At Gunther Gunnarson's place...
Kevin is a patient man, but not patient enough to wait around for who knows how long for the smith to finish up with his business.
"Just tell this treehead guy to head back to the ship when you're done, I'll come then. No point waiting here, is there?" he says, conveniently ignoring the fact that Mark can probably hear him very nicely himself and probably knows the way quite well. He then rolls back to the ship just in time to notice something happening on deck. The Artiste seems to be doing something, with Scott watching him somewhat theatrically, pretending to hold his breath - it doesn't quite work, considering that he doesn't breathe at all in the first place.
"Let's see... it's a grab, a shake and a pull..." the Artiste mutters, closing his eyes. Something shifts, then twists violently, and the air becomes peculiarly dry as all the atmospheric moisture of the nearby vicinity, which there is a lot of, this being the seaside and all, collects into one place, starting to glow faintly as it reshapes for a few moments. Eventually, a distinct shape emerges, an ethereal silhouette of a woman that defines itself over the next few seconds. She appears to be wearing a robe with a hood, and her features are somewhat plain, though it is difficult to see, what with the gaping hole in her face where her right eye should be. There's a very similar hole in her chest as well, right where her heart should be, and the light, patchwork fabric of her robe has a great amount of what can be easily recognized as congealed blood on it.
"It worked!"
"That it did, regrettably. At least you took your time with it, fiend."
The Artiste smiles.
"Oh, come on. Am I really that terrible?"
"Even looking at you pains me greatly."
"Aw. Well, luckily, you don't have to look at me! And, just in case, let me lay down some ground rules."
The ghost sighs with a supernatural weariness.
"I order you to not kill yourself, first of all. I got the feeling your original plunge wasn't altogether accidental."
"Precisely timed and aimed, actually, with contingency plans included."
"Also, you'll mostly be working with my pals here. One of them is Scott," he says, pointing to the appropriate individual, "and the mangled individual over there is Kevin. There's also others - one rather pleasant desk, a man made of chairs and one that's unusually reddish-purple and dresses in quite a fruity fashion. There's also your old friends and one more demonic fellow - I'm sure you'll meet them all in due time."
"How wonderful."
"I'm glad you feel that way, Justine! So, my first question to you is how long will it take to get to Mothdale with this ship."
Justine sighs, closing her eyes for a moment.
"Too vague a question, answer is variable. Anything else?"
"I'm sure we'll think of something. What about you guys? Any questions you'd like to ask her? Don't be shy, now."
"Yes, pester me all you wish. Not like I have anything else to do or anywhere to be."
In the streets of Shriekpot...
Morton, too polite to assault or dodge a raving lunatic, tries to stop him with words.
"You state everything is a lie one moment then that truth is hidden the next. Which is it? If everything is a lie than is not the truth a lie, or if there is truth that is hidden by the lies than doesn't that mean not everything is a lie? What truth is being hidden, and how do you know that it's there? How can you tell what is real and what is fake?"
"Now you're learning!" the man says, advancing quickly. "Let us test your veracity, yes?"
He keeps advancing, outstretching a single hand and placing it on Morton's surface. Morton feels an unpleasant shiver run through his form, followed by the sensation of thirst flaring up, then disappearing, and the man's eyes narrow.
"Resistant, are we?"
He turns to Art.
"You also have the look of the demon-touched about you! Question is, will you hold up to the same examination?"
As the man reaches his hand for Art, Art slaps his hand away in what seems like a rather painful fashion - it even leaves a small mark that starts to trickle blood on the man's hand.
"Why, I am insulted that you would insinuate I have had anything to do with demons of any sort, you impudent wretch! Even more so, you have deigned to try and touch me in public, me, the eldest daughter of the high reeve of Glastington! I would strike you down on the spot were I not wary of covering my esteemed visage with your filthy low-born blood!" Art furiously proclaims to the man, who backs away a few steps, though whether this is due to beggar instincts or fear of sharp things impacting his soft tissues is unclear. He eyes Art suspiciously.
"Why have you not left my sight yet, you dirty little serf? Have I not made my grievances with you plain enough?" he asks, slowly reshaping his hand into an altogether more blade-like form.
The man seems about to say something, but Art cuts him off.
"And now you intend to talk back to me? I say, guards! There is a filthy layabout here, bothering his betters!" he shouts out conspicuously. The man, probably no stranger to altercations with the law, judging from his manner, starts to back away quickly, turning around while muttering angrily and leaving. Just as soon as he leaves, a guard arrives.
"Who is bothering you, ma'am?"
"Oh, officer, it was terrible! A dirty, unkempt man came at me, shouting about the illusory nature of existence or some such rot and insisting that he be allowed to manhandle both my esteemed person and my equally esteemed desk-in-waiting!"
"Ah. Him. What do you mean by 'manhandle', ma'am?"
"He extended his hand toward me, meaning to touch me in a sinister, dirty fashion and drag my good name through his own terrible brand of pseudo-intellectual beggary! He even placed his hand on my desk-in-waiting! Now my servants will have to wash him for five days and five nights in special scented oils and disinfectants, though the moral stain will be even more difficult to remove!"
The guard seems both intrigued and shocked by the description of the man's behavior, though he also takes a peculiar interest in Morton.
"This is your... um... desk-in-waiting?"
"Why, yes. My dearest, sweetest Morton - I've had him in my service since I was but a seedling in the Holy Pods of Procreation in distant Glastington! He is a treasure to me, and has not left my side throughout my entire life, so you understand my shock when a beggar simply up and touches him without provocation!"
The guard leans in toward Morton.
"Does it... um... he speak? Or hear? He seems to have arms. Can you point to where the man touched you, Morton?" the guard asks in a slightly condescending tone.
In a senseless void...
Niklas asks Helsvar if she can actually summon somebody helpful.
"Oh, sorry. Got a bit too much into high-level theoretical chopping. Could you talk to someone other than me, the villagers, or Torkel or Kruub? Like that apparently-not-a-demon man?"
"I don't know... I don't think so. He doesn't live near my village, does he? Or maybe in the next one? I could go further than that, but it would take a long time to return, and I cannot bear to leave you alone like this."
In Tailor Craig's room...
Sigmund, having attained insight about the various flavors and sorts of demonic entities, asks one more question.
"Mind if I watch you work?"
"Not particularly, feel free to watch, but I would advise against stepping inside the room itself - disturbing a circle in just the right way can cause disturbing and dangerous consequences."
With this in mind, Sigmund watches Craig keep on vandalizing his room. He can't help but wonder that he would have probably learned more had he arrived earlier - right now, Craig just seems to be putting on the finishing touches, and is done within fifteen minutes, stepping out of the room and standing next to his single audience member.
"I suppose that's quite enough for now. Not much more room in there, anyway. I'll be in the den if you need me," Craig says, half-walking, half-floating off quickly.
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Topic: Life Begins At Death - Epilogue: We Live And Live Again (Read 542906 times)