Quincy stared blankly at the old newspaper on his dining table, shifting his eyes aimlessly at words he wasn't reading. Was that the reason the house was available?
The hypothesis sounded so ridiculous to his ears: with concrete and dire threats looming just about anywhere outside the Fort, was he really entertaining the idea of an ongoing haunt? It felt so - what's the word? Medieval. But he couldn't shake off the feeling, regardless of how he flipped and twirled it around in his head. However, he'd be glad if just the house was the problem; someone was picking his battles for him.
Rationalizing a door opening by itself was a kid's job, especially the front door: it's windy out. There, simple as that. Quincy's mind emerged unscathed after proposing such a clean explanation. The fact that there was no rustling when he went back to lock and bolt the door was not that meaningful back then, but it's essential to assemble a comfortable set of beliefs and just abide by them as one would do with a compass.
Now the mouse was a bit tricker. Soon after the front door sung open, something small scurried around the first floor. Miranda saw it first, and Quincy noticed something was off by the look on her face. Assuming a trade which required one to descend into forlorn mining tunnels, rodents shouldn't pose that much of a surprise to the Yult. And yet, Quincy tried to read what her eyes told him without much success. "Mouse" was a good word to repeat to himself, even if that thing going around his study seemed to float a few feet above the floor.
It was the third element that made he consider there was something else at work, something darker. Quincy swept his porch with a brand-new broom, a sly smirk on his lips as he tossed some grime over a modest pile in the middle. The fact that Miranda casually groomed herself and just dispersed soot from Decus knows where at his doorstep more amused than annoyed him, but a dry noise of wood on wood brought him back to the task at hand. The broom handle hit the correspondence box, but it rattled slightly for a split second; envelopes don't rattle inside mail boxes.
Nothing could prepare Quincy for the sight that awaited him as he opened the box. A doll. No, not a doll. An effigy. Dirty and unkempt, in the vague shape of a woman. A blonde woman, judging by the hairs that stuck on his hand along with gray wax. He had nothing to cushion the blow for that: that was not a toy, and the more he inspected the figurine, the more it made sense in his mind just whose image that was.
She just recoiled immediately, dropping the bag and reaching out a hand behind her for support. Quincy knew it would be hard to show her, and Miranda's reaction was well within what he expected. He hated to ruin the atmosphere they shared after the Dogsbody Anniversary, but it couldn't wait. "Isn't this some sort of witchcraft?", she asked, her voice failing as she reached the end of that sentence. "Something's afoot here", he said, struggling to keep his composure as well. "I- I don't think this is a ghost, Quincy...".
The rest of their exchange offered no other amenities, though he felt better when he walked Miranda back to her cottage and heard the door clicking closed on the other side. As he traced his steps back to his home, he braced himself for what was coming: he needed help, proper Decusian help. Quincy had his plea done in his mind as he veered north, heading for the Church.
The Presence
Re: The Presence
Quincy wasn't fortunate enough to catch mass this time, as he would have wanted to deliver his request for assistance directly to the priest in attendance. Visibly downcast, he just approached the donation chest by the altar and deposited a small bag inside. More than a meager donation and his message, the distraught minstrel was really depositing his hopes in the hands of Decus and His holy servants.
Re: The Presence
Quincy regained the outdoors, but he was no farther than the graveyard courtyard when his pace came slowly to a halt after leaving the Cathedral. Something gnawed at him.
Time was not a resource he disposed of in abundance, so he opted to leave his request in the chest. But had he been as hasty to tie the bag properly? More than some vagrant pocketing his tithe, Quincy feared his words might never reach the priests' eyes. Even though he had left maybe a minute ago, there was someone beside the donation chest as his eyes refocused under the nave's dim lighting.
The encounter didn't come as a surprise: Drusilla was keen to attend mass on a regular basis, he knew that much about her at least. They shared quite a few tastes, so every time their paths crossed was an opportunity to mend the past and cement a courteous, perhaps agreeable bond. She was standing still, reading what appeared to be a note close to the altar. As Quincy covered the steps between them, he thought the note was strikingly similar to the one he had just left.
Such an understatement: the note wasn't similar, it was his. She gazed to her left as his footsteps echoed and hurriedly placed the note back inside the chest before stepping back. Drusilla's face acquired shades of red by the second, soon to match her habitual crimson garments.
"Drusilla, what was that?". She cleared her throat, briskly detaching a small bag from her belt.
"I was just- I have some produce I wanted to leave here for others. I was curious. I'm sorry".
Worry gave way to contempt in a flash. The letter was a plea for help, of course Quincy signed it. That meant she was aware of it all, a matter so delicate he'd even discuss through shallow whispers with Miranda. He felt exposed, violated. Some lines are not supposed to be crossed.
"You had no right!".
"I didn't know! I thought...".
"This is personal, this is-". The scowl on his face rendered it almost unrecognizable, over gritted teeth and outrage pouring over his ears with each heartbeat. Drusilla was just trying to steer around him, meekly minding her bag of produce. She wasn't even fighting back, what enraged him even more.
"I'll just get out of your way. I'm sorry".
"That is low, Drusilla". Never in his life he'd considered harming a woman. He'd been scorned, rejected and mocked aplenty, but his fingers tingled and trembled with the intent of landing a sound slap across her dejected countenance. He probably would have if they were anywhere else.
"I thought it was someone asking for something -I- could help with...".
"Are you a priest?".
"No... I'm sorry", her voice wavered, green eyes glinting seeking Quincy's as he kept his face turned.
"No. You will bear this one", he said, turning to face the archway and his back to her. "I will not let this go so easily, I have no words for this".
"I'm sorry... please, can we just...", she said, already some people occasionally raising their heads towards them at the pews.
"You're in the right place for atonement. I suggest you make use of it".
"Please, don't... please...".
"Who are you, really?", he said, by then already marching towards the exit.
Quincy was beside himself when he stormed back home. He spent the next two hours furiously writing public letters to the authorities. This would not stand, the Kaduraan was tempering with people's offerings to the Church without their knowledge! The stack of parchment was a foot high by the end, he only needed the brass seal upstairs.
On his way to the desk in the atelier, his eyes briefly met the painting he had finished last week. A piece he created for her, as a token of well-meaning and future reconciliation. Quincy felt so pathetic! With the seal in hand, he brusquely gripped the painting on his way down. He'd cross the street and fling it over the fence later, its rightful place among rancid banana peels and ruined cutlery.
Only then he realized he was famished, the frantic activity winding him down to the bone. Without more than a passing thought, he quickly locked the door and strode down towards the Risk. It was only a few yards, but being hungry made the path seem longer. Only on the way to the bar he noticed Ani wasn't managing the bar on her own this time.
"Constantine?", he asked, rather surprised to see the publican at his post. Quincy was so used to dealing with Ani that his presence actually caught him off guard for a moment, even his need for sustenance didn't seem that dire anymore.
"Quincy, hello".
"Wasn't actually expecting to see you here".
"Oh?".
"Yes, the habit of meeting just Ani, it seems".
Constantine served him a generous plate of ribs, even though he asked for some cornbread; the minstrel would have eaten anything at that point, so it suited him fine. They shot the breeze for a few more bites, but then Quincy rose his eyes to the man as he shoved the plate aside. It was time.
"I could pretend I came here just for supper, Constantine. But I will not".
Time was not a resource he disposed of in abundance, so he opted to leave his request in the chest. But had he been as hasty to tie the bag properly? More than some vagrant pocketing his tithe, Quincy feared his words might never reach the priests' eyes. Even though he had left maybe a minute ago, there was someone beside the donation chest as his eyes refocused under the nave's dim lighting.
The encounter didn't come as a surprise: Drusilla was keen to attend mass on a regular basis, he knew that much about her at least. They shared quite a few tastes, so every time their paths crossed was an opportunity to mend the past and cement a courteous, perhaps agreeable bond. She was standing still, reading what appeared to be a note close to the altar. As Quincy covered the steps between them, he thought the note was strikingly similar to the one he had just left.
Such an understatement: the note wasn't similar, it was his. She gazed to her left as his footsteps echoed and hurriedly placed the note back inside the chest before stepping back. Drusilla's face acquired shades of red by the second, soon to match her habitual crimson garments.
"Drusilla, what was that?". She cleared her throat, briskly detaching a small bag from her belt.
"I was just- I have some produce I wanted to leave here for others. I was curious. I'm sorry".
Worry gave way to contempt in a flash. The letter was a plea for help, of course Quincy signed it. That meant she was aware of it all, a matter so delicate he'd even discuss through shallow whispers with Miranda. He felt exposed, violated. Some lines are not supposed to be crossed.
"You had no right!".
"I didn't know! I thought...".
"This is personal, this is-". The scowl on his face rendered it almost unrecognizable, over gritted teeth and outrage pouring over his ears with each heartbeat. Drusilla was just trying to steer around him, meekly minding her bag of produce. She wasn't even fighting back, what enraged him even more.
"I'll just get out of your way. I'm sorry".
"That is low, Drusilla". Never in his life he'd considered harming a woman. He'd been scorned, rejected and mocked aplenty, but his fingers tingled and trembled with the intent of landing a sound slap across her dejected countenance. He probably would have if they were anywhere else.
"I thought it was someone asking for something -I- could help with...".
"Are you a priest?".
"No... I'm sorry", her voice wavered, green eyes glinting seeking Quincy's as he kept his face turned.
"No. You will bear this one", he said, turning to face the archway and his back to her. "I will not let this go so easily, I have no words for this".
"I'm sorry... please, can we just...", she said, already some people occasionally raising their heads towards them at the pews.
"You're in the right place for atonement. I suggest you make use of it".
"Please, don't... please...".
"Who are you, really?", he said, by then already marching towards the exit.
Quincy was beside himself when he stormed back home. He spent the next two hours furiously writing public letters to the authorities. This would not stand, the Kaduraan was tempering with people's offerings to the Church without their knowledge! The stack of parchment was a foot high by the end, he only needed the brass seal upstairs.
On his way to the desk in the atelier, his eyes briefly met the painting he had finished last week. A piece he created for her, as a token of well-meaning and future reconciliation. Quincy felt so pathetic! With the seal in hand, he brusquely gripped the painting on his way down. He'd cross the street and fling it over the fence later, its rightful place among rancid banana peels and ruined cutlery.
Only then he realized he was famished, the frantic activity winding him down to the bone. Without more than a passing thought, he quickly locked the door and strode down towards the Risk. It was only a few yards, but being hungry made the path seem longer. Only on the way to the bar he noticed Ani wasn't managing the bar on her own this time.
"Constantine?", he asked, rather surprised to see the publican at his post. Quincy was so used to dealing with Ani that his presence actually caught him off guard for a moment, even his need for sustenance didn't seem that dire anymore.
"Quincy, hello".
"Wasn't actually expecting to see you here".
"Oh?".
"Yes, the habit of meeting just Ani, it seems".
Constantine served him a generous plate of ribs, even though he asked for some cornbread; the minstrel would have eaten anything at that point, so it suited him fine. They shot the breeze for a few more bites, but then Quincy rose his eyes to the man as he shoved the plate aside. It was time.
"I could pretend I came here just for supper, Constantine. But I will not".
Re: The Presence
There was no use skirting the issue he had in mind, delaying it wouldn't make it any less unpleasant.
Quincy just couldn't quite bring himself to briskly lay everything on Constantine: he was going to move publicly against Drusilla and try everything in his reach to pin on her crimes of meddling with the Church's property and violating her fellow citizen's private correspondences directed at ecclesiastical representatives. He knew the effect all of it would have on the Kaduraan manning the bar before him, and he found it within himself to offer a lighter subject before revealing his upcoming course of action.
"Tell me what that was about when we were at the Dogsbody, please", Quincy started, pushing his plate slightly aside. Constantine's eyes drifted to the windows, scanning the streets.
"We shouldn't speak here".
"I would invite you to my place, but...there is a concern with that".
"There is?".
"I can explain later, if you wish to know".
Both men agreed to continue in the tavern's back room, a surprisingly cozy, small chamber containing lush furnishings. The fact that Constantine would dote upon himself such luxury was not lost on Quincy, a welcome realization that even a man like him needed some measure of comfort.
"You seemed concerned", Constantine said, picking up again once they were properly sat down.
"It was unusual to hear such remark from you".
"Yes, well, I was not myself. I didn't want you to feel your concern was unwelcome. But, at that moment, explaining any further I thought I might come unraveled".
"I see. Do I need to ask you whether you're doing fine? I assumed this to be the case after the Archbishop's been laid to rest again".
Then it became clear there was something else under the surface: though the undead Anslem's matter levied a heavy toll upon him, everything in Constantine's body language screamed at Quincy there was something nibbling at his thoughts. As the words started pouring out, it was growing bolder and leaving bigger bites on the man's conscience.
"Aster had her suicide note delivered to me personally".
"Aster?", Quincy asked.
"Milton Fields' wife in all but ceremony. A dear friend in her own right-- one of my best".
"I was unaware". The minstrel didn't know then, but no truer statement of his would permeate that particular exchange.
"She arranged for it to be delivered four weeks after her death", he paused, a thumb rising to run under each of his eyes. "I should have stopped her, Quincy, all the signs were there- I just didn't see them. I failed her".
"I see it now".
"Drusilla warned me she would - she chased after Aster when she left".
"Maybe there was very little you could have done. And now you'll never know".
"I'll never know because I didn't try".
And there was the self-serving circle of guilt: Constantine didn't try saving his friend because he didn't know, so he wouldn't know if it helped because he didn't try. These endless ruminations can eventually bring anyone to heel, there was no respite. Quincy assumed they were approaching the conclusion, but his friend wasn't quite done yet.
"Are proper funeral rites in place?".
"Not as yet. When we went to recover dee body...", he trailed off, seeking some relief from the vivid imagery inside his head by looking at the door. "We found just her possessions in a bag. Drawings Milton had made for her. Milton's hat. The body had been...removed".
"Removed?".
"We followed the trail some distance north, through the mountain passage to the desert", he swallowed hard. "Drusilla and I came upon it in some foul and terrible ritual site".
"Oh", he shifted uneasily on the armchair. No matter how many times word of these proceedings reached his ears, he couldn't quite get used to them.
"Someone had strung her body up like a carcass, carving foul and terrible runes into it", his eyes unfocused, roaming idly for a long moment. "We found her defiled".
"Good Decus", he said, his fingers loosely covering his mouth.
"There were others. A stone altar. Urns of blood and gallows, from which Aster and another were hung", he said hoarsely, looking down to the ground. "I carried her back the whole way, and Drusilla carried me in her own way". Quincy nodded, though inside he was squirming restlessly: the conversation was slowly veering towards Drusilla, which would make it even more difficult for him to tell Constantine what he had to.
"I know she's harsh, Quincy. And damaged, sometimes hard to understand", he met Quincy's eyes then. "But I could not have made it those few weeks without her".
"I understand your high regard for the Kaduraan, Constantine", he said, white knuckles on his hand that was actually concealed from Constantine's view. He needed a desperate recourse. "Are you doing the eulogy?".
"I hadn't thought dat far ahead".
"You were the recipient of her final legacy upon the living", he watched him somberly. "I believe you earned the right".
"I'd like to get her an urn. She wished her ashes spread over Miltown".
"Understandable".
"Dat is not dee whole of it, however", he looked up, his face wracked with guilt and uncertainty. A bad feeling coursed through Quincy's veins. "Dee weight of it all drove Drusilla to relapse".
Why? Why did it have to be this way? Quincy's elbows rested on each arm of the chair, his hands folded together onto his forehead. "Is that so?", he said weakly, his resolve starting to wane.
"Jahandar's brother, Ikashev, found her", Constantine's jaw was clenched tight as the words escaped from his lips. "While she was unconscious, he was found performing some kind of ritual on her. I know not dee extent of what happened dat night, but I know Aemilia has never behaved dis way on Lidogine alone".
"Ritual?", he suddenly veered his eyes towards Constantine's, being brought back from his trance in a jolt.
"Symbols drawn on her in blood. In and out of consciousness at dee time", his hands gripped the arms of the chair as he continued. "He found her while she was in dis state and took it upon himself to do... whatever it was he did".
"For all Heaven's angels! What's with these people!?".
"Dee next day, Jahandar approached Drusilla and myself-- you know his way, a polite askance dat feels like it has a dagger behind it".
As Constantine shared the depths of his and Drusilla's dealings with the man from Prodai, Quincy couldn't stop wringing his hands in disbelief. It was so much to take in that the words seemed to reach him from far away, in trickling echoes just about to vanish completely. The images from Jahandar working Constantine and Drusilla into a web of veiled servitude repulsed him, especially because he, too, willingly associated with the man when his weakness peaked and caused him to seek company akin to his days as a fledgling cutpurse.
"...intended to make himself my master"
"...bend people to his will"
"...dominion over the province"
"...upend the Republic"
The flashes in Quincy's mind worked him more than the faint words still able to reach him, he had seen it all before: the careful maneuvering of people's strings where they were tender, the standoffs between tense hands gripping sheathed hilts and, ultimately, the inevitable conclusion.
"I was so -angry-, Quincy", he sighed, looking at his own hands. "All of it: Anslem, Aster, Ikashev-- it shoved me from my footing, and before I could perceive dee fall".
"I fail to see how not to be".
"I scrabble against dee face of dee cliff, attempting to gain purchase, but I don't even know which way is -up-", he said, with glossy eyes. "I have had dee sinking feeling for some time, in Jahandar's presence, dat it would come down to he or I".
Quincy nodded, unable to offer anything more.
"He is my foil, Quincy-- my opposite. So, I made an irrevocable decision and sought to bring an end to it", he sighed, his head falling back against the cushioned chair. "I- in all my time here, I have never raised a hand against another civilian".
"You made your move".
"Am I dis man, Quincy?".
Constantine still looked rueful, but there was also a sense of relief after their long exchange. Quincy, on the other hand, was in shambles. Drusilla wasn't herself when she took possession of his message to the priests, she'd been under the influence of drugs and Jahandar the whole time! Could he really impose yet another grievance upon her fragile constitution at that moment?
They dwelled in the far less severe subject of his home's alleged haunting. Though Quincy still placed Miranda's wellbeing as his utmost priority, the house itself didn't seem that important after everything he had just been told. Constantine agreed to come over and give his judgment on these troubles, being an individual much more experienced in spiritual matters when they draw away from Decus.
However, a more immediate threat presented itself: they were headed to his home across Fort Road, when Quincy absentmindedly invited Constantine for advice on the strange events taking place in there. The pile of carefully mimeographed pamphlets against Drusilla were neatly stacked in his study, a mere few feet from the front door whence Constantine would cross in moments. Would he notice it? Would he deem Quincy a traitor after confiding so much from within just to see Drusilla be tossed among the wolves?
Quincy just couldn't quite bring himself to briskly lay everything on Constantine: he was going to move publicly against Drusilla and try everything in his reach to pin on her crimes of meddling with the Church's property and violating her fellow citizen's private correspondences directed at ecclesiastical representatives. He knew the effect all of it would have on the Kaduraan manning the bar before him, and he found it within himself to offer a lighter subject before revealing his upcoming course of action.
"Tell me what that was about when we were at the Dogsbody, please", Quincy started, pushing his plate slightly aside. Constantine's eyes drifted to the windows, scanning the streets.
"We shouldn't speak here".
"I would invite you to my place, but...there is a concern with that".
"There is?".
"I can explain later, if you wish to know".
Both men agreed to continue in the tavern's back room, a surprisingly cozy, small chamber containing lush furnishings. The fact that Constantine would dote upon himself such luxury was not lost on Quincy, a welcome realization that even a man like him needed some measure of comfort.
"You seemed concerned", Constantine said, picking up again once they were properly sat down.
"It was unusual to hear such remark from you".
"Yes, well, I was not myself. I didn't want you to feel your concern was unwelcome. But, at that moment, explaining any further I thought I might come unraveled".
"I see. Do I need to ask you whether you're doing fine? I assumed this to be the case after the Archbishop's been laid to rest again".
Then it became clear there was something else under the surface: though the undead Anslem's matter levied a heavy toll upon him, everything in Constantine's body language screamed at Quincy there was something nibbling at his thoughts. As the words started pouring out, it was growing bolder and leaving bigger bites on the man's conscience.
"Aster had her suicide note delivered to me personally".
"Aster?", Quincy asked.
"Milton Fields' wife in all but ceremony. A dear friend in her own right-- one of my best".
"I was unaware". The minstrel didn't know then, but no truer statement of his would permeate that particular exchange.
"She arranged for it to be delivered four weeks after her death", he paused, a thumb rising to run under each of his eyes. "I should have stopped her, Quincy, all the signs were there- I just didn't see them. I failed her".
"I see it now".
"Drusilla warned me she would - she chased after Aster when she left".
"Maybe there was very little you could have done. And now you'll never know".
"I'll never know because I didn't try".
And there was the self-serving circle of guilt: Constantine didn't try saving his friend because he didn't know, so he wouldn't know if it helped because he didn't try. These endless ruminations can eventually bring anyone to heel, there was no respite. Quincy assumed they were approaching the conclusion, but his friend wasn't quite done yet.
"Are proper funeral rites in place?".
"Not as yet. When we went to recover dee body...", he trailed off, seeking some relief from the vivid imagery inside his head by looking at the door. "We found just her possessions in a bag. Drawings Milton had made for her. Milton's hat. The body had been...removed".
"Removed?".
"We followed the trail some distance north, through the mountain passage to the desert", he swallowed hard. "Drusilla and I came upon it in some foul and terrible ritual site".
"Oh", he shifted uneasily on the armchair. No matter how many times word of these proceedings reached his ears, he couldn't quite get used to them.
"Someone had strung her body up like a carcass, carving foul and terrible runes into it", his eyes unfocused, roaming idly for a long moment. "We found her defiled".
"Good Decus", he said, his fingers loosely covering his mouth.
"There were others. A stone altar. Urns of blood and gallows, from which Aster and another were hung", he said hoarsely, looking down to the ground. "I carried her back the whole way, and Drusilla carried me in her own way". Quincy nodded, though inside he was squirming restlessly: the conversation was slowly veering towards Drusilla, which would make it even more difficult for him to tell Constantine what he had to.
"I know she's harsh, Quincy. And damaged, sometimes hard to understand", he met Quincy's eyes then. "But I could not have made it those few weeks without her".
"I understand your high regard for the Kaduraan, Constantine", he said, white knuckles on his hand that was actually concealed from Constantine's view. He needed a desperate recourse. "Are you doing the eulogy?".
"I hadn't thought dat far ahead".
"You were the recipient of her final legacy upon the living", he watched him somberly. "I believe you earned the right".
"I'd like to get her an urn. She wished her ashes spread over Miltown".
"Understandable".
"Dat is not dee whole of it, however", he looked up, his face wracked with guilt and uncertainty. A bad feeling coursed through Quincy's veins. "Dee weight of it all drove Drusilla to relapse".
Why? Why did it have to be this way? Quincy's elbows rested on each arm of the chair, his hands folded together onto his forehead. "Is that so?", he said weakly, his resolve starting to wane.
"Jahandar's brother, Ikashev, found her", Constantine's jaw was clenched tight as the words escaped from his lips. "While she was unconscious, he was found performing some kind of ritual on her. I know not dee extent of what happened dat night, but I know Aemilia has never behaved dis way on Lidogine alone".
"Ritual?", he suddenly veered his eyes towards Constantine's, being brought back from his trance in a jolt.
"Symbols drawn on her in blood. In and out of consciousness at dee time", his hands gripped the arms of the chair as he continued. "He found her while she was in dis state and took it upon himself to do... whatever it was he did".
"For all Heaven's angels! What's with these people!?".
"Dee next day, Jahandar approached Drusilla and myself-- you know his way, a polite askance dat feels like it has a dagger behind it".
As Constantine shared the depths of his and Drusilla's dealings with the man from Prodai, Quincy couldn't stop wringing his hands in disbelief. It was so much to take in that the words seemed to reach him from far away, in trickling echoes just about to vanish completely. The images from Jahandar working Constantine and Drusilla into a web of veiled servitude repulsed him, especially because he, too, willingly associated with the man when his weakness peaked and caused him to seek company akin to his days as a fledgling cutpurse.
"...intended to make himself my master"
"...bend people to his will"
"...dominion over the province"
"...upend the Republic"
The flashes in Quincy's mind worked him more than the faint words still able to reach him, he had seen it all before: the careful maneuvering of people's strings where they were tender, the standoffs between tense hands gripping sheathed hilts and, ultimately, the inevitable conclusion.
"I was so -angry-, Quincy", he sighed, looking at his own hands. "All of it: Anslem, Aster, Ikashev-- it shoved me from my footing, and before I could perceive dee fall".
"I fail to see how not to be".
"I scrabble against dee face of dee cliff, attempting to gain purchase, but I don't even know which way is -up-", he said, with glossy eyes. "I have had dee sinking feeling for some time, in Jahandar's presence, dat it would come down to he or I".
Quincy nodded, unable to offer anything more.
"He is my foil, Quincy-- my opposite. So, I made an irrevocable decision and sought to bring an end to it", he sighed, his head falling back against the cushioned chair. "I- in all my time here, I have never raised a hand against another civilian".
"You made your move".
"Am I dis man, Quincy?".
Constantine still looked rueful, but there was also a sense of relief after their long exchange. Quincy, on the other hand, was in shambles. Drusilla wasn't herself when she took possession of his message to the priests, she'd been under the influence of drugs and Jahandar the whole time! Could he really impose yet another grievance upon her fragile constitution at that moment?
They dwelled in the far less severe subject of his home's alleged haunting. Though Quincy still placed Miranda's wellbeing as his utmost priority, the house itself didn't seem that important after everything he had just been told. Constantine agreed to come over and give his judgment on these troubles, being an individual much more experienced in spiritual matters when they draw away from Decus.
However, a more immediate threat presented itself: they were headed to his home across Fort Road, when Quincy absentmindedly invited Constantine for advice on the strange events taking place in there. The pile of carefully mimeographed pamphlets against Drusilla were neatly stacked in his study, a mere few feet from the front door whence Constantine would cross in moments. Would he notice it? Would he deem Quincy a traitor after confiding so much from within just to see Drusilla be tossed among the wolves?
Re: The Presence
Constantine's attention was drawn to his newly acquired food pantry, and Quincy was relieved when he sneaked a hand onto the study door's latch and subtly closed it.
Although he had been warned about the unusual happenings going on, his visitor didn't seem at all unfazed: he carried himself confidently to a chair by the dining hall, keeping a curious eye around Miranda's lively choices for decoration.
"I've been having incidents in there, and not all of them concern just the building, or myself", he said, picking a seat across the table. "There's the occasional door that swings open all of a sudden, even when it's not windy outside".
"Mmh. I see".
"I remember seeing something small on the same evening and figured it must've been a mouse or something", his brow furrowed, and his tone lost some of its potency. "But Miranda's look confirmed I was trying to make myself more comfortable: mice can't float, Constantine".
"I can offer you some peace in dis, I think", he said, a faint smile forming on his lips.
"Oh?".
"It's like dust or a figment you just can't grasp. Do you see it move in dee corner of your eye, you look and it's not there?".
"Actually, not quite", he shook his head. "I have made eye contact, and I do mean eye. There was an eye opposite mine, and not much else".
"It appeared to me as an eye once, yes", Constantine said, smilingly knowingly. "There is an entity in dee fort which used to watch over Drusilla and me".
"Do you know of it?".
"It is benevolent. It used to protect us. I can assure you, however frightening it might be, it won't harm you".
Quincy leaned heavily backwards on the cushioned chair, his mouth agape. Was he that naive? The Kaduraan didn't even flinch with the accounts that made his sleep uneasy as of late. Perhaps facing a supernatural entity in the flesh entitled Constantine to be casual with such vague manifestations. Nevertheless, he rose from his chair to fetch the last piece of evidence in his possession. If anything, it was far less vague than the rest.
"Take a look inside", he said, placing on the table a small bag from a drawer in the kitchen. Constantine opened it to peer inside, his nose wrinkling. "That was left in my correspondence box maybe two nights ago".
"Well, dee pagans of dee north make such effigies, though I know not dee purpose or if it's their make", he said, turning the figurine in his hand as he inspected it. "But I do know Nola has been emptying her trash in your mailbox".
"What?", Quincy blinked slowly, the mention sparking a vague recollection from when soup was going around to the commoners. "Why?".
"Yes, I told her to find a trash can".
"Oh. Is this...", he trailed off, looking at the effigy with a despondent glance, "trash?".
"I'm not sure", he said, putting the item down back in the bag. "They're fairly commonly picked up by those who go afield, a curiosity".
"So it means nothing?".
"I can look into it, if you like. I'll ask Nola about it, and den Adam, should dat fail".
"Well, that is certainly embarrassing, I left a bag with my tithe and a request for assistance at the Cathedral's chest".
"Don't let your guard down until I speak to Nola".
"And I went back to check on said bag, unsure whether I did close it properly", his voice trembled this time. "When I entered the confines of the Cathedral again, I met Drusilla there. She was reading the plea I directed at the Decusian clergymen".
Constantine remained placid, listening to the retelling of how she opened the laced bag and rifled through its contents, reacting with the occasional nod. "She didn't mean any harm, Quincy. She can't help but throw herself into dee problems of others", he offered at the end. "But I understand dee anger".
"My words were...poison", he held his head languidly.
"You had no way of knowing what we've been dealing with, either", he nodded, patting the bag afterwards. "One problem at a time, though. Let's have Rikard look over your effigy".
Quincy learned then and there, with some surprise, that the odd fellow singing the sailor shanties at the Dogsbody was actually a priest. They agreed that Rikard should take a look at the figurine and Constantine would later relay everything else. After a succession of crests and valleys, both men seemed pleased to finally exchange pleasantries.
"I'll reserve the tour on the house when we hold our proper dinner", he said, rising and tidying up his vest. "There is quite a bit of Miranda's work I want you to see".
"Certainly", he nodded. "I like to think you and I are past dee point of dancing around one another like strangers".
When they parted, Quincy found himself again alone in his home, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging in his mind last time he had his thoughts to himself. There was so much he didn't know! The study door had never been locked before, but he chose to do it this time: he wouldn't be interrupted, as nobody else had this key.
Moonlight flooded the floor, sneaking through hedges clawing the glass panel outside. Quincy sat right beneath it, watching the clockwork dance of silver light slowly cover an arc as he pondered about everything. At some point when the line between late night and new day was hazy, he rose and approached his broadsheets to scan the pile, and realized he was constantly failing the same tenet from Decus over and over. For everything he already was or was striving to become, a true sense of Humility still eluded him.
Did he need that many changes of wardrobe, at the end of the day? Wasn't this house too big for a single resident? Did he not show up for the soup distribution wearing his very best attire, including expensive jewelry? Quincy didn't like the taste in his mouth, he behaved no different from Jahandar that night. Yet, he was still avoiding the issue. Why did he go to great lengths to make all that paperwork against Drusilla? Was he that outraged of her unwittingly being given information on a private matter?
No. It was his pride, Quincy eventually realized. He was proud, no, he was probably haughty even. He had been disgusted by the unfortunate turn of events that led to her discovery. Quincy unlocked the study and reached for a handful of the posters and flyers and tossed them into the fiery maelstrom crackling inside the fireplace, one by one. Soon the fumes piled on, the smell of quality ink claiming every cranny of the house, but he didn't mind. Not one remained.
Weary, he reached for the railing leading to the second floor and spotted the painting still there, leaning against it. The painting he'd fling onto refuse in his bout of anger. Quincy picked it up and brought it with him as he ascended. There was a small dent in the frame where wood met metal when he dropped it earlier, so he'd replace the frame tomorrow. He glanced at the painting once more before putting it down properly at the atelier; she was meant to have it.
Although he had been warned about the unusual happenings going on, his visitor didn't seem at all unfazed: he carried himself confidently to a chair by the dining hall, keeping a curious eye around Miranda's lively choices for decoration.
"I've been having incidents in there, and not all of them concern just the building, or myself", he said, picking a seat across the table. "There's the occasional door that swings open all of a sudden, even when it's not windy outside".
"Mmh. I see".
"I remember seeing something small on the same evening and figured it must've been a mouse or something", his brow furrowed, and his tone lost some of its potency. "But Miranda's look confirmed I was trying to make myself more comfortable: mice can't float, Constantine".
"I can offer you some peace in dis, I think", he said, a faint smile forming on his lips.
"Oh?".
"It's like dust or a figment you just can't grasp. Do you see it move in dee corner of your eye, you look and it's not there?".
"Actually, not quite", he shook his head. "I have made eye contact, and I do mean eye. There was an eye opposite mine, and not much else".
"It appeared to me as an eye once, yes", Constantine said, smilingly knowingly. "There is an entity in dee fort which used to watch over Drusilla and me".
"Do you know of it?".
"It is benevolent. It used to protect us. I can assure you, however frightening it might be, it won't harm you".
Quincy leaned heavily backwards on the cushioned chair, his mouth agape. Was he that naive? The Kaduraan didn't even flinch with the accounts that made his sleep uneasy as of late. Perhaps facing a supernatural entity in the flesh entitled Constantine to be casual with such vague manifestations. Nevertheless, he rose from his chair to fetch the last piece of evidence in his possession. If anything, it was far less vague than the rest.
"Take a look inside", he said, placing on the table a small bag from a drawer in the kitchen. Constantine opened it to peer inside, his nose wrinkling. "That was left in my correspondence box maybe two nights ago".
"Well, dee pagans of dee north make such effigies, though I know not dee purpose or if it's their make", he said, turning the figurine in his hand as he inspected it. "But I do know Nola has been emptying her trash in your mailbox".
"What?", Quincy blinked slowly, the mention sparking a vague recollection from when soup was going around to the commoners. "Why?".
"Yes, I told her to find a trash can".
"Oh. Is this...", he trailed off, looking at the effigy with a despondent glance, "trash?".
"I'm not sure", he said, putting the item down back in the bag. "They're fairly commonly picked up by those who go afield, a curiosity".
"So it means nothing?".
"I can look into it, if you like. I'll ask Nola about it, and den Adam, should dat fail".
"Well, that is certainly embarrassing, I left a bag with my tithe and a request for assistance at the Cathedral's chest".
"Don't let your guard down until I speak to Nola".
"And I went back to check on said bag, unsure whether I did close it properly", his voice trembled this time. "When I entered the confines of the Cathedral again, I met Drusilla there. She was reading the plea I directed at the Decusian clergymen".
Constantine remained placid, listening to the retelling of how she opened the laced bag and rifled through its contents, reacting with the occasional nod. "She didn't mean any harm, Quincy. She can't help but throw herself into dee problems of others", he offered at the end. "But I understand dee anger".
"My words were...poison", he held his head languidly.
"You had no way of knowing what we've been dealing with, either", he nodded, patting the bag afterwards. "One problem at a time, though. Let's have Rikard look over your effigy".
Quincy learned then and there, with some surprise, that the odd fellow singing the sailor shanties at the Dogsbody was actually a priest. They agreed that Rikard should take a look at the figurine and Constantine would later relay everything else. After a succession of crests and valleys, both men seemed pleased to finally exchange pleasantries.
"I'll reserve the tour on the house when we hold our proper dinner", he said, rising and tidying up his vest. "There is quite a bit of Miranda's work I want you to see".
"Certainly", he nodded. "I like to think you and I are past dee point of dancing around one another like strangers".
When they parted, Quincy found himself again alone in his home, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging in his mind last time he had his thoughts to himself. There was so much he didn't know! The study door had never been locked before, but he chose to do it this time: he wouldn't be interrupted, as nobody else had this key.
Moonlight flooded the floor, sneaking through hedges clawing the glass panel outside. Quincy sat right beneath it, watching the clockwork dance of silver light slowly cover an arc as he pondered about everything. At some point when the line between late night and new day was hazy, he rose and approached his broadsheets to scan the pile, and realized he was constantly failing the same tenet from Decus over and over. For everything he already was or was striving to become, a true sense of Humility still eluded him.
Did he need that many changes of wardrobe, at the end of the day? Wasn't this house too big for a single resident? Did he not show up for the soup distribution wearing his very best attire, including expensive jewelry? Quincy didn't like the taste in his mouth, he behaved no different from Jahandar that night. Yet, he was still avoiding the issue. Why did he go to great lengths to make all that paperwork against Drusilla? Was he that outraged of her unwittingly being given information on a private matter?
No. It was his pride, Quincy eventually realized. He was proud, no, he was probably haughty even. He had been disgusted by the unfortunate turn of events that led to her discovery. Quincy unlocked the study and reached for a handful of the posters and flyers and tossed them into the fiery maelstrom crackling inside the fireplace, one by one. Soon the fumes piled on, the smell of quality ink claiming every cranny of the house, but he didn't mind. Not one remained.
Weary, he reached for the railing leading to the second floor and spotted the painting still there, leaning against it. The painting he'd fling onto refuse in his bout of anger. Quincy picked it up and brought it with him as he ascended. There was a small dent in the frame where wood met metal when he dropped it earlier, so he'd replace the frame tomorrow. He glanced at the painting once more before putting it down properly at the atelier; she was meant to have it.
Re: The Presence
The man following Quincy back home was a sore slap in his face, one of many he would need to put to rest his preconceived notions about most things.
When he thought of a priest, the first image that struck his mind was that of a placid, presentable person with an aura of kindness and maybe boredom. This Rikard fellow, however, looked more like some retired brawler who clawed out of a cage filled to the brim with rabid hounds! Quincy was yet to count more than a single tooth in his mouth, and the one he found was golden and thus clearly false. Granted, his beard was glorious, but a bunch of scars and an aura of ale still didn't fit his description of a man of the cloth.
It had been Constantine that said he was one, though, and that mattered a lot; he couldn't believe the man to set a prank, especially in an issue as serious as this. A horse neighed just as Quincy turned the lock's cylinder on his front door. Miranda was just closing by to stable Risk with the Wyne brothers. What a stroke of luck! If Rikard was about to counter potential negative energies, so much the better if she was with there as well, considering everything that happened lately.
Once they were properly settled in the dining hall and expected pleasantries out of the way, Quincy glanced briefly at Miranda coming to sit beside him and brought Rikard into their unusual problem.
"I hear you're a priest, yes?".
"Priest be a title if we wanna cut hairs".
"Constantine told me this much", he nodded. "And, truth be told, I was looking forward to meeting a brother of the Cloth".
Quincy proceeded with the details he addressed several times already: the door, the floating marble and the figurine, none of which seemed to really stir Rikard even an inch. There was a quiet sense of confidence around the man, presumably from the experience of knowing whether to be concerned or not.
"Is it too untoward to request a cautionary blessing of this house?".
"I can do a blessin' indeed", Rikard nodded, "though I'd need to prepare it first".
"That is wonderful, Rikard", he said.
"What we may wish to do as well is ward the front door".
"Oh, really?".
"A ring o' salt, a pure element, will assist in blockin' unnatural entrance".
"I have to pour salt...on the floor?", Quincy blinked, looking aside to Miranda. She looked over at him with just her eyes.
"It's used in sealing the unnatural", he said, calmly. "If this presence is nay o' supernatural, their footprints will also be in the salt, eh".
"Right".
"Now, if they are o' supernatural, salt can be used to ward and seal it".
"Huh, well, that is an idea", Miranda said.
Rikard had a handful of salt from their kitchen and had his lips close to his cupped hands, whispering odd words to the grainy pile. Whatever he was saying sounded foreign to Quincy, but even more so than folks talking in their native tongue by the pub at night; the words were odd but had a pleasant ring to them.
Once the priest was done, there was sprinkled salt around his front door, both inside and on the porch. Quincy scratched his elbow nervously, repeating in his mind that his floor wasn't dirty, and those measures were put in place to help them. However, Rikard seemed to have more to say as he returned the unused salt back.
"About yer figurine", he started, sitting back down.
"Yes, Constantine mentioned you'd do some research on it", Quincy said, looking briefly at the blonde by his side. "We think it resembles Miranda".
"I'm thinkin' that little wax was a practical joke", he said, nodding.
"A joke?".
"Sumin' similar happened to others in the past".
"Oh", he sank back in his chair, licking his lips.
"Now, if ye suddenly start seein' figurines with white orchids", he arched his eyebrows, "then I'd be mer upset".
"White Orchids?", Quincy asked, receiving a nod. Even though his pride was a little damaged, the idea of a dumb joke was far better than something malicious in the household.
"Any one cross with either o' ye recently?".
"Oh, hardly, I tend to stay out of people's toes", he said.
"Yes, a woman by the name of Drusilla seems cross with me", Miranda said. Quincy looked at her but didn't say anything.
Rikard offered a few recommendations and their conversation was soon far more pleasant, as their moods were relieved with the priest's soothing presence. Quincy even proposed to hear another shanty of his, after the one he sang at the Dogsbody a little while ago. The old man was soon tapping his boot to the floor and slapping his leg for rhythm, giving himself completely to his song.
It was crude and dissonant, sure, yet it was genuine; that's more than Quincy could say about his own music.
They watched at the door step as Rikard waved, deciding which way to take the street. Quincy and Miranda were about to discuss their day with each other, but whatever it was bound to happen, that man's visit made everything a little better.
When he thought of a priest, the first image that struck his mind was that of a placid, presentable person with an aura of kindness and maybe boredom. This Rikard fellow, however, looked more like some retired brawler who clawed out of a cage filled to the brim with rabid hounds! Quincy was yet to count more than a single tooth in his mouth, and the one he found was golden and thus clearly false. Granted, his beard was glorious, but a bunch of scars and an aura of ale still didn't fit his description of a man of the cloth.
It had been Constantine that said he was one, though, and that mattered a lot; he couldn't believe the man to set a prank, especially in an issue as serious as this. A horse neighed just as Quincy turned the lock's cylinder on his front door. Miranda was just closing by to stable Risk with the Wyne brothers. What a stroke of luck! If Rikard was about to counter potential negative energies, so much the better if she was with there as well, considering everything that happened lately.
Once they were properly settled in the dining hall and expected pleasantries out of the way, Quincy glanced briefly at Miranda coming to sit beside him and brought Rikard into their unusual problem.
"I hear you're a priest, yes?".
"Priest be a title if we wanna cut hairs".
"Constantine told me this much", he nodded. "And, truth be told, I was looking forward to meeting a brother of the Cloth".
Quincy proceeded with the details he addressed several times already: the door, the floating marble and the figurine, none of which seemed to really stir Rikard even an inch. There was a quiet sense of confidence around the man, presumably from the experience of knowing whether to be concerned or not.
"Is it too untoward to request a cautionary blessing of this house?".
"I can do a blessin' indeed", Rikard nodded, "though I'd need to prepare it first".
"That is wonderful, Rikard", he said.
"What we may wish to do as well is ward the front door".
"Oh, really?".
"A ring o' salt, a pure element, will assist in blockin' unnatural entrance".
"I have to pour salt...on the floor?", Quincy blinked, looking aside to Miranda. She looked over at him with just her eyes.
"It's used in sealing the unnatural", he said, calmly. "If this presence is nay o' supernatural, their footprints will also be in the salt, eh".
"Right".
"Now, if they are o' supernatural, salt can be used to ward and seal it".
"Huh, well, that is an idea", Miranda said.
Rikard had a handful of salt from their kitchen and had his lips close to his cupped hands, whispering odd words to the grainy pile. Whatever he was saying sounded foreign to Quincy, but even more so than folks talking in their native tongue by the pub at night; the words were odd but had a pleasant ring to them.
Once the priest was done, there was sprinkled salt around his front door, both inside and on the porch. Quincy scratched his elbow nervously, repeating in his mind that his floor wasn't dirty, and those measures were put in place to help them. However, Rikard seemed to have more to say as he returned the unused salt back.
"About yer figurine", he started, sitting back down.
"Yes, Constantine mentioned you'd do some research on it", Quincy said, looking briefly at the blonde by his side. "We think it resembles Miranda".
"I'm thinkin' that little wax was a practical joke", he said, nodding.
"A joke?".
"Sumin' similar happened to others in the past".
"Oh", he sank back in his chair, licking his lips.
"Now, if ye suddenly start seein' figurines with white orchids", he arched his eyebrows, "then I'd be mer upset".
"White Orchids?", Quincy asked, receiving a nod. Even though his pride was a little damaged, the idea of a dumb joke was far better than something malicious in the household.
"Any one cross with either o' ye recently?".
"Oh, hardly, I tend to stay out of people's toes", he said.
"Yes, a woman by the name of Drusilla seems cross with me", Miranda said. Quincy looked at her but didn't say anything.
Rikard offered a few recommendations and their conversation was soon far more pleasant, as their moods were relieved with the priest's soothing presence. Quincy even proposed to hear another shanty of his, after the one he sang at the Dogsbody a little while ago. The old man was soon tapping his boot to the floor and slapping his leg for rhythm, giving himself completely to his song.
There once was a ship that put to sea The name of the ship was the Billy of Tea -
The winds blew up, her bow dipped down Oh blow, my bully boys, blow
Soon may the Wellerman come To bring us sugar and tea and rum One day,
when the tonguing is done We'll take our leave and go
It was crude and dissonant, sure, yet it was genuine; that's more than Quincy could say about his own music.
They watched at the door step as Rikard waved, deciding which way to take the street. Quincy and Miranda were about to discuss their day with each other, but whatever it was bound to happen, that man's visit made everything a little better.