A Deep Red

The false-day had been the same as much of the day to day that London was known to hold. Criminals roamed in the hope of a singular good purse, the mayor rode abouht in their carriage, the palace silent as it ever was. Glittering above it all were the wonderful and foreboding false stars, forever still - or at least so Londoners hoped - as they watched the city below.

Truly nothing could be said of the Neath without mentioning an air of circumspect and foreboding. For the silence often preferred by London and those within it would be a lie to say the city was ever truly still. Even with brawls at the docks or Revolutionaries setting fires there was a constant sheen of unseen machinations, Machiavellian in their very being. The powerful of London were rarely inactive, even if they sat in their armchairs to enjoy their tea, but something quite queer was happening.

Groyard Mayatt, the Vicious Viceroy, had been absent for quite some time. Now and again claims would be made that his arrival at some social gathering or going between homes could be accounted for and, though sometimes true, it seemed the man had gone rather quiet. He would host charity events for the orphans and poor only to to appear briefly to offer a toast; once eagerly inspecting his orphanages he would rarely appear but to deliver clothing and food, avoiding public eye throughout. He had thrived on social recognition and yet now he somehow avoided it all. His ship finally set zail, the great yacht leaving for the South, and though he went with it his memory remained. Suitors and staff alike awaited his return.

What none expected was his return with a dreadful sunrise at his back, red cascading over the death black Unterzee and casting new shadows but revealing horrible truths with it. Groyard had returned, a triumph in his smile.

One more journey

In the alleys of Spite so few truly know of a silent moment. Usually these prelude a dreadful attack of a sort, sometimes one for money and oftentimes involving a blade or bullet. Spite has been, for quite some dreadful time, effectively lawless. Only the roving wall of Neddymen arm in arm with the Constables are ever able to tame it and even then for such brief periods it may not be done at all. Truly, the denizens of the district perhaps prefer the rule of the Topsy King to that of the copper and club. Those they pay a tribute leave their lives alone whereas the shield merely arrives to destroy in the name of stability that which was gained by painful struggle.

Above in the Flit, the bridges and ropes cling nearly without chance of staying and yet to spite expectation and the premise of civility they remained a stark reminder of the life those that wished to escape the sorrow below could attain. It was wild, it was free, but rarely comfortable. Truly it was a frontier of a kind thought lost. Much like the Neath it was unstable and changing and like London it had become home, but unlike both it had a queer innocence at times. Refuge for criminals, devils, and urchins it was not without sin, and yet here they could all agree together in unison that the Flit, like Spite, is a thumb to the concept of society. Seated at a table made from a great spool once used at Wolfstack, surrounded by a family of gaunt but smiling faces, dinner would come. It was what could scavenged or found but it was truly theirs.

Overlooking even the Flit was the Bazaar and from its spires and silent individual watched. His machinations never ceased but among those running the roofs a woman had his eye, his heart, and his mind. So far distant and yet not far at all. These people would some day know peace if he were successful. A good peace and not the worrisome kind feared so far below.

All things must end. They may as well at least end well.

A curtain of sorts

What becomes of lost and forgotten things, stageplays without homes or actors without purpose. A curtain must fall for all things and the lights must be extinguished. All things must end and all ends come to most things.

At the back of every crowd sat a critic of import. Mahogany Hall had never seen a showing without them but this evening in particular was special. Their least favorite playwrite was finally retiring and doing so on their most infamous play.

All things end but even as the curtain draws and the props are stowed for another day, the critic cannot help but feel eager anticipation for when the doors open again. Once mighty authors graced the halls with soliloquoys of great cultural significance, and yet.

And yet...

After A Dream

It had pained him a good deal for his pride to be wounded and his future made uncertain. All the while he spent recovering, the perverse burning in his veins could not be ignored. It had started as a journey for truth and become an attempt to survive.

Amber dabbed the wet cloth to his forehead, shushing him gently. He had been blabbering incoherently, a troubling trend he had been experiencing- and forgetting - that was a grim side effect of his battery and the curse thrust upon him. “All is well, Groyard,” she whispered tenderly.

He and she had already found one another’s presence to be endearing, should one find such encounters to be so, and even without their standard rapport it was clear to any onlooker that her kind words soothed whatever ailed him in such a way that his mind could once more be whole and clear. His throat was irritated and his mouth dry, despite their best attempts at correcting this. He had managed to explain the situation to her in bursts before breaking down once more into hysterics as caused by his unwelcome guest. It could not stay, not much longer, but what was he to do but languish? He had done nothing to deserve his suffering and yet he was subjected to such punishment as if he had killed a preacher behind his church with a shovel to steal his soul! Though true, he had good cause, or so he thought.

As his vision stopped swimming and his body calmed, the socialite began speaking once more in uncertain and haggard stutters. “The shadows... grow...” He coughed roughly, the vein on his neck standing out as an uncomfortable reminder of what was at stake. “They must be stopped. Forced my hand but also showed cards...” An ordeal to explain his situation to her but even more so to be rendered so ineffectual. What could be so cruel as to give him not only the horrible book he needed so much but also give tantalizing, if ominous, clues to a wounded and weary man? Success was potentially within his reach but would shining a light upon his route reveal if his reach was too short or perhaps close enough?

His caretaker tutted softly and bid him to remain lying down with a simple press to his chest. “Don’t fret, Groyard,” she soothed. “My little roof runners know whispers and songs of the shadows around the city. They can help us.” The Urchins had been known to drink in secrets of echoes from past cities and times lost, wisdom in strange and obscure fields coming from them at the most curious time. Perhaps they could help, but that would require finding those willing to help as well as those with knowledge of the subject at hand. It was a very small overlap, Groyard assumed, but before he could get a word in edgewise, she had helped him with his tea once more. “I will send out a bat and get word out. My little tykes will come to your aid without a doubt.”

He did his best to remain sane, the tea working wonders with that fact. He would need to read the book but what would be the cost? It was given to him in earnest and no doubt that meant it was ineffectual or came with a grave risk. Perhaps he would be better off destroying it? No. He would need to keep it for the challenges ahead. Looking to the window, he watched the lacrefall that had started not long ago. Time was strange in the Neath and weather doubly so but it seemed this Christmas would be an intriguing one should he take too long.

A Short Letter

Amber,

I cannot attend our planned meeting. Something has happened. I require your presence at my home at your earliest convenience. If at all possible, please bring ice. I will compensate you for the cost or efforts.

Yours,

Groyard

Surrender

His whole body burned. Every inch, every minuscule piece and part of his body was aflame. He still could not move or speak but his body could burn. This creature that had been allowed into his veins could be felt moving, slow and uncaring, until it found its home. He wish to claw the thing out of his throat and cared little for the fact he would no doubt die but he simply could not move or even speak.

The home had come down long ago at this point, black smoke rolling up and into the false-sky above. It was a grim yet strangely welcome sight. For all the struggle he had faced, for all the pain he had endured, at least that blot against the city horizon was gone. Yet he could not bring himself to find a grim humor in this truth. No, instead he lay in the grass and continued to stare upwards. What else could he do as this pain ran his full length and the drug still potent in his body?

He wished to scream. At one point he may have feared being found by constable or even a priest but now his fear and pain far outweighed the punishments he might receive. At least that way, he might find some peace. A finger twitched and his eyes widened. Feeling was returning and so was control. He could do nothing to hasten it but he knew he was not doomed.

His heart continued to race, pounding madly in his aching chest. Why did he have to suffer this fate? He had been doing so well up until now. Such a cruel irony to be stricken while at your best. Perhaps it was the universe playing some monstrous joke and he happened to be the butt of it? If he were a character, this would be the end of the first act but he had not that luxury. At least in a story structure, he might find solace. No. For now, he was forced to surrender to his suffering and let it wash over him. His eyes closed once more, allowing himself to drift into an exhausted and pained sleep. He needed it terribly.

Regrets

He could feel himself being brought through the yard of the now demolished home, grass or what could pass as it far more comfortable than the rubble he had been in not long before. He could feel every heartbeat and breath far more intimately than any other moment in his life. In his pure, total terror he felt he had doomed himself.

The book he had fought so fiercely for was now once more in the possession of someone he had no hopes of combating. His head felt light yet drooped and swung with the motions of his captor, weighed down by what might as well be stone. The creature was not taking him anywhere but instead seemed to be dragging him in pointless routes and circles. He remembered blacking out and yet after time had passed he had hardly been moved away from the scene. Was the creature biding its time? Was it waiting on the Constables so that Groyard might receive some form of justice? His failure would be absolute then. He would suffer a terrible fall from grace and be unable to garner support as easily. What would he tell himself if he could somehow tumble back into the past in the hopes of preventing this?

He was dropping with a soft thud, the socialite still unable to move beyond breathing and existing. The hooded figure leaned down, breath touching his ear as it spoke. “You have been chosen to be predator and prey, fool. Your decision to continue your hunt has entertained my master and now you will be our plaything.” It withdrew a blade from its robe, the tip prodding the side of Groyard’s neck. “You would be so honored that my master views you as a toy and not some body to be cast aside.”

His neck burned, stung by some infernal beast, warm blood rising from his wound. The creature had stabbed him! The blade was stowed once more, hand beginning to rummage through its depths once more. “But no hunt is complete without some... urgency.” The hiss of its voice became far more prominent here, teasing and excitement mingling together. “I will not be your greatest fear any longer. No, no, time will be.” A gloved hand held some thin, black worm over Groyard’s head, the creature wriggling and writhing in uncertain directions. “For a man who seeks forbidden and forgotten knowledge, let me leave you with a token.” The hand pulled back.

Groyard’s heart began to pound heavily, fear of what might happen but a burning certainty of what was to come. “The Nebian Bloodworm is native to a certain range of caves here in the Neath. As its name might suggest, blood is quite the important aspect of the poor creature’s life.” He could feel as the worm is dropped, part of it touching his neck, the other half no doubt in the grass. “The moment it smells blood, it must seek it out. It must sustain itself on the life of others.” The creature began inching its way up the side of its neck, angling for the cut. He wanted to swat at it, to stand and run, to do anything but his body simply refused to cooperate. Nothing wanted to work for him, he could hardly even blink.

“But the issue comes from the fact that it must grow as it consumes. Perhaps not so large it blocks a vein but longer and longer so that blood pressure begins to rise.” Its hand comes to gently rub his head, the creature sighing. “And that is if it does not reach your brain or heart first. If that were the case...” Its voice trailed off, not deigning the answer important enough to share.

There was a pressure on his wound, warmth spreading as the blood was smeared. He wanted to scream. The worm consumed the pinpricks of red warmth as they rose and continued to bring its body upwards, now at a far faster pace. “If you manage to find my master before you die, my master can save you.” The creature chuckles lowly, shoulders rising. “Perhaps you can save yourself.”

His cut burned, the worm beginning to disappear into it. His vision flickered and colours popped into and out of existence. How he wanted to scream. How he wanted to run and be free of this! Powers that be, he did not deserve this! The creature stood, dropping the horrible book off to Groyard’s side. “I cannot keep it. I did not fear you nor will I ever. You have paid the price for it and, as such, the Necronomicon is yours.” With that, his hunter leaves Groyard behind, leaving the ruined home behind in a leisurely pace. So much was happening all at once and none of it mattered. Everything hurt and nothing was good.

And so, he was forced to endure.

A Heavy Heart

He could feel it in his chest. His heartbeat was faint and his breathing ragged. The splinters in his fingers were no more his main concern but rather the sensation of burning he felt with every breath and shift. He was in horrible agony but what else could he do? Calling out was fruitless, it would only fill his lungs with ash and powdered stone. Who might even believe this were an accident? He had made a right fool of himself. Even the book, pressed into his chest by the rubble, was no relief. He had succeeded in finding that terrible book but the cost might be far more than he had anticipated.

The sound of slowly shifting stone sounded over the continuing inferno behind him. He would not be burned to death but instead suffocate in his own blood. It was horrible to exist. What would become of him? Would he simply come back to a battered, if at least functioning, body? Would he be burned by the Boatman? He had no reason to believe anyone that might find him would be kind. Who would be? At best, he would be thought of as some servant to the family here and given their debts and history, considered collateral or an acceptable loss. At worst, anyone to discover him might recognize him as a foe or even patron of the house in deserving of a sound thrashing.

He groaned, eyes closing slowly. Everything was so heavy. Even without the stone hit heart weighed thrice its normal self on its own. It was mind boggling how he could feel this way, especially given how close he had been to success. If he had acted sooner, if he had but found the book a moment earlier or dashed through the window ahead, he would have been fine. No, he would have rather found the most optimal and dramatic route. What good was an escape if it lacked image? His pride burned as did his hopes.

Another shifting stone caught his ear. This was not done by his movements alone. Someone else was here. He considered calling out but he could not. His breaths were too shallow and his energy far too lacking. What was there to do but wait for demise or rescue? Another stone gone, this one moved from his head. His eyes opened slowly, vision blurring. The robe of his attacker from before was unmistakable. His heart sank. The very thing that had come so close to killing him before now had him at his most vulnerable. He could not fight, let alone lift his head. He was doomed.

Two gloved hands grabbed him by his collar and began to drag. “What fools make by their own two hands,” came its hissing voice. It was strangely penetrating, Groyard finding its words cut deep despite his normal thick skin. “A corrected course will be required of you.” He was pulled free of the stone only for a sudden and sharp pressure in his neck to be felt, followed by the sound of a syringe being injected. He wanted to scream, to resist, but it was over already. His eyes closed as he drifted away into his drugged stupor.

A Wretched End

The stairs were, thankfully, largely intact. What was troublesome, and not quite known until he experienced it directly, was the fact the entire home was on fire, raging on either side of the hall he had risen into. Oh bother.

Tucking the book away carefully and rather protectively he had decided it was time to make his exit. Perhaps through the window again? A section of the floor above crashing to his right expedited his thinking and he was in agreement with himself. Certainly the risk of lacerations was quite possible but he figured it better than being cooked to perfection for whatever monster might stumble across his corpse in the next few days. Lacking the civility to even spice him prope-

The wall ahead came crumbling down, multiple stones shattering and sending chunks flying into him. It hurt. His cynicism came to a dead stop as he realized how much he was actually hurting. The ringing in his ears had come to an end but his heart pounded even harder now. Was he on the verge of failure? This could not be how it ends. His plans, his hopes, it was all too well laid out. Some house fire should not be his end!

His eyes flit left and right, grip on the book tightening. Both ways were aflame and the right was blocked. The wall itself had fallen into a heap that he could potentially clamber over but he could not wait for much longer. It was all falling apart. He had planned it so well and handled each challenge flawlessly and yet this was to be his fate?

Red light licked at his heels as he made his mad dash to the opening ahead. No sense in fighting the blaze when an escape was so readily available. Another section somewhere in the house crashed through to the ground floor, the entire structure shuddering. He could not let it end here, especially on his escape. He was successful in every degree and to let it slip from his grasp now would be the ultimate failure.

The brick and mortar made for great grasping points did but nothing for his already weary hands. Scuffs and cuts open, a torture in its own right as he dragged himself over towards hopeful safety. His progress was slow but present and by the time he had crested the bricks, it was clear his distance needed to be greater. The home was beginning to lean.

He could not fail. It was not fair! He had come so far and to fail now would invalidate everything he had accomplished! It simply was not fair!

And then the home came crashing down on top of him.

The Horrible Book

Waking up - yet again - was a curious sensation. Was the prior encounter a mere phantasm brought about by the curious cultist muttering? Perhaps an illusion caused by consumption or inhalation of some nefarious substance of ill intent? No doubt, it happened but it was entirely uncertain if it had been a physical happening. One of the soul? Of the mind? Astounding potential conclusions shook his world as he considered them. However, the rumbling may have likewise been from the foundation of the home.

Curiously, it took a falling brick to smash into a loose crate nearby to stir Groyard from his stupor. Indeed, he was now certain of his circumstance. He needed to leave. It was then that he noticed a warm, slick substance soaked into his clothes. He was not feeling lightheaded and certainly it was no mere coincidence. The cultist was below him, crumpled into his robes and bleeding quite profusely. What luck that Groyard was not in a similar fate, but it seems he was not unscathed. A tingling burn on his temple brought attention to his own condition. His hearing was muffled and what he could hear was being overpowered by an incessant ringing. He had to leave yet he had not completed his work.

His heart set to race inside his chest, vision pulling itself together with a renewed clarity. His body was demanding he escape and though this was a future he would not find disagreeable, he did have work to do. He stood, swaying briefly as the world demanded he do, to look about the basement. He needed this book. It was no longer just about his research, it was a matter of personal honor that he take it.

Another falling brick sent this matter of honor to galactic importance, the very meaning of life and fabric of reality hanging in the balance as he tore through the rubble and fragmented crates. A hiss as splinters dug into his fingers. Red beaded on his hands but he could not stop. He could practically taste the book! He had hunted so long to find it!

It was by either massive coincidence or incredibly well planned timing that he find it underneath the mess before him, the book thick and aged. It was a masterpiece of forbidden arts. It smelled quite rancid. He was elated! Who would not be? He could leave and safely at that, a thought that was quite present in his mind as he scooped the book up under his arm and quickly made his way to the stairs. However, at the back of his mind lingered the single concern that had been plaguing him this whole time.

If he had the book, what was it that he feared that allowed him to find it? Or did Mr Pages lie? A thought better mused over in a home that was not falling apart. Hopefully Amber had the kettle on.

Spiraling Shadows

The world had fallen to void, darkness replacing the curious red glow of the cult candles. It was dreadfully complete, an ink spill upon the once vivid tapestry of the world now gone. He felt cold and pained, his head resting upon some slime licked stone and his mind unable to focus beyond immediate sensations.

Dark.

Cold.

Silence.

Gross.

His clothes remained - thank the powers that be - but the thought they might have been missing prior was a curious pondering. Was it that his senses were slowly picking themselves up from their embarrassing failings and were attempting to reprise their once venerable status as ‘information providers’? Perhaps it was just something he had considered and they were sluggishly providing a reply some time later. It mattered little.

Dark.

Chilling.

Noiseless.

Slimy.

He sat up, a hand on his head. It hurt a good deal and this only increased that issue, admittedly for just the moment. The very act of breathing was on the verge of crippling. Something was wrong.

Movement in the corner of his eye caused concern and he began to actively shake away the rigor mortis like symptoms from his body, grasping blindly in the hope of finding his blade or something useful as a weapon. He dared not speak. He dared not breathe. What roamed in such a place was no doubt blind but relied heavily upon its other senses. He refused to give it any assistance that he himself would not receive.

Only now did it occur to him that he was not certain if he was still in the mansion basement or not. If he had not moved, then at least he would be vindicated in his confusion. If the latter, however, he would need to learn why and how he had been displaced.

Another skittering across his eyesight brought another question to mind. How was he seeing any of this? It was total darkness and nothing gave even the slightest illumination. Why, then, was this exempted? His heart raced and he was put on edge. His forced civility and strength was beginning to peel at the edges, now very certain he was experiencing unbridled, very obvious fear.

A gloved hand covered his moth and a very high pitched whisper touched his ear.

“You look for things best left buried. Leave this foolish venture behind before it all falls down around you.”

He was then hit upside the head with a cudgel.

A TINGE OF DARKNESS

The taste was not relaxing with the passage of time, instead more thoroughly coating his tongue in an acrid, horrible taste. He could not find it to be remotely worthwhile to continue allowing the cultist to continue their work but what choice did he have? He was some distance away and to make his presence known now would be a choice of pure madness.

However, his time was running short. The book was here. Gods know where it might end up should he not intervene. What if it were only available during certain times? His deadline to plan ahead was shrinking by the moment. He grimaced, removing the deep blue knife from within the confines of his vest. The monk would not need it so perhaps it would serve him well enough.

Brick and knife carefully clasped, he began to inch his way towards his foe, eyes locked ferociously on them. It was becoming harder to focus now and his head was beginning to hurt. “Axea relae tietaen tietaen!” the cultist incanted. Flames danced along the altar - was there an altar before? He was struggling to recall - and the air smelled of burning flesh. It took every ounce of his restraint to not wretch from the experience.

“Relayaeh! Relayaeh undae!” A low thud could be heard in the room, some sort of bolt or lock falling away to the will of the curious cultist before him. What possibly was this magic? Was this magic at all? For the first time since the hooded entity, he felt genuine unease and fear. This could not be allowed to continue. Whatever this prayer was for meant ill and he would be damned if he allowed it to continue.

He threw his brick with a strikingly successful crunch, short end impacting the back of the cultist’s pasty skull. A scream of pain broke his concentration and the flames on the altar soon perished. This was the chance he had taken and he simply could not let it slip by. He rushed towards his adversary, knife held as if a sword or spear. He must strike the heart from his foe. He intended to do so with terrible results.

However, despite the earlier success in ending the spell, his vision still clouded and his head still heard. As the blade found purchase in a fairly human like object, he fell unconscious and lay on the stone floor to drift into a terrible, uncertain dream, the light fading from his vision and being replaced with the unnatural dark...

Cold Stones; Bloody Rites

The descent into the basement was slow going, the sputtering candles barely clinging to their waxy life in their lonely sconces providing meager light to navigate by. A hand on the wall and the other on his now trusty brick defender, Groyard made his way down one stair at a time. Each one creaked, despite his best efforts, and whatever potential for a stealthy approach was long lost to the dark recesses below. Even if he had gone unheard, his lacking sight would have helped him little.

A gentle breeze tickled his neck, a welcome break from the usual stagnant air of the Neath. Something less strange and certainly a prized moment. However, it is because the situation was so rare that it immediately put the socialite on edge, his lean form moving to the wall just before the base of the stairs. Though he had come to expect curious things, it never occurred to him that something once familiar might very well become strange. Muttering could be heard ahead, sure signs that the dedication to such an overdone hideout spot was indeed happening and he was to be forced into a literary nightmare. How could he put this in a memoir or a short story? It is so dull to come to a basement to find strange things. It is familiar and trite.

The mutterings became familiar words spoken in an unfamiliar way. A bastardized German reached his ear and catching his nerves. Who would speak the language of his homeland in such a place and in such a strange fashion? It was certainly the dialect of a different province in the Empire, the Prussian accent not present yet the words demonstrably similar to his own tongue. It took every fiber of his being not to respond. Instead, he watched in silence as a lone, robed person worked in a red candle light - of course it was red - a book held aloft and symbols glowing ominously at an altar before them.

“Rise,” they incanted, “and meet thy servant.” A pause, more German and occult words mingling before it was repeated. The cultist - were they a cultist? The lack of a hood at least revealed humanity - was receiving no response but their very words charged the air. If Groyard had hair, it would no doubt be standing now. “Rise.”

He surveyed the room before carefully slinking further into the lair. This was no longer a mere hint. The severity of the locale gave away the answer. The book was the one he needed and he was to act with energy and tact if he were to be successful. Wasting time would only doom him. Thankfully, no unforeseeable gaffes hindered his progress and, eventually, he came to rest behind a fairly sturdy crate to mull over his options. He tasted copper on his tongue and his mind fuzzed. This was perhaps not the best place to plan but he was forced to do so. Otherwise, he might be caught aflame or at the tip of a dagger. All he need to do now was wait for the right time.

In-depth Ponderings

Somewhere in the home, a clock ticked away lazily, the swinging weights sending each second to its early grave. Elsewhere, candles continued to sputter into a spiral of doom. Dust lingered in the air from recent movements and actions in the hall and home. In a heap by the broken window was the robed horror that had attempted to send Groyard to a grave indescribable. Near it, the socialite and burglar nudged it with his foot, having recollected his brick for safety concerns.

The examination brought to light the thing was highly dense and heavy, requiring no little effort to actually shift its form any noticeable amount. Despite this revelation, the strange material that made the thing up still gave way easily, even if the body itself refused to move. It was similar to gelatin as it would wobble and dance obscenely with each tough. Curious and mesmerizing. He avoided looking at the thing’s head, not quite wanting to test his sanity further. Looking away and focusing on some decaying piece of art, he pulled the hood over the thing’s head once more.

Now, to find the book. Not wanting to leave an opportunity behind, he carefully frisked his apparently immortal enemy. Again, the strange feeling the body produced gave him uncertain anxiety but, after a good minute to at least search every pocket and robe fold, he found nothing. Troubling, given he would need to leave it there, but at the very least a good sign given he would not need to be this close again. He stood, glancing up and down the hall.

Given the barren nature of the office and the library, where else could this horrible tome be? The basement stairwell was an obvious guess, but it was so terribly cliché. Would the resident be that willing to convene to expectations? How boring would that be! He scoffed, rolling his eyes. It would be terribly boring but he had little choice. Passing up any potential lead for the sake of narrative intrigue may very well get him caught or killed, neither being a desirable outcome. With a sigh and a newly found determination, he soon returned to the stairwell leading into the cellar, cautiously descending with a hand brushing against the wall.

A Foetid Reminder

The successful seclusion behind the stone still life only proved to be a silent boon, the odor found outside impossibly prominent as the robed creature made its way past his alcove. The gloves were still on, the dark depths of its hood still impossible to glimpse any sort of notable feature, though his curiosity certainly avoided wanting to examine further. Perhaps the knowledge may prove beneficial to some esoteric question well into the future but, as it stood, he preferred to keep his presence hidden and well out of the thing’s mind.

This hope, however, quickly fell away. The movement stopped, its robes silently shifting to finish what little movement it had been given by its owner. Groyard’s heart stopped, eyes locked on the thing as it slowly twisted its upper body - and only its upper body - to look at the broken window further back. After a silent, terrible moment, the thing turned the rest of itself to move and examine the window. Despite its lacking features, the clutching hands were a very clear sign of annoyance, if not outright rage. His previous good fortune was swiftly falling away. He was being forced to act and to do so swiftly.

Groyard hefted his brick, glad to have brought such a well created piece instead of opting for the rather ruined looking one from Watchmaker’s Hill. With such a foe set against him, any delay on his behalf would spell doom. Leaning out from behind his cover, he brought his arm up and back, preparing to throw. The sheer importance of this one moment would no doubt gauge his overall success in his ransacking of the home. Otherwise, he would be remarkably inconvenienced to wait for his time to come back to life, as no doubt this encounter would end in his death should he fail.

Though it was many things before this encounter he potentially regretted, perhaps even self-mocked for making the choice himself, the current moment was one that would remain in his memory indefinitely thanks to the substantial degree of improbability that happened in such a terrible, quick succession. First, the creature turned its head to face him, meeting his eyes without so much as a second’s delay. Second, its entire body was facing him with loud, unbelievably timed pops. Thirdly, its hood fell away, revealing an amorphous shape, shrouded in darkness and void, his eyes watering to behold it and his vision quickly flooding with red and his mind muddling from the sheer impossibility of the thing. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the brick made contact, dropping the creature to an unconscious heap. What exactly it hit was not entirely known in the moment but, as his vision cleared and his mind refocused, he soon concluded that this was not such a horrible situation after all.

At least he knew what was under its hood now.

A Greedy Return

Despite the opulent intents of the architect, the decline of the family dynasty had left the home in a state of egregious decadence that rivaled even the failing Roman Empire. Such a collection of paintings did not deserve the horrible treatment bestowed upon them by their ailing masters and yet Groyard could do so little to assist the arts beyond allowing them to persist. To remove them is to burden himself and his mission. He might be required to return some time later to relieve them of their horrible fate but for now he focused his efforts in uncovering the library of the home, hope at the back of his mind of some level of organizational skills remaining in the rotting lineage.

Despite the dramatic entrance and ruination of a once wonderful stained glass window, there seemed to be no stirring within the halls around the home, instead a renewed silence as the burglar ensured he was alone. The hall was long, doors dotting side opposite of his entryway, paintings and statues stationed in alcoves even rarer than the doors. It was quite the sight, though the accumulating dust and obvious mistreatment numbed whatever positivity it might have brought.

By this point, the fact no one was even stirring - that he could hear - was enough of a boon for Groyard to begin his work, trying doors carefully and silently. This proved to be the more exciting venture thus far, even in comparison of his inelegant entrance just moments ago. What possibly could await him beyond each door? An office? A room? Perhaps a wash room? It kept him giddy with excitement, the prospect of a surprise nearly as inviting as the library and the horrible book he needed. Perhaps he could spare a moment to peek into extraneous affairs.

The first door was a study, a sturdy looking red wood desk nestled at the heart of the structure with a curiously barren bookshelf behind it. Sitting on the desk itself was a burning candle that looked close to extinguishing itself, yet the room showed no signs of use as hinted at by an off-putting layer of dust having congealed atop the knick knacks still present. The next was a wash room, a brass tub dry and unused but a towel hanging from its side, wet from use. Yet again, another nearly spent candle. The third brought him to a stairwell leading down - something he would make a mental note of - before the forth revealing to him the library he sought. The Spyglass had promised an abundant pickings to go through, something both titillating and frustrating to consider, but now that he had come across his goal, Groyard’s heart slowed. There were no books here. Not one. No loose pages, no opened tomes, no tossed scrolls, and yet again, a single burning candle sputtering in its dying throes. He noticed the dust here was equally thick, which struck him as curious. It was not more than three weeks when the Spyglass had given their report and they were unerringly loyal to Amber. Were they mistaken? Had he gone to the wrong house? Worse yet, could he have betrayed his intentions?

A slight creaking from a door in the hall caught his ear, the burglar snapping into full attention as he shut the library door with remarkable speed and silence before slinking into the alcove nearby, taking up a position behind the statue that had been cosigned to a life of neglect in this horrible home. His breath caught in his throat as the unmistakable footfall of a resident resounded through the hall. He had perhaps been lucky, no angry calls coming out after him, but the steps caught his attention more than anything else. There was a single thud followed by a dragging sound. It was unnerving and certainly belonging to either a beast or a degenerative aristocrat. However, as it finally passed in front of him, he saw the thing was in a cloak. It was familiar. Too familiar.

The thing that had attacked him in the bogs was here. It had not seen him yet, a boon by all regards, and Groyard intended to keep his element of surprise for as long as possible. He felt it was best to not be thrown as a rag doll again. It had hurt his pride before and, given the close quarters now, it would no doubt hurt other things as well. Time to hold his breath.