conveniently placed for the eyes of any passer-by. Ah - he'd expect nothing less. This was not a man to pass up an opportunity for attention, especially not when he appeared to be doing something as out of character as studying. The trap had worked, nonetheless - Godfrey hesitated only for a second before changing course, an odd prick of curiosity leading his feet as he mentally remapped the manor, satisfied in the knowledge that this room could also be used an only mildly diverted passage to downstairs regardless. It was a soft touch that pushed the door open as he entered, respecting at least the quiet of the hall as he walked, pausing just past where Leon sat. His eyes swept the desk beside him for a moment, attempting to make some sense out of all the words and the paper.

"I didn't know you could read, Leonard," he spoke at his shoulder, breaking the quiet at last. "Impressive. Either way, as threatened, I've made haste for you. But-" he tilted his head, "I must say, the consequences were lost in the delivery."

Why was he even inviting the reply upon himself?

"Do tell, Sir Percival - what splendid fate have I avoided?"

 

[s e v e n]

Othello Rosconval

Hot coal burned, ashes into smoke that curled into the white winter morning. Twelve knights separated within four different carts. For a crowd that walks in the nights, inconspicuous were not quite in their books.

Over the crowd of Westminster, at the very north-end of the palace, there stood the Big Ben. Tall and grand, born of copper and opalescent glass. Clockwork hands that resemble spears of ancient times remain frozen: the minute at twelve, hour at three. The Christian spoke of the Holy Trinity. The Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit. People say everything they wish to believe, perhaps that was why the Hail Mary needed to be repeated ten times. It had stopped on the day when a curse bearer first appeared and had not moved again since. No one knew how, no one knew why; there was something terribly ironic about being timeless. Three AM. The Witching Hour. It had to be a cruel joke.

The streets blurred as they passed, the strokes of paint growing more rapid at each passing block. If one had not known better, the place was reminiscent of story books; where there were happy endings and there were not a reaper’s mark on all heads alike, impartially undiscriminating. There was a lady and a little girl whose looks resembled her own, a larger and smaller copy uncannily similar when they smile. Presumably sisters. Storefronts of orange lights, the young girl peered in with gloved hands pressed against the glass. There was a doll, he assumed, one that wore frilly skirts and equally frilly bonnets. One that looked foolish. They were of fabric and cotton, of threads and hope. They were what had become scarce in their world.

There was a young girl, but then there were none.

There was Westminster but then also, there were none. There was Brent, then there was Harrow. Quaint coffeehouses, designated sites for luncheons and dull afternoon talks. The area reeked of puberty, of boys that walked with boys and girls that walked with girls. Sneering at the opposite, followed by the reddening of faces. Those were the codes of the world, or at least how romance was invented by the Romans, where boy loves girl and girl loves boy. Foolish and empty-headed. It felt so long ago; Othello could no longer recall how it had once felt like to be as young and thoughtless. Of being truly, genuinely, against all logic and reason. In love.

It was uncommon to see all these, as they were approaching one of the, if not the most, well-known public school in all of Greater London. The Harrow public school: the place where young boys paraded in coats and top-hats, striving to look like a gentleman but acts like a clown. The gates were laid open; they have been expected. Walls that consisted of old bricks, paths of stones and rose bushes. There was a cricket field by the far right. Othello wondered for a while if this was the life that Anselm had once.

By the side window there passed two students, of white scarves and dark blue overcoats. One had a hat seemingly woven by straws. Their eyes bore weight that only grew once they noticed the cart’s passing, one pulling the other by the back of his shirt to step aside the road. It was unsurprising: their friend, or perhaps not even so, another student whose name they might not recognize; he might have offered them a hand when they slipped one rainy day. A greeting in passing, not even a name to remember by. Someone you have seen; someone you have met. A corpse. Against all things, the knowledge felt calming to him; at least it ended.

Driving by the main lane, they approached the largest building there was. By its entrance was a young boy, slim and tall. Hair swept back, slight fading freckles, he smelled faintly of fresh shaving soap. A face that is very much boyish, yet he bore an aura that did not quite match. He wore a similar attire to the previous two boys, though his shoes were slightly shinier. There was a badge just over his left chest: royal purple and white markings, letterings imbued in gold.

“Aren’t you one charming lad?” Othello remarked, descending, or rather hopping out the cart. There was sudden cold wind; he secured his coat. “Have you been waiting long? Sir Gareth had himself a bad case of food poisoning and we had no choice but to wait for him conduct…business awhile.”

It was not true, but no one could have stopped him.

“Oh! Er- Not at all, sir,” the boy greeted immediately extending his hand to shake. His grip was firm, yet not overly hard. Eye contact was maintained at all times. It was the textbook British etiquette, unsurprising to belong in a school such as theirs. Then he would introduce himself.

“You may call me Keating, sir. Abner Keating. Prefect of the Bradbys house. Ever so pleased to make your acquaintance. And, um.” He now looked over to the other knight, Elian, whom just exited the wagon as it seems. “I do hope you are feeling better, Sir Gareth. We have a selection of herbal tea you can choose from, if you so wish.”

“That would be very kind of you, Mr. Keating. Well then,” Othello let out a small mischievous laugh. “I am-”

“Why, you are Sir Lancelot of the Round Table, of course,” the boy chimed in enthusiastically. Right after, his face had flushed slightly, and it was not from the cold. At the moment, he appeared much more boyish than he had before, the mask of forced maturity cracking at the first opportunity it had. “Oh, rid me of my manners! Apologies, sir, I did not mean to interrupt. It’s just that I have- well, many of us have regarded so highly of you. All of you.”

His eyes shifted towards the rest of the knights, assimilating each personnel briefly yet thoroughly. There was a certain shift of expression when he had reached the two women, one more evident than the other, yet nothing was said. The reds of his cheeks have yet to disappear.

“I am flattered, Mr. Keating, I really am.” Othello commented, amused. “Yet I am no more a man than any other. Though I digress, I believe we are on a schedule?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, certainly,” the prefect cleared his throat. “Gentlemen. Uhm, ladies. Our headmaster awaits. You may follow me.”

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

Spoiler: uncoded

Hot coal burned, ashes into smoke that curled into the white winter morning. Twelve knights separated within four different carts. For a crowd that walks in the nights, inconspicuous were not quite in their books.

Over the crowd of Westminster, at the very north-end of the palace, there stood the Big Ben. Tall and grand, born of copper and opalescent glass. Clockwork hands that resemble spears of ancient times remain frozen: the minute at twelve, hour at three. The Christian spoke of the Holy Trinity. The Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit. People say everything they wish to believe, perhaps that was why the Hail Mary needed to be repeated ten times. It had stopped on the day when a curse bearer first appeared and had not moved again since. No one knew how, no one knew why; there was something terribly ironic about being timeless. Three AM. The Witching Hour. It had to be a cruel joke.

The streets blurred as they passed, the strokes of paint growing more rapid at each passing block. If one had not known better, the place was reminiscent of story books; where there were happy endings and there were not a reaper’s mark on all heads alike, impartially undiscriminating. There was a lady and a little girl whose looks resembled her own, a larger and smaller copy uncannily similar when they smile. Presumably sisters. Storefronts of orange lights, the young girl peered in with gloved hands pressed against the glass. There was a doll, he assumed, one that wore frilly skirts and equally frilly bonnets. One that looked foolish. They were of fabric and cotton, of threads and hope. They were what had become scarce in their world.

There was a young girl, but then there were none.

There was Westminster but then also, there were none. There was Brent, then there was Harrow. Quaint coffeehouses, designated sites for luncheons and dull afternoon talks. The area reeked of puberty, of boys that walked with boys and girls that walked with girls. Sneering at the opposite, followed by the reddening of faces. Those were the codes of the world, or at least how romance was invented by the Romans, where boy loves girl and girl loves boy. Foolish and empty-headed. It felt so long ago; Othello could no longer recall how it had once felt like to be as young and thoughtless. Of being truly, genuinely, against all logic and reason. In love.

It was uncommon to see all these, as they were approaching one of the, if not the most, well-known public school in all of Greater London. The Harrow public school: the place where young boys paraded in coats and top-hats, striving to look like a gentleman but acts like a clown. The gates were laid open; they have been expected. Walls that consisted of old bricks, paths of stones and rose bushes. There was a cricket field by the far right. Othello wondered for a while if this was the liv\fe that Anselm had once.

By the side window there passed two students, of white scarves and dark blue overcoats. One had a hat seemingly woven by straws. Their eyes bore weight that only grew once they noticed the cart’s passing, one pulling the other by the back of his shirt to step aside the road. It was unsurprising: their friend, or perhaps not even so, another student whose name they might not recognize; he might have offered them a hand when they slipped one rainy day. A greeting in passing, not even a name to remember by. Someone you have seen; someone you have met. A corpse. Against all things, the knowledge felt calming to him; at least it ended.

Driving by the main lane, they approached the largest building there was. By its entrance was a young boy, slim and tall. Hair swept back, slight fading freckles, he smelled faintly of fresh shaving soap. A face that is very much boyish, yet he bore an aura that did not quite match. He wore a similar attire to the previous two boys, though his shoes were slightly shinier. There was a badge just over his left chest: royal purple and white markings, letterings imbued in gold.

“Aren’t you one charming lad?” Othello remarked, descending, or rather hopping out the cart. There was sudden cold wind; he secured his coat. “Have you been waiting long? Sir Gareth had himself a bad case of food poisoning and we had no choice but to wait for him conduct…business awhile.”

It was not true, but no one could have stopped him.

“Oh! Er- Not at all, sir,” the boy greeted immediately extending his hand to shake. His grip was firm, yet not overly hard. Eye contact was maintained at all times. It was the textbook British etiquette, unsurprising to belong in a school such as theirs. Then he would introduce himself.

“You may call me Keating, sir. Abner Keating. Prefect of the Bradbys house. Ever so pleased to make your acquaintance. And, um.” He now looked over to the other knight, Elian, whom just exited the wagon as it seems. “I do hope you are feeling better, Sir Gareth. We have a selection of herbal tea you can choose from, if you so wish.”

“That would be very kind of you, Mr. Keating. Well then,” Othello let out a small mischievous laugh. “I am-”

“Why, you are Sir Lancelot of the Round Table, of course,” the boy chimed in enthusiastically. Right after, his face had flushed slightly, and it was not from the cold. At the moment, he appeared much more boyish than he had before, the mask of forced maturity cracking at the first opportunity it had. “Oh, rid me of my manners! Apologies, sir, I did not mean to interrupt. It’s just that I have- well, many of us have regarded so highly of you. All of you.”

His eyes shifted towards the rest of the knights, assimilating each personnel briefly yet thoroughly. There was a certain shift of expression when he had reached the two women, one more evident than the other, yet nothing was said. The reds of his cheeks have yet to disappear.

“I am flattered, Mr. Keating, I really am.” Othello commented, amused. “Yet I am no more a man than any other. Though I digress, I believe we are on a schedule?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, certainly,” the prefect cleared his throat. “Gentlemen. Uhm, ladies. Our headmaster awaits. You may follow me.”

 

[Melpomene]

Leonard Lincoln

Bleak beginning winter swung hard against the tender gentle touch of autumn. Lingering in the air there came the fluttering colorful leaves that swirled in nonsensical patterns, their hips widening and twisting to an unknown rhythm. Within, warmed by the fire there came calming security offset by the inward twisting panic. It always came when season of decay strided upon the land. It always would come. A thick soot that wrapped about the holidays and suffocated it. Holding to the jolly feelings by the mouth and nose, gripping until nothing was left but that burning ember of life that flickered despite all. Despite all. It always flickered.

Leonard slid back in his chair. Black ink twisted on stained parchment. Symbols, letters, nonsense, yet at once the ideas clicked and Leonard read with slow methodological silence. Nonsense. All was nonsense. Letters forming sounds. Words coming, running through his mind and ending in nothingness.

Such an idiot. Even children could do better.

His hand lifted, brushing against the dried ink, touch light and delicate as though danger of smudging had not yet long passed. His finger met the page and gentle footsteps rung in the silence. He faltered, hand shifting as though to close the book before anyone saw. As though they would take it, demand he show them his skill. Let him bumble and expose himself. Nothing more than a streetrat masquerading as something more. Something unhuman, vermin infiltrating this house of opulence.

‘I didn’t know you could read.’

For a moment his shoulders tensed. Exposed, he was frightened. One swipe of that snake’s tongue and Sir Tristan had ripped his defense. Naked in the Garden, having bitten from that forbidden fruit he laid bare his sins. And now he was expelled. Naked before Sir Tristan, he trembled in fear. His chest tight, muscles bunched as though to run from the predator that sought his end.

Exhale.

He smiled. Golden rays of sunlight danced within his honey eyes, pooling down within those irises caught the gold and held it hostage. His head tilted back to catch Godfrey’s eyes. Relaxed as his hair tumbled from the curves of his cheekbones and danced instead at the edge of his shoulderblades.

“Sir Tristan.” He greeted. His voice was light. The fear was gone. “Always a pleasure to see ya. Didn’t think you were one to interrupt another man’s studies, but I can’t complain.” With ease, he flipped the book closed and then stood.

A slight tilt of his head. His smile grew. A dimple formed on his right cheek. “Mm… I don’t recall what I said. It doesn’t matter now, you won’t have to endure me stepping on your tail.”

He gripped his coat. “We have an investigation. Come on, kitty. I’ll buy you a treat.”

~*~

Christmas.

Merry in its bringing. A tiding of comfort and warmth. Cruel fate had shown herself again. Life had been given in that holy time and now life was taken just as quickly. Jesus denied of a proper room, born like a peasant amongst animals. A god treated as a lowly pig. Boys treated as fodder. Father, son, holy ghost. The son was always taking the brunt of the pain, his body swollen with marks left by man. Left to hang, tethered to the earthen soil until his body was beaten lifeless on the cross those Romans had erected.

Why was it always the son that must suffer the creation of the father?

Winter was unkind. Bleak. A time of death as crops froze and little orphans went hungry on the streets. Bundled up in what they could find, their tears like crystals frozen on their pale dirty cheeks.

The soot wouldn’t leave. That horrible thick layer that wrapped around them. The light of religion was supposed to save them. That god that died for their sins.

In birth and in death treated the same.

The carriage came to a stop a ways away from the boarding school.

It seemed a thing of fantasy. Boys walked alongside one another. Sparse in population, the winter season having called most home. Wrapped up like gentleman but holding to the round softness of boyhood, this crime seemed to macabre. Five missing. Four bodies found. The only solace was that it was not on the school grounds. The others did not have to lay witness to the four corpses that laid on the cold winter soil. Hardpacked… the burials would be hard to dig for. Their families bore death on their Christmas.

Leonard stepped out.

The alleyway was dank. Avoided by most who were of the well-respected population. As none but liars and thieves would stand in the recesses of despair that was the impoverished that hid from the overbearing disparity of the elite in their hobbles and holes. Leonard let out a breath. The smoke from his mouth dissipated. An officer stopped short. His large mustache covered his mouth and his eyes darted from the face of Leonard to the other knights stepping up to their crime scene.

His jaw set.

Leonard tightened himself. He stood straight, back erect and coat pulled tightly over his broad shoulders.

“Officer.”

“I’m not sure if I can allow…” His gaze bore judgement. Running from the delicate skin stretched over Leonard’s exposed cheekbones to the old frayed coat. “This scene can’t be… polluted. We’re investigating, boy.”

Leonard’s fist tightened. Then it released.

“It is Sir Percival to you.” He said lowly. “Sir Percival. And I bring the rest of the knights.”

He moved to brush past the officer. Then an offending hand landed hard on his shoulder. Twisting as though to yank him around. To throw him to the ground. Let his body break and destroy his soul. Stomp on it hard. Leave him bleeding in the midst of this violence. Monsters and men. Monsters and men. One always looked so much like the other.

“If you don’t get your bloody hands off of me–”

“Leave him be, Mr. Smith.” Herman said as he walked to the scene. “Sir Percival… Come.”

The officer looked dumbfounded. Leonard let him look dumbfounded as he wrenched himself from the offending grasp.

Herman ran his hand through his hair. His eyes were bruised and redrimmed. Dried lips chapped, Leonard sidled by the man. “I’m not going to steal anything from you, if you worry about that.”

For a moment the man eyed Leonard, questioning. And then he sighed and shook his head. “Nothing…” he began. “Nothing could compare to the horror that is Mr. Rosconval.”

Despite it all, Leonard let out a hark of laughter. “You ain’t wrong there, mate. Happy it’s me instead?”

“You have no idea.”

The joy died. They stayed in an understanding silence. Leonard’s eyes cast to the four bodies. Four bodies all lay on the cold hard ground.

“Boys. Children…” he breathed. Though his gaze remained flat.

“Aye.” A voice that had told too many of their child’s having been taken rumbled in his chest. He sighed again. His head tilted back. He opened his mouth as though to speak again. A girl’s voice rang out instead. A race horse in the midst of this horror, she burst out of the gates and crashed hard into the two men standing. Leonard stumbled back, his arm flying out to catch Herman by the shoulder. Herman, also, lost his balance.

The two men tumbled to the ground. A mass of limbs and curses. They intermingled intimately before jumping apart in quick jerky movements.

“Oh… Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Her face was young, her eyes a crystal blue that stood out starkly against the black of her lashes. Round rosy cheeks belied youth. Her carriage was erect and her lips parted in a silent horror at her own destruction. She brushed her hands against the volume of her skirts and dipped into a curtsy.

“I just… my… I have to be here. They wouldn’t let me in, but I have to be here. You can’t keep me away–”

It seemed apparent a random girl was harder to apprehend than a knight. Leonard let out a sigh. Herman barked.

“What in the name of– This is an investigation young lady. Is no place for the delicate sensibilities of young ladies such as…” He then glanced over to the… fairer of the knights that had come from the carriage alongside Leon. And then he sighed. “You can’t be here.”

“I’m not leaving!” She stomped her foot hard. “I…I have more of a right to be here than any of you do! I must! You must!”

Leonard collected himself as he stood. “Young miss… You must understand…”

“No please.” She begged. “Please you don’t understand. I… I know what happened.”

Leonard watched her face. Wide eyes brimmed with fright. But steeled. As though a girl having seen an unspeakable horror.

He let out a breath.

“What’s your name, girl?”

“Adelaide.” she breathed.

“Last name?”

For a moment she looked uncomfortable. As though frightened.

“We need something to refer to you as, Miss. It is improper for me to call you by your first name.” Especially Leonard. That he was distinctly aware of.

After a moment’s pause, her eyes slid up. “Jones. Adelaide Jones… I… My father won’t know about this, right? I am not supposed to…”

“Your privacy is safe here, Ms. Jones.” Leonard said.

“Well Merry Christmas to us, I guess.” Herman grunted.

Merry Christmas indeed.

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

Spoiler: Uncoded Version

Bleak beginning winter swung hard against the tender gentle touch of autumn. Lingering in the air there came the fluttering colorful leaves that swirled in nonsensical patterns, their hips widening and twisting to an unknown rhythm. Within, warmed by the fire there came calming security offset by the inward twisting panic. It always came when season of decay strided upon the land. It always would come. A thick soot that wrapped about the holidays and suffocated it. Holding to the jolly feelings by the mouth and nose, gripping until nothing was left but that burning ember of life that flickered despite all. Despite all. It always flickered.

Leonard slid back in his chair. Black ink twisted on stained parchment. Symbols, letters, nonsense, yet at once the ideas clicked and Leonard read with slow methodological silence. Nonsense. All was nonsense. Letters forming sounds. Words coming, running through his mind and ending in nothingness.

Such an idiot. Even children could do better.

His hand lifted, brushing against the dried ink, touch light and delicate as though danger of smudging had not yet long passed. His finger met the page and gentle footsteps rung in the silence. He faltered, hand shifting as though to close the book before anyone saw. As though they would take it, demand he show them his skill. Let him bumble and expose himself. Nothing more than a streetrat masquerading as something more. Something unhuman, vermin infiltrating this house of opulence.

‘I didn’t know you could read.’

For a moment his shoulders tensed. Exposed, he was frightened. One swipe of that snake’s tongue and Sir Tristan had ripped his defense. Naked in the Garden, having bitten from that forbidden fruit he laid bare his sins. And now he was expelled. Naked before Sir Tristan, he trembled in fear. His chest tight, muscles bunched as though to run from the predator that sought his end.

Exhale.

He smiled. Golden rays of sunlight danced within his honey eyes, pooling down within those irises caught the gold and held it hostage. His head tilted back to catch Godfrey’s eyes. Relaxed as his hair tumbled from the curves of his cheekbones and danced instead at the edge of his shoulderblades.

“Sir Tristan.” He greeted. His voice was light. The fear was gone. “Always a pleasure to see ya. Didn’t think you were one to interrupt another man’s studies, but I can’t complain.” With ease, he flipped the book closed and then stood.

A slight tilt of his head. His smile grew. A dimple formed on his right cheek. “Mm… I don’t recall what I said. It doesn’t matter now, you won’t have to endure me stepping on your tail.”

He gripped his coat. “We have an investigation. Come on, kitty. I’ll buy you a treat.”

~*~

Christmas.

Merry in its bringing. A tiding of comfort and warmth. Cruel fate had shown herself again. Life had been given in that holy time and now life was taken just as quickly. Jesus denied of a proper room, born like a peasant amongst animals. A god treated as a lowly pig. Boys treated as fodder. Father, son, holy ghost. The son was always taking the brunt of the pain, his body swollen with marks left by man. Left to hang, tethered to the earthen soil until his body was beaten lifeless on the cross those Romans had erected.

Why was it always the son that must suffer the creation of the father?

Winter was unkind. Bleak. A time of death as crops froze and little orphans went hungry on the streets. Bundled up in what they could find, their tears like crystals frozen on their pale dirty cheeks.

The soot wouldn’t leave. That horrible thick layer that wrapped around them. The light of religion was supposed to save them. That god that died for their sins.

In birth and in death treated the same.

The carriage came to a stop a ways away from the boarding school.

It seemed a thing of fantasy. Boys walked alongside one another. Sparse in population, the winter season having called most home. Wrapped up like gentleman but holding to the round softness of boyhood, this crime seemed to macabre. Five missing. Four bodies found. The only solace was that it was not on the school grounds. The others did not have to lay witness to the four corpses that laid on the cold winter soil. Hardpacked… the burials would be hard to dig for. Their families bore death on their Christmas.

Leonard stepped out.

The alleyway was dank. Avoided by most who were of the well-respected population. As none but liars and thieves would stand in the recesses of despair that was the impoverished that hid from the overbearing disparity of the elite in their hobbles and holes. Leonard let out a breath. The smoke from his mouth dissipated. An officer stopped short. His large mustache covered his mouth and his eyes darted from the face of Leonard to the other knights stepping up to their crime scene.

His jaw set.

Leonard tightened himself. He stood straight, back erect and coat pulled tightly over his broad shoulders.

“Officer.”

“I’m not sure if I can allow…” His gaze bore judgement. Running from the delicate skin stretched over Leonard’s exposed cheekbones to the old frayed coat. “This scene can’t be… polluted. We’re investigating, boy.”

Leonard’s fist tightened. Then it released.

“It is Sir Percival to you.” He said lowly. “Sir Percival. And I bring the rest of the knights.”

He moved to brush past the officer. Then an offending hand landed hard on his shoulder. Twisting as though to yank him around. To throw him to the ground. Let his body break and destroy his soul. Stomp on it hard. Leave him bleeding in the midst of this violence. Monsters and men. Monsters and men. One always looked so much like the other.

“If you don’t get your bloody hands off of me–”

“Leave him be, Mr. Smith.” Herman said as he walked to the scene. “Sir Percival… Come.”

The officer looked dumbfounded. Leonard let him look dumbfounded as he wrenched himself from the offending grasp.

Herman ran his hand through his hair. His eyes were bruised and redrimmed. Dried lips chapped, Leonard sidled by the man. “I’m not going to steal anything from you, if you worry about that.”

For a moment the man eyed Leonard, questioning. And then he sighed and shook his head. “Nothing…” he began. “Nothing could compare to the horror that is Mr. Rosconval.”

Despite it all, Leonard let out a hark of laughter. “You ain’t wrong there, mate. Happy it’s me instead?”

“You have no idea.”

The joy died. They stayed in an understanding silence. Leonard’s eyes cast to the four bodies. Four bodies all lay on the cold hard ground.

“Boys. Children…” he breathed. Though his gaze remained flat.

“Aye.” A voice that had told too many of their child’s having been taken rumbled in his chest. He sighed again. His head tilted back. He opened his mouth as though to speak again. A girl’s voice rang out instead. A race horse in the midst of this horror, she burst out of the gates and crashed hard into the two men standing. Leonard stumbled back, his arm flying out to catch Herman by the shoulder. Herman, also, lost his balance.

The two men tumbled to the ground. A mass of limbs and curses. They intermingled intimately before jumping apart in quick jerky movements.

“Oh… Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Her face was young, her eyes a crystal blue that stood out starkly against the black of her lashes. Round rosy cheeks belied youth. Her carriage was erect and her lips parted in a silent horror at her own destruction. She brushed her hands against the volume of her skirts and dipped into a curtsy.

“I just… my… I have to be here. They wouldn’t let me in, but I have to be here. You can’t keep me away–”

It seemed apparent a random girl was harder to apprehend than a knight. Leonard let out a sigh. Herman barked.

“What in the name of– This is an investigation young lady. Is no place for the delicate sensibilities of young ladies such as…” He then glanced over to the… fairer of the knights that had come from the carriage alongside Leon. And then he sighed. “You can’t be here.”

“I’m not leaving!” She stomped her foot hard. “I…I have more of a right to be here than any of you do! I must! You must!”

Leonard collected himself as he stood. “Young miss… You must understand…”

“No please.” She begged. “Please you don’t understand. I… I know what happened.”

Leonard watched her face. Wide eyes brimmed with fright. But steeled. As though a girl having seen an unspeakable horror.

He let out a breath.

“What’s your name, girl?”

“Adelaide.” she breathed.

“Last name?”

For a moment she looked uncomfortable. As though frightened.

“We need something to refer to you as, Miss. It is improper for me to call you by your first name.” Especially Leonard. That he was distinctly aware of.

After a moment’s pause, her eyes slid up. “Jones. Adelaide Jones… I… My father won’t know about this, right? I am not supposed to…”

“Your privacy is safe here, Ms. Jones.” Leonard said.

“Well Merry Christmas to us, I guess.” Herman grunted.

Merry Christmas indeed.

 

[Ravenborn]

Oriana du Corbeau

collab w/ s e v e n​

She was going to have to get used to sunlight.

Though only languidly lit by the bleak winter sun, the expertly-made marble banisters shone quietly, intricate carvings brimming with artful intent-- graced possibly by a kiss from Hephaestus himself. Darkness, the soft abyss she was intimately acquainted with for much of her life, was never generous with granting Oriana’s eyes extravagant details of architecture brilliance; preferring to describe the many manors and mansions whose households she had invited herself into with broad strokes of dull colour and vague shapes. The stairwell in the light filled the daughter of the night with an unfamiliar, yet no less warm wonder she had not been permitted to have; and she-- the blind, given a taste of sight-- simply stood and admired it till her fellow knights entered her frame of vision, muting said wonder with reminders of the purpose of this visit.

The skies streak bright now, but it had not been for they who met their end the night before, and never again would they see that light.

Scampering up the stairs after the group, hands full of pale orange linen, Oriana bowed her head in silent prayer that she had lifted enough of the inconvenient dress off the ground that she might be adequately mobile to ascend the newly-polished linoleum steps. Many a time had seen her most unceremoniously tumbled fanny-first down the stairs back at the manor whilst being taught to move in a manner befitting her new status, all while inwardly cursing in colourful language that would make a hardened sailor blush. Absolutely ludicrous-- renowned thief such as she, prided on exceptional agility, thwarted utterly by nobility clothing requirements and gossamer petticoats.

Let it never be said that being a woman in the public eye was easier than her arrows finding precisely their mark.

Minty winter air and the distinct, pungent smell of fresh varnish assaulted Oriana’s nostrils as the group made their way up the stairwell. The sound of the aged steps faintly creaking found itself lost in the mindless chatter of the excitable youth next to Othello, and she in turn found herself lost in something other than the chatter, as she inspected the numerous large portraits of that adorned the upper sections of the walls, casting their gazes upon them as though they were sinners before divinity. All men, naturally, and all accompanied metal plaques naming them as contributors to the school in a number of measurements, no doubt only a reflection of the depth of their silk-lined pockets. Oriana absent-mindedly twiddled the scented sachets one of the servants had insisted she brought out as she chewed on the thought, the taste of amusing irony heavy in her mouth. God created His children equally ephemeral, but in the land of Man, only they who hold influence are deemed fit for artistic immortality. Only their images and voices are weaved through the threads of time to form history, myriads of stories of the common man fading to dust.

The wind carried snippets of conversation from students out in the yard, and then the thought connected clearly in her mind. Surely they had their own views. Surely the only side of the tale could not be from the authorities. Pouch in hand and mind made up, she closed around it mid-twiddle.

“Abn- Mr. Keating? Yes. Not to interrupt or anything, but,” Oriana starts, peering through the closest frosted window, but nature’s breath held fast against her prying eye. “ If it would be so convenient for you, I’d much like to speak to some of them kids, out there. Any of ‘em friends o’ the deceased, mayhaps?”

The auburn-haired young boy immediately stopped in his tracks. When he turned, his face was set in a scowl, expression being a perfect mix of hatred and disgust, as though eyeing a distasteful, festering mold at the corners of his room. Mold, that was how she seemed to him, that was all she seemed to him. She had not foreseen this development, and the hostility burned her cheeks against the contact of the chill in the air. His brows knitted tightly, the boy turned his nose up, perhaps let out a scoff.

“Speaking out of turn,” he said curtly, “is rather unladylike, would you not agree?”

The rest of the knights too halted in their way, some staring, blinking, yet none said a word. For the first time all day, Oriana finally gave her undivided attention to the boy who had uttered the offending sentence, bright hazel eyes finding cold smoky ones, who held her gaze briefly before looking away. Keating proceeded to look at the rest, at Othello in particular, who had chosen to lean against the banister, expression unchanged. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a sigh.

“What do you hope to achieve?” He turned to face Othello, expression immediately softening- he seemed like a different person entirely. That snake. “Sir, er- with all due respect, would it be alright for the young lady to, er, venture on her own?”

The godforsaken nerve of this brat.

But a brat was all he was, and as the initial twinge of an unaccounted shame brought forth by the disparaging statement wore off, Oriana considered the product of a very sheltered upbringing almost pityingly. She was the Prima Donna, and this was her stage. Oh, she would put on such a magnificent performance of her fruits of labour from all the mandatory etiquette lessons, since he had practically demanded front-row seating.

And the one they called Lady Palamedes disintegrated into a sobbing heap, to the general alarm of onlookers.

“For shame! For shame!” She shrilled, “such- such unseemly words to a Lady! Never, never had I met someone so- so uncouth in the presence of a woman! Have you no manners? Oh, my heart, my poor heart-” the lilt in her voice climbs, “ you have most certainly shattered my impression of you, Mr. Keating, and I must say, I would have thought better of one they chose as Prefect!” The last word, intentionally rendered loud and clear, immediately garnered the attention of several students that had happened to descend the stairs, who looked over their shoulders at the unfolding scene. Oho. The show had been set in motion.

“I beg your pardon-”

But Oriana was doused in the kerosene of a buildup, and she cut right through the panicked engine sputtering of the boy with her own, louder wailing, drawing more interest from onlookers.

“Oh dear, oh goodness. And you presently insist on adding insult to injury! You are awfully verbally ungracious, young man, and unapologetic, too-” and trying her hardest to hold in her laughter, she conjures the most fuschia, rose-patterned handkerchief from a pocket and started to melodramatically sob into it, all the while keeping her facial expressions distraught. By now a humble audience had gathered to watch with keen interest, hushed whispers exchanged by the gaggle of keen-eyed boys and girls, as flush climbed the face of her co-star in the performance that was quickly reaching its zenith.

“You- you-“ the boy began, stuttering. His face had reddened in what was assumed to be shame, eyes bulging whether in disbelief or sheer boiling rage. Body trembling, his hands had balled into fists beside him. When he continued to speak, he nearly spat. “How dare you! Dirty woman you are, one that must be-“ He stopped himself when he felt a tug at his collar.

Relentless now she was to see this through to the end. Oriana deftly surveyed the situation- the kerosene drenched and her match lit. She was ready to let it burn. Believably rearranging her face to a downcast determination, she delicately sniffled and continued, “-whatever you might have against holding an ounce of respect for a Lady, Mr. Keating. Surely you wouldn’t obstruct justice, would you? Woman as I might be,” she paused, and let the match fall from her hands. “The investigation mustn't be held up now, should it?”

The bonfire of a performance roared ablaze.

A fresh wave of hurried whispers and dirty looks. Keating stood there fuming, mouth agape, yet no words escaped the boy; the die of public opinion had been cast. Oriana leaned in a little closer, folded her handkerchief.

“Mr. Keating,” she smiled politely, her voice saccharine, “where might I speak to the relevant students for this matter? If you would so kindly enlighten me.”

For a while, his lips parted and unparted, as though a fish gasping for air. He looked ridiculous, with his frantic gaze and flushed cheeks. At first he had hesitated, but then he took a peer behind his back once more, sighing defeatedly, before answering. “Head downstairs, out the door, and seek for the area with a lot of buildings to the east. You will find our houses. Very few students are present due to the winter break, yet you may still try your luck.”

“Thank you. Oh, and,” Oriana lowers her voice, stuffing the handkerchief in the furious boy’s hand and breaking out into a tiny grin, “since you appear to be deeply educated on how to be a lady, you might need this more than I.”

No standing ovation, no bouquets, no cheers. But also not quite disappointing, and having got what she needed, the young woman picked up her skirts and clattered down the stairs past audience both amused and befuddled. Perhaps Licorice would be waiting outside for her arrival, and right now she’d much rather have the singular raven for company.

coded by: s e v e n ​

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[RiverGamer]

Freya S. Bayer

Collab w/ s e v e n

Freya had always been an early riser. The way she had lived a fair portion of her life required her to be awake as soon as possible and for as long as she could to make the most of it. She would not worry herself over what she should wear. She fished through her clothes to find a ruffled red dress she had bought on a whim some time ago. Whilst it wasn’t anything too extravagant, it would be formal enough for the trip. However, if it were up to her, she’d have tossed the thing a while ago. The dress, whilst quite lovely, wasn’t comfortable to Freya. She much preferred outfits designed for someone of her size and profession (despite how unlikely that was) but it would have to suffice.

Whilst they made their way to the school all she could think of was that she needed to be aware of how she conducted herself. This was a school after all, she needed to be calm and poised. She, alongside everyone else, would represent the knights, the Cavendish nobility as well as the Queen herself so it was imperative that she conduct herself properly. Or at least as she, a lady, would be expected to behave regardless of her personal thoughts. Socialising was never Freya’s strong suit so of course this would mean the better course of action was to keep her words brief and to the point.

Getting to the school and walking with the group Freya kept her gaze forward only stopping when the group had and turning her gaze to the young boy standing in front of them. He introduced himself as Keating and started prattling on about some things including how highly he and others regarded the knights. She noticed his expression change slightly when he looked at her. Freya had a good idea that her status as a woman, and quite a tall one at that, was ‘not to his expectations’ or something to that effect which she typically heard from many folks she’d met over the years. She just knew to let it go rather than try to contest their thoughts as many people just never knew how to conduct themselves around a much taller person. She was an outlier and didn’t expect them to just immediately understand it. This boy was no exception.

Freya’s thoughts were interrupted with a yell that caught her by surprise. She turned her head to see the only other woman in the group, Oriana, standing in front of Keating seemingly distraught. It took Freya only a few moments to realize what was going on but she wasn’t about to get involved. Seeing the boy squirm in both confusion and near horror was an amusing sight to see and she wasn’t about to let this moment end any time soon. She just watched as a crowd had started to gather around watching the situation unfold. Some looked intrigued, others looked mortified at what they were witnessing unfold. After a tense few minutes, things seemed to die down with Oriana leaving swiftly aftwards.

Freya would never know what was going through the minds of either Keating or Oriana but felt that one was definitely more in control of the situation than the other and felt at least a bit better about the results too.
“That was…quite the eventful.”

“Would you not agree, Mr. Keating?” Othello laughed, slinging his arms around the young prefect’s shoulders. The silence had been broken, but even then, the boy had seemed unfazed. Still in shock, disbelief, whatever word one would prefer to describe him, he stood frozen like an odd sculpture. Flabbergasted, perhaps. If it was not clear for him, it was slightly clearer for Othello.

Briefly, Othello had leaned in towards Elian. He whispered some words, none that Freya could catch much unfortunately. It did not take long before they parted ways, he nodded, smiled, and patted his back. Freya lifted her eyebrow in mild confusion. She couldn’t quite understand the exchange between the two men but assumed it was just some private words not relevant to her. Thus she just continued to stand where she was. “Good boy,” he had said. “Run along now.”

Elian then left the scene, Freya stepped aside to allow him pass down the stairs.

“Well then,” Othello clasped his hands together. “Shall we proceed?”

Abner Keating had only nodded. He told them to follow him, and so they all did. Freya walked furthest behind the group, preferring to keep her presence to a minimum. Walking slowly up the stairs, Freya took the time to admire the decor which she described as refined and very British style. She gazed at the billowing curtains sat by open windows, at the intricate designs carved into the banisters of the staircase, then turned her gaze to the many paintings adorning the walls.

From what she could gather these were depictions of the school’s previous headmasters. It seemed the school held their headmaster’s in high esteem (which was to be expected) and took care in depicting them in a manner befitting persons of such high status. Not that Freya cared very much. They were people who may have done great things, or just did their jobs in pursuit of money or whatever tickled their fancy. She would never know and she was quite ok with that.

As her thoughts came to an end, so did their walk and they now stood outside the headmaster’s office door…

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

 

[Plutoni]

GODFREY

❝ TRISTAN ❞

LOCATION: Harrow School
COLLAB with Melpomene

How far away the outside world seemed from the carriage that morning. There was a new, festive kind of dreariness on London's streets that felt at odds with the enclosed bubble of the cabin, two different realms passing in two very different directions, the inhabitants of one streaming past and away to fires and family and the few of the second onwards only to a scene of death. It was like swimming against the stream, like passing as a wraith through the land of the living so blissfully unaware of what they came here to do.

They reached the alleyway in good time, a dark, reproachful little spot close enough to the school to feel almost... Gloating. He stepped down from the carriage in Leonard's wake, shoe-heels hard upon the cobbles, breath already steaming in the cold. He tugged upon the slim black scarf looped around his neck as an afterthought, loosening it a touch as he took in the sparseness of the scene before him.

"Officer."

Leonard's voice caught his eye. Godfrey only watched as he was approached, stopped, how he took the usual suspicion square upon his shoulders yet was swiftly relieved of it once more by Herman Lawrence's usual good timing. His attention moved on. He'd leave that up to Sir Percival. It landed instead upon the main horror of the morning, laid out this time in a neat row of four. His jaw worked imperceptibly as a wisp of a thought occurred to him, the almost unconscious observation of how unusually small they seemed. But he crushed it, and thoroughly. Hands in pockets, Godfrey stepped past where the two stood in conversation; he'd leave Leonard to deal with the living as he went to converse with the dead. He half-circled around the outside before coming to a stop on the distant end, polished shoes only a pace from the ground where they lay. The expected case of exsanguination lay before him there, ashen in the dim light. Their call-card, almost. The rest? Well.. He half-knelt for a closer look, though it was hardly necessary - it was like an animal attack, though far less belonging to some dog so much as a pack of wolves. Their fates had been sealed from the start, victims of a kind of savagery that no modern medicine could heal. Immediately came the prick of frustration. He wasn't some mortician. Recent days saw him deal with so many bodies in proportion to actual living patients that he was beginning to feel bad at his job by proxy. To what kind of civilian doctor did this poor ratio belong?

Movement caught his eye just in time for Godfrey to look up to see Leonard fall gracelessly to the dirt. Immediately he grimaced, feeling low in his chest a dull flash of displeasure. The embarrassment of a man. It was moments like this that reminded him of how much a chore it sometimes was to be seen in public with him. Professional respect was a currency with a power Godfrey was only too fiercely aware of, and how it hurt to watch it being pissed down the drain by a halfwit writhing around on the floor with the Chief Inspector. He'd given him credit for handling the other officer, too. What jokes they must seem - a clown, and a doctor surrounded only by the dead. It hadn't taken long at all for his mood to sour, it seemed, and he returned to his work with brisk hands and thunder in his brow. Futile; it had already imprinted itself as a drain on his focus, a muddying of thoughts and unwanted emotion that led his eyes away, elsewhere. It was only then that he noticed the cigarette ends littering the ground around him. Godfrey considered them for a second, unmoving, before moving to pick one up. He rolled it between his fingers as his mind worked, frustrations suddenly forgotten. They were still somewhat new, it seemed - had they belonged to the victims themselves, escaping the confines of their school to smoke in the after-hours? To a witness? Was the alley merely the tasteless haunt of a local unaware of the stains it now bore? Imagine, the perpetrator themselves - he rolled over the thought of a vampire smoking with bleak amusement. He couldn't imagine what good it would do to the unliving. Perhaps some habits were simply so powerful they continued to cling after death. Blood and nicotine.

He dropped it back to the ground, already at odds with the inscrutable number of possibilities for their presence and the lack of help any of the answers were likely to provide. Cigarette ends do not catch rampaging vampires. Still - perhaps a little corner of the mystery would be unravelled if one of the boys was found to have unlit cigarettes still on them. As he eyed the stiff, bloodied clothes and the many pockets within, Godfrey decided that he would be loath to do the chore himself. He shelved it, moving on instead to re-focus his attention on what appeared to be the main victim - but wasn't there supposed to be five?

He straightened a little as he recalled the front page that morning. The main victim? Perhaps the one here at his feet wasn't it after all. Had the fifth merely been taken somewhere else? Had the vampire been forced to flee with its prey? Had it been too full after the first? Thoughts of the crime itself were rapidly beginning to evaporate - a cold scientific zeal was starting to bubble up in their place, suddenly no longer looking at their sparseness of vampiric understanding that he pushed against with despair so much as thirst. The missing fifth child may well be the key to a breakthrough on curse-bearers, no less. Their behaviours. Their workings. Had the boy been turned? No matter whether a witness, an accomplice, a victim - there had to be something to him.

A uniform stood somewhere to his fore and right, he knew. What had Herman said his name was?
Right.

"Mr Smith," he finally spoke, not rising from his place beside the bodies, voice raised enough to carry instead. "I take it you've identified the missing child?"

The officer looked up from his own musings. Lost in the horror and drawn by the cold understanding of reality he was slow to respond for only a moment. He was young. New. Fresh. Turning his eye he found Godfrey’s and then cleared his throat before assuming his standard erect position.

“Yes, Sir Knight, Tobias Wright seems to be the missing boy. Hopefully that poor bastard is faring better…”

With a glance at the carnage that lay before them, Godfrey’s brow rose, unsure of whether the dry irony he found in such an understatement was at all intentional. “Quite.”
With that he rose, brushing off his suit trousers with a curt efficiency. Tobias Wright.

“And his family?”

The officer shrugged. “Don’t know much. Doesn’t matter until his body turns up. Or he does. Whichever happens at the end.”

Godfrey met the man’s eye again for a second, deciding that he’d perhaps expected a little too much from the Yard so early in the morning. No matter. He didn’t reply this time, stepping instead back around that bloodied patch of alleyway, and walked somewhat grudgingly back to where Herman, Leonard and this unfamiliar girl all stood. He considered her for the first time with vague surprise - he’d dimly registered her arrival, of course, though mostly it’s unfortunate consequences - but he hadn’t expected her to still be here. Internally, he shrugged. Not his problem.

“The missing child, Tobias Wright. We should find him before we continue.”
No point beating about the bush, after all.

 

[Shadow]

Elian Shackleton

Collab w/ s e v e n + Ravenborn​

A quiet anticipation in the winter air, and the knight could not be sure whether it was a shared sensation or if it was borne by him alone.

The sense of something important to come and an end to be reached. An end to resolve the collective apprehension so recently introduced.
Yet it seemed untenably optimistic - naive - to consider how this might end when it had not yet truly begun: it did not suit his aromantic sensibilities and he knew it. It could only stand as evidence that he was far from the potential he strived toward.

Streets had rolled steadily past them: morphing and flickering from façade to façade, each one an impression rather than a certainty. The entrance to Harrow's school slipped beneath Elian's awareness in a similar manner: even the broad walls of brick that came to fill up his view.
He managed, after a moment, to depart his musings, and stepped down to the snow dusted cobblestones, eyes sweeping up to alight on the imposing building even before he noticed the student who had been waiting upon their arrival and was greeting Sir Lancelot with a posture of effortful dignity.

Then the youth turned, spoke to him, and... feeling better?

Elian at once veiled himself in every possible layer of regretful nonchalance to avoid looking surprised and bowed his head politely until the boy looked away.
Desperate green eyes flicked up then, attempting to catch the gaze of Sir Lancelot, who was speaking to the offer of tea for him: for which he had to be grateful in his haze of confusion, even as he was forced to resign himself to receiving neither answer nor repose from the bizarre assertion the boy had made about his apparent former unwellness.

In the last tendrils of the mist of his embarrassment, Elian considered that the offer of such domestic pleasantries in the face of their grim purpose here was rather uncaring. Yet he was compelled to dismiss the thought just as quickly, for the aura of strict social graces was dripping from the gait of every student who passed them by and, he imagined, from everyone else who walked these halls as well.
The living may at any moment want to be impressed by tea, and the dead would always have the time to wait.

It was also imminently apparent that their arrival was significant to their guide for more than just their usefulness, and Elian was charmed against his will by the boy’s enthusiastic chatter with Sir Lancelot.
As he followed in the paths of the other knights when they were led indoors, Elian dutifully attended as best he could to the maundering of the young prefect about his high regard for the Knight’s Order. Though it was not the useful account of the night's events he had somewhat been expecting to be forthcoming, the praise for an Order to which he belonged fed a growing sense of resolve within his chest and even, he feared to acknowledge, satisfaction; which he instantly recognized to be conceited.
Before he could admonish himself, however, their party came to a halt upon the stairs after the query of Lady Palamedes. Although he did not, at first, know what to make of Keating's haughty remark, the warmth so recently kindled in his chest turned abruptly to ice, and he did not speak or meet the searching eyes of the youth.

From behind, and somewhat to her right, Elian was in a position to notice the shift in Lady Palamedes' posture, but it did not prepare him for her sudden outburst of wailing and spectacle. He retreated a step, somewhat befuddled, and was forced into consciousness of the increasing audience of students, gathering to bear witness to the inept retorts of their scarlet-faced prefect.
With a grace and disarming poise, the focus of the exchange was returned in a trice to the investigation at hand.

Elian had moved back against the wall, and it allowed space for the Lady's skirts as she passed him by on her way, having quite evidently gained the direction she required from the quelled boy at their lead.
Considering the now-flustered state of their current guide, he briefly wondered if another of the students so recently gathered in their proximity would be better equipped to show them to the headmaster.

A tap on his back, Elian turned and saw he had gained the attention of Othello… smiling at him -as though unfazed by what had happened only less than a minute ago- he leaned in closer to speak in a lower voice.

“Would you be a dear and keep an eye on that one, yes?” Othello said, resting one hand on his shoulder. “She is rather new- this being her first actual case and all. That being said, you know why we are here. I am…sure what I want goes without saying. Oh-“ His grip on Elian’s shoulder tightened when the latter was about to pull back. “One last thing.”

The next few words, Othello had said in a quieter tone, perhaps even close to a whisper. Elian held his gaze for a moment when he had finished speaking, a silent query, but then gave a nod and held his voice to a low volume in turn. “Very well, Sir Lancelot. Lady Palamedes and I will return here when we have found something of interest.”
It was odd, almost, to use their proper titles again, but it was at the same time, as it ever was, a solid reminder of the duty they were here to fulfill. With the hand still resting on his shoulder, he lingered perhaps a moment longer than he should, but they eventually parted, Othello laying down one final pat on Elian’s back just as he turned around.

The pressure of the touch lingered upon the memory of his skin when he emerged into the mercy of winter’s force against the far sharper, but equally welcome prodding of the unsettled air. His eyes searched at once for Lady Palamedes and easily spotted her figure at a growing distance along the street before him. He lengthened his stride to close that distance, raking straying hair from his eyes, which delayed his notice of her companion until he was nearly upon the unexpected pair.

“Lady Palamedes.” It came out as something of a question, matching the curiosity turned upon the subject of his gaze; iridescent black feathers, intelligent beady eyes, a beak long and noble in profile. Certainly, he had seen the avian in the proximity of Cavendish manor with the Lady, and marveled at their evident fellowship, but had no recollection of being so near to it himself. He was, at first, bereft of anything to say in the captivation he held toward the creature so casually perched upon her arm: yet his interest was drawn back by a pressing cognizance of their purpose here, and he was compelled to mention his reason for pursuing her.
“Sir Lancelot requested that I accompany you, in the event that you encounter any further trouble.”

Amber eyes, lacking their usual warmth, snapped up to meet his own; a singular eyebrow arched in pride. Something unreadable sat in her gaze. “Oh? Othello, too, thinks I am desperately in need of assistance?”
A pause, then the even tone that the young woman had adopted shook slightly as she continued, “With all due respect, Sir Gareth, there are things I want to see done,” her fingers sunk into her skirt, gripping it a little fiercer, “and I will do what it takes to see it through.”

There was no equal strength in the eyes that rose to meet hers, only a quiet guardedness that stood in place of his confusion. “Sir Lancelot did not give the impression that providing you with further assistance was an urgent matter: he only seemed to consider it prudent.” Elian was unsure whether he should continue to speak through the flurry of discomfort beginning to swirl in his chest. Alongside it stood a consideration that tactful mediation was not within his expertise, though he realized he seemed to have left something unsaid, while the Lady had spoken her part in full.

And, indeed, she did not respond with speech to his words; choosing only to lower her eyes to intently study the snow on the ground they stood on.
Feeling the silence beginning to swell in the space between them, gloved hands worked tensely within the fabric of their pockets and words came together slowly.

“If I may say, Lady…if my actions have appeared dismissive of your capabilities, that is the opposite of my intention. It takes great talent and expertise to become a member of the Knight’s Order.” The brief lull in which he attempted to regain some articulation was sudden, as he submitted to the worry that he had not managed to convey his thoughts properly or understood the situation correctly at all; creating a moment where footsteps crunched lightly upon fallen snowflakes in isolation. “I only mean to say that I hope my presence and abilities may be complementary to yours, rather than overbearing.“

The pair of amber eyes found him again, and to his relief there was a hint of warmth present that was not there before. The turning of the mental cogs in the Lady’s head evaluating his trustworthiness was almost loud in the momentary quiet that they’d found themselves in again.
At last she let out a long exhale, wisps of warm breath dancing in the air like ghosts as the aura of guardedness dissipated around her. Hands no longer clutching linen, Lady Palamedes held out the raven perched on her arm to him, the bird studying him with curious dark eyes.

“Licorice. You can hold him if you’d like.”

Elian’s own guard lowered in response, shoulders easing slightly except for the tension that was necessary when black wings flapped, and a powerful grip took his proffered forearm gently. “Oh.” It was little more than an intake of breath and it was all that could be said within the pulling of his rapture back to that marvelous animal.
“He is incredible,” Elian spoke, soft and awed: voice matching the expression in his light green eyes, which landed for a moment upon his companion, the hint of a smile in the upward tilt of thin lips.
Yet Elian's gaze returned to their path before he could gain notice of the approving expression that passed over the face of the Lady.

~o~​

A step in the outside, come-forth a greet of wind. There was a gust, laid softly like a kiss, whether of greeting or of farewell. Just as the young prefect had directed, the pair discovered amongst themselves rows of houses as they walked. Some seeming newer than others, yet all bore a touch of ancientness in architecture. Harrow Public School, established a few centuries back. The fact that it remained till that day was beyond astonishing.

There were not many students, unsurprisingly so considering the time of year. Ones that were present, as they were before, did nothing but whisper amongst themselves. Skidding away from the road, avoiding eye contact, yet all the same stealing cowardly glances. There was a window in one of the houses, where a student peeked through the curtains. It quickly was shut back, and there could be little wonder that the face of recent events had drawn apprehension from the boldness of youth.

For their part, the knights walked together with footsteps falling in and out of tandem: longer legs slowing to keep in line with the shorter of the two. Yet before any real action could be made, a boy caught their attention- or rather, they caught his. Unusual as it may seem, for he did not avert his gaze. Glasses pushed up his round nose, nestling comfortably on his equally round face. Younger than the prefect he appeared, as well as smaller in build. He hesitated, it seemed, but that had not lasted long. There was a certain boldness in his stride, though whether or not that was a façade, one might not be able to tell so easily.

“Hello, sir. Ma’am,” he greeted. A mild choke back on his words, yet what could one have expected from a boy who matured much too soon? “I’m Reggie. Reggie Prescott. Pleased to meet you.”

He offered his hand to shake, bare, pale with reddened tips. Despite his smooth face and boyish look, his palms felt rough to the touch when Elian accepted his salute. This time, if he was nervous, it had shown. As though the courage that he had gathered so difficultly have left him just as quickly as it had arrived.

“If I may be so quick on words- you both are the Knights, yes? Of the Round Table,” he clarified himself. He averted his gaze, yet it is evident that his resolve was solid. He has come so far, after all. “I am willing to speak for the investigation, if you would have me.”

Torn in focus between the weight of the avian still atop his arm and the offering of an account to be told, Elian reverted to a script. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Reggie Prescott. I am Sir Gareth, and this is the Lady Palamedes of the Round Table, who will be most interested to hear any information you have regarding the investigation, I am sure.” His eyes flickered toward the Lady with a touch of uncertainty, though a flurry of snow, kicked up by dancing wind, gave him another consideration. “Though, perhaps it would be best to speak somewhere private and a bit warmer?”

The boy gave a nod, and though his nerves seemed not to vanish entirely, he led them to a nearby house and invited them into its haven. Elian hesitated for a half-step to allow the Lady to pass through the doorway before him and was relieved when the raven’s grip tightened for only a moment before releasing his forearm to pursue its choice of perch anew. He was free, then, to join the interviewing party indoors and await any suggestion that he might be made useful.

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

Spoiler: Uncoded

A quiet anticipation in the winter air, and the knight could not be sure whether it was a shared sensation or if it was borne by him alone.

The sense of something important to come and an end to be reached. An end to resolve the collective apprehension so recently introduced.
Yet it seemed untenably optimistic - naive - to consider how this might end when it had not yet truly begun: it did not suit his aromantic sensibilities and he knew it. It could only stand as evidence that he was far from the potential he strived toward.

Streets had rolled steadily past them: morphing and flickering from façade to façade, each one an impression rather than a certainty. The entrance to Harrow's school slipped beneath Elian's awareness in a similar manner: even the broad walls of brick that came to fill up his view.
He managed, after a moment, to depart his musings, and stepped down to the snow dusted cobblestones, eyes sweeping up to alight on the imposing building even before he noticed the student who had been waiting upon their arrival and was greeting Sir Lancelot with a posture of effortful dignity.

Then the youth turned, spoke to him, and... feeling better?

Elian at once veiled himself in every possible layer of regretful nonchalance to avoid looking surprised and bowed his head politely until the boy looked away.
Desperate green eyes flicked up then, attempting to catch the gaze of Sir Lancelot, who was speaking to the offer of tea for him: for which he had to be grateful in his haze of confusion, even as he was forced to resign himself to receiving neither answer nor repose from the bizarre assertion the boy had made about his apparent former unwellness.

In the last tendrils of the mist of his embarrassment, Elian considered that the offer of such domestic pleasantries in the face of their grim purpose here was rather uncaring. Yet he was compelled to dismiss the thought just as quickly, for the aura of strict social graces was dripping from the gait of every student who passed them by and, he imagined, from everyone else who walked these halls as well.
The living may at any moment want to be impressed by tea, and the dead would always have the time to wait.

It was also imminently apparent that their arrival was significant to their guide for more than just their usefulness, and Elian was charmed against his will by the boy’s enthusiastic chatter with Sir Lancelot.
As he followed in the paths of the other knights when they were led indoors, Elian dutifully attended as best he could to the maundering of the young prefect about his high regard for the Knight’s Order. Though it was not the useful account of the night's events he had somewhat been expecting to be forthcoming, the praise for an Order to which he belonged fed a growing sense of resolve within his chest and even, he feared to acknowledge, satisfaction; which he instantly recognized to be conceited.
Before he could admonish himself, however, their party came to a halt upon the stairs after the query of Lady Palamedes. Although he did not, at first, know what to make of Keating's haughty remark, the warmth so recently kindled in his chest turned abruptly to ice, and he did not speak or meet the searching eyes of the youth.

From behind, and somewhat to her right, Elian was in a position to notice the shift in Lady Palamedes' posture, but it did not prepare him for her sudden outburst of wailing and spectacle. He retreated a step, somewhat befuddled, and was forced into consciousness of the increasing audience of students, gathering to bear witness to the inept retorts of their scarlet-faced prefect.
With a grace and disarming poise, the focus of the exchange was returned in a trice to the investigation at hand.

Elian had moved back against the wall, and it allowed space for the Lady's skirts as she passed him by on her way, having quite evidently gained the direction she required from the quelled boy at their lead.
Considering the now-flustered state of their current guide, he briefly wondered if another of the students so recently gathered in their proximity would be better equipped to show them to the headmaster.

A tap on his back, Elian turned and saw he had gained the attention of Othello… smiling at him -as though unfazed by what had happened only less than a minute ago- he leaned in closer to speak in a lower voice.

“Would you be a dear and keep an eye on that one, yes?” Othello said, resting one hand on his shoulder. “She is rather new- this being her first actual case and all. That being said, you know why we are here. I am…sure what I want goes without saying. Oh-“ His grip on Elian’s shoulder tightened when the latter was about to pull back. “One last thing.”

The next few words, Othello had said in a quieter tone, perhaps even close to a whisper. Elian held his gaze for a moment when he had finished speaking, a silent query, but then gave a nod and held his voice to a low volume in turn. “Very well, Sir Lancelot. Lady Palamedes and I will return here when we have found something of interest.”
It was odd, almost, to use their proper titles again, but it was at the same time, as it ever was, a solid reminder of the duty they were here to fulfill. With the hand still resting on his shoulder, he lingered perhaps a moment longer than he should, but they eventually parted, Othello laying down one final pat on Elian’s back just as he turned around.

The pressure of the touch lingered upon the memory of his skin when he emerged into the mercy of winter’s force against the far sharper, but equally welcome prodding of the unsettled air. His eyes searched at once for Lady Palamedes and easily spotted her figure at a growing distance along the street before him. He lengthened his stride to close that distance, raking straying hair from his eyes, which delayed his notice of her companion until he was nearly upon the unexpected pair.

“Lady Palamedes.” It came out as something of a question, matching the curiosity turned upon the subject of his gaze; iridescent black feathers, intelligent beady eyes, a beak long and noble in profile. Certainly, he had seen the avian in the proximity of Cavendish manor with the Lady, and marveled at their evident fellowship, but had no recollection of being so near to it himself. He was, at first, bereft of anything to say in the captivation he held toward the creature so casually perched upon her arm: yet his interest was drawn back by a pressing cognizance of their purpose here, and he was compelled to mention his reason for pursuing her.
“Sir Lancelot requested that I accompany you, in the event that you encounter any further trouble.”

Amber eyes, lacking their usual warmth, snapped up to meet his own; a singular eyebrow arched in pride. Something unreadable sat in her gaze. “Oh? Othello, too, thinks I am desperately in need of assistance?”
A pause, then the even tone that the young woman had adopted shook slightly as she continued, “With all due respect, Sir Gareth, there are things I want to see done,” her fingers sunk into her skirt, gripping it a little fiercer, “and I will do what it takes to see it through.”

There was no equal strength in the eyes that rose to meet hers, only a quiet guardedness that stood in place of his confusion. “Sir Lancelot did not give the impression that providing you with further assistance was an urgent matter: he only seemed to consider it prudent.” Elian was unsure whether he should continue to speak through the flurry of discomfort beginning to swirl in his chest. Alongside it stood a consideration that tactful mediation was not within his expertise, though he realized he seemed to have left something unsaid, while the Lady had spoken her part in full.

And, indeed, she did not respond with speech to his words; choosing only to lower her eyes to intently study the snow on the ground they stood on.
Feeling the silence beginning to swell in the space between them, gloved hands worked tensely within the fabric of their pockets and words came together slowly.

“If I may say, Lady…if my actions have appeared dismissive of your capabilities, that is the opposite of my intention. It takes great talent and expertise to become a member of the Knight’s Order.” The brief lull in which he attempted to regain some articulation was sudden, as he submitted to the worry that he had not managed to convey his thoughts properly or understood the situation correctly at all; creating a moment where footsteps crunched lightly upon fallen snowflakes in isolation. “I only mean to say that I hope my presence and abilities may be complementary to yours, rather than overbearing.“

The pair of amber eyes found him again, and to his relief there was a hint of warmth present that was not there before. The turning of the mental cogs in the Lady’s head evaluating his trustworthiness was almost loud in the momentary quiet that they’d found themselves in again.
At last she let out a long exhale, wisps of warm breath dancing in the air like ghosts as the aura of guardedness dissipated around her. Hands no longer clutching linen, Lady Palamedes held out the raven perched on her arm to him, the bird studying him with curious dark eyes.

“Licorice. You can hold him if you’d like.”

Elian’s own guard lowered in response, shoulders easing slightly except for the tension that was necessary when black wings flapped, and a powerful grip took his proffered forearm gently. “Oh.” It was little more than an intake of breath and it was all that could be said within the pulling of his rapture back to that marvelous animal.
“He is incredible,” Elian spoke, soft and awed: voice matching the expression in his light green eyes, which landed for a moment upon his companion, the hint of a smile in the upward tilt of thin lips.
Yet Elian's gaze returned to their path before he could gain notice of the approving expression that passed over the face of the Lady.

~o~​

A step in the outside, come-forth a greet of wind. There was a gust, laid softly like a kiss, whether of greeting or of farewell. Just as the young prefect had directed, the pair discovered amongst themselves rows of houses as they walked. Some seeming newer than others, yet all bore a touch of ancientness in architecture. Harrow Public School, established a few centuries back. The fact that it remained till that day was beyond astonishing.

There were not many students, unsurprisingly so considering the time of year. Ones that were present, as they were before, did nothing but whisper amongst themselves. Skidding away from the road, avoiding eye contact, yet all the same stealing cowardly glances. There was a window in one of the houses, where a student peeked through the curtains. It quickly was shut back, and there could be little wonder that the face of recent events had drawn apprehension from the boldness of youth.

For their part, the knights walked together with footsteps falling in and out of tandem: longer legs slowing to keep in line with the shorter of the two. Yet before any real action could be made, a boy caught their attention- or rather, they caught his. Unusual as it may seem, for he did not avert his gaze. Glasses pushed up his round nose, nestling comfortably on his equally round face. Younger than the prefect he appeared, as well as smaller in build. He hesitated, it seemed, but that had not lasted long. There was a certain boldness in his stride, though whether or not that was a façade, one might not be able to tell so easily.

“Hello, sir. Ma’am,” he greeted. A mild choke back on his words, yet what could one have expected from a boy who matured much too soon? “I’m Reggie. Reggie Prescott. Pleased to meet you.”

He offered his hand to shake, bare, pale with reddened tips. Despite his smooth face and boyish look, his palms felt rough to the touch when Elian accepted his salute. This time, if he was nervous, it had shown. As though the courage that he had gathered so difficultly have left him just as quickly as it had arrived.

“If I may be so quick on words- you both are the Knights, yes? Of the Round Table,” he clarified himself. He averted his gaze, yet it is evident that his resolve was solid. He has come so far, after all. “I am willing to speak for the investigation, if you would have me.”

Torn in focus between the weight of the avian still atop his arm and the offering of an account to be told, Elian reverted to a script. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Reggie Prescott. I am Sir Gareth, and this is the Lady Palamedes of the Round Table, who will be most interested to hear any information you have regarding the investigation, I am sure.” His eyes flickered toward the Lady with a touch of uncertainty, though a flurry of snow, kicked up by dancing wind, gave him another consideration. “Though, perhaps it would be best to speak somewhere private and a bit warmer?”

The boy gave a nod, and though his nerves seemed not to vanish entirely, he led them to a nearby house and invited them into its haven. Elian hesitated for a half-step to allow the Lady to pass through the doorway before him and was relieved when the raven’s grip tightened for only a moment before releasing his forearm to pursue its choice of perch anew. He was free, then, to join the interviewing party indoors and await any suggestion that he might be made useful.