Elysian Vale (HP/DE)

[TotalAbsolutism]

There are two kinds.

One is a path that leads down and through; the curtain to sweet oblivion.

The other is a way to a forgotten paradise; though at times it is full of tears.

This is the story of one who got lost along the road.

Bogged down in the mud and filth.

Seeking the way to Elysium.

 

[TotalAbsolutism]

There is nothing.

The feeling is like a snake. First the fangs dig in and gouge a sharp line across the middle of what has to be the head. Then it wraps and tugs and constricts at the temples. Squeezing them together to crunch and grind and pinch and tear. Like a snake it is forever and long and painfully familiar.

It is pain interrupted by more pain. The slice and press distorted by a thud and a thud and another thud that comes and goes and comes and goes and comes again. Over and over and over against the surface of the meat until it cannot be ignored any more. Fine then, says the meat. We weren't sleeping anyway.

When the eyes open they're greeted by darkness and a sense of relief. The sense isn't a thing in and of itself but rather a response to the fact that there is, at present, no light. That sensation is short-lived; banished by an intermittent rapping of knuckle on wood. What a sound that is. It is a friendly agony.

The eyes find that they're inset into a face, which is somewhat of a shock, that appears to be attached to a head that dolefully realises it is the eyes; or at least the part of the eyes that thought they were thinking things. That head lolls to one side, though how it knows that in the dark is unclear even to it, and something stabs it in the face.

Not in any literal sense, and that thought is oddly disappointing, but rather metaphorically. The stab is a metaphor for something painful, something stab-adjacent, and in this case it appears to be trying to cleave the head in two from the forehead down. Or maybe it just feels that way.

Further checks find that the head is in possession of a neck and from there it's simple to determine the existence of torso, two arms and legs as well as various extremities. All fingers accounted for? Not too few, nor too many? That seems to be a chief concern of the mental checklist although the head isn't quite sure why that is. Surely a surplus of fingers could be considered a positive as long as they're not unattached.

The head, having decided that maybe it's a body now, uses one of the arms to push itself upright. In the process it touches upon something cold and reflexively brings it up to the mouth. Fleshy things, lips, wrap themselves around the coldness which the head is informed is 'glass'. A bottle, to be precise. Or, as the mouth reports, an empty bottle.

And what a travesty that is, eh? Best see to that first.
​

Bodies aren't meant to be quite so cold as this, it feels. There's a twinned roughness to the surface that's touching the chilled bottle; internal and external both. Little bumpy bits of flesh everywhere and a shiver that runs down the body's spine. They're all very cold. That thought follows into a question. Are they naked?

Only once the question is asked of themselves do they truly grasp it. Clothes are, indeed, a thing. There are some right now! A tiny bit of light, so little as to be a hateful needle, is escaping into the room from beneath a doorway. It illuminates, however little, the room's Prize. They hang over a piece of furniture.

The mantle of a hero, baby!
​

There's pants to be found, eventually, and a shirt too. Which is good because the Prize would be thoroughly unpleasant without them. Familiar and weighty and with a faint musty smell that ought to suggest lack of use but instead feels like home. Heavy robes of dark brown leather. Really more of a jacket, though, isn't it?

A belt is there too along with a fiddly little thing that hooks through it and seems so useless that it's discarded. What purpose would there be for a pocket so small and so external? They've got nothing to put into it as well.

All of this was in service of something, or at least the body vaguely recalls that much, and a sharp reminder comes along with a good reason to clutch at their forehead with both hands. What had sounded like a pounding on the door when they'd been supine seemed more like a series of cannons going off now that they are nominally upright. They stagger door-ward and land heavily on it. This seems to hit some sort of handle because there's a creak and they crash through it; returning to the land of the horizontal in short order.

The door-smacker is clearly taken aback by this development. They are what can only be described by the head as 'a woman'; though this is quickly amended to 'a pretty woman'. She's wearing an expression of mixed confusion and barely-concealed revulsion with just a tinge of disdain. For some reason this makes the body very happy indeed. As if this disgust is the most beautiful part about her. Perhaps it was, because the head feels like it ought to be crying at the sight of it.

"... sir…?"

Must be talking to someone else, chief. No sirs here.
​

"... sir! Are you alright? Should I call a doctor…?"

Arms engage and push outwards; thrusting the entire world away from the body. It comes upright and continues until they've transitioned thoroughly from horizontal to vertical with such force that they nearly reach horizontal again.

"Doctor! No no no, not at all. No need, miss."

A voice! It seems to have come from the mouth. That's their voice, the head thinks. Or does it? Are they a head, or a body, or neither, or both?

Nobody at all, isn't that right?
​

The pretty young woman, or perhaps that should be amended to lady, is taken aback. About three steps back, if the head is any judge of it. Thin fingers and a bruise on the wrist. She frowns.

"Only, ah… well, there's some men downstairs for you, sir, and I think they're policemen, too. We didn't send for them though, I swear; although you've not paid for your last few days, sir."

Her tone has familiar reproach in it but also a tinge of sympathy. Awful, awful sympathy. People always feel sorry. The right hand grips at the face and feels nothing but scruff and a bit of oiliness; fingers scratch automatically.

"... am I a teacher?"

This abstract query makes the lady's brow furrow. Her response is as perplexed as the question was.

"... no?"

They continue regardless; unconcerned by this revelation.

"Only you keep calling me 'sir'. Isn't that what you call teachers? 'Yes sir, no sir, I don't know sir', that sort of thing?"

More scratching of the scruff ensues.

"I don't feel very teacher-ey. More…"

The head looks down at the leather-clad arms and struggles to assign a word to the sensation.

Failure.
​

"Aura-ey. Does that mean anything to you?"

Relief flourishes as the lady lands on what seems to be common ground.

"Oh, are you a psychic, sir? I didn't realise. Suppose you'd been summoning spirits, then, and that's why you were screaming at all hours. Gosh, are we haunted?"

Her confusion has flourished into interest now and the head shakes itself.

"Doesn't sound right at all. Men to see me? Send them up, I suppose. I'll…"

What, exactly, will you do?

Back window open, down the drainpipe, on the street in four.​

"See about that paying business."

Paying meaning money. Wealth, in other words. For some reason they feel like that wouldn't be a problem? Were they rich? Waking up in the dark, alone, with a head that felt like it was being slowly split by some kind of curse-

What kind this time?
​

Didn't seem like the sort of thing a rich person did. This seems to mollify the girl, though she was still quite confused, and she leaves the body to its own devices. First thing was to head back into the room, close the door and all, then… lights? Bound to be lights somewhere.

The shuffle about leads to clinking and they find themselves muttering words. Those words seem like they ought to be causing light but no light is forthcoming and this vexes mightily. Did they lose a light somewhere? That thought makes their throat and lips burn for some reason. A questing hand touches the wall and something clicks and then-

Woah now, boss. Eyes closed, easy does it. You sure this is what you want?

Just flick that hand down again, that's it. One more click and it's lights out again.

Just slip right out now and nobody's the wiser.

What good ever came from facing your problems anyhow?​

Might as well look, chief. Not-looking never made anything better for you.​

Open your eyes. Face what you have become.​

It's a right mess. The first thought that one might have was that they were looking at some sort of ancient archaeological dig. Only that wasn't true at all. More of a rubbish tip. Bottles, so many bottles, form natural piles around empty scraps of greasy newspaper that likely contained meals, once.

The small tray on the little table had been full of ashes but now it had been spilled across the surface of said table. This was probably due to the split right down the middle; as if someone had stomped on it really hard. Over to the side the bed was in equally bad shape, but inexplicably so; it had been entirely dismantled off to one side with the mattress laid out flat on the floor.

Beyond the rubbish, though, was the smell of it all. At first it had been hard to pick up over the body's own natural piquant musk. Now, though, it was quite there. A cursory examination isolated it to the bathroom and the body wisely closed the door rather than turn on that light. Some things weren't meant to be seen.

They also found themselves shaking any of the bottles they touched without realising until the fourth one or so; which was an odd reflex to have. All of them were empty anyway.

Still a travesty.
​

That echo came every time they touched the glass and found nothing inside. Not even drops. Each one sucked totally dry. The cleanest things in this room, in a way. They were just done sort of scooping them to one side with a foot when another series of thunderclaps struck the door. Much meatier, these ones. This is a knock that wants you to know it's there.

"Mister… 'du Bois'? Open up, please."

The body sighs and slumps down on the small, ratty couch. It squelches slightly, which was unfortunate indeed, and a painful lump underneath them turns out to be yet another bottle.

"It's not locked, officers! Come on in."

They do just that indeed; two stern, clean-shaven men in suits and hats step into the room and seem to immediately regret it. One just tightens his face while the other actively covers his nose. Tightface steps forward and looks down at the body with clear revulsion. This, too, is somehow a relief.

"Mister du Bois? I'm Officer Brown, this is Officer Smith. We're with the New York Police Department."

This amuses the face for some reason and it gets going before the head can stop it.

"Is that so? You don't appear to be of the porcine persuasion."

In the rear Officer Smith stares blankly but Officer Tightface Brown tightens even further and he retrieves something from the pocket of his nice suit jacket. Though something was off about that. The eyes are having difficulty focusing on it but it seemed something else was there.

"We came to return your wallet to you, Mister du Bois, and ask you a few questions."

The small leather object is taken and immediately opens up in the hands so that the head can examine it. Good grief, is that what we look like?

Nah, chief. He's way more handsome than you are.
​

There isn't much in there. Some small amount of green bills that are helpfully labelled as 'money'-

Too much green. We're real poor, chief. But it's not that way here, is it?
​

And a far more helpful plastic card that appears to be some sort of license to operate a motorised vehicle. A 'driver's license', in other words. It's contained behind a clear plastic cover, for the safety of all involved, and declares the person envisioned to be one 'Harrier du Bois'. Even there they look like a mess. How much worse must the realty be? A shock of messy black hair that seemed untameable and intentionally brushed as low as possible, along with thick, unmanicured sideburns that merged into an equally ludicrous beard and moustache.

"Oh. So that's who I am."

Their voice… his voice sounds defeated. The words themselves are also oddly familiar. Other things nag at him, though. Little things. Date of birth: Second August, nineteen-eighty-one. No… that wasn't right at all.

Made us younger, chief. That's vanity for you.
​

"You, uh… you didn't know?"

There is legitimate concern to Tightface's question this time. Concern but… not surprise. He was expecting something and this falls in line with that.

Lie, boss. They don't need to know that.
​

But you do know who we are, don't you?

Champion of the people, innit?

The hero, chief, that's who we are.​

"... honestly, officer, I appear to have been drinking. Quite a bit. Until you handed me this I wasn't even sure what my name was."

Tightface nods, still unsurprised, and glances back at Officer Smith. They share a Look, and he knows the general thrust of that one even if he can't place the expression itself, before turning back to focus on him. They're colluding. Smith takes the lead this time as he casts his gaze around the room. That one's easy to recognise. Shame, on his behalf.

How nostalgic.
​

"I'll say. Looks like a pack of knarls tore through here."

Impossible. They're solitary.​

His mouth chimes in again before he can stop it. He, the head, seems to be powerless to stop a lot of things that the face or body do. Perhaps he's confused the attribution here again. Regardless, the words escape him.

"Knarls aren't a communal species."

The two men look at him like he just removed his pants and relieved himself on the table. Shock, horror and even a hint of fear. Has he? No, the pants are still there. More words come and he just can't stop them now.

"And they don't tend to like being indoors. Gardens only, usually. Anyway, they're partial to daisies, not… cigarette butts."

More details are put out for his mouth to spit but he manages to hold them back. Talking about plates of food or saucers of milk seems superfluous here, and he can't shake the odd association with ink. Why ink? They're not ravens, nor writing desks. Seems strange.

"Sorry. Not sure why I said that. Think I might still be a bit drunk."

Both officers stare at each other and their horror is almost palpable. One of them, Tightface Brown, goes to check the door and taps it a few times. The other, Smith, steps up and surveys him again with a new intensity.

"Do you have any… other identification on you, Mister?"

Does he? He doesn't think so. Then again, he didn't check the pockets, did he? Legs stand and hands delve into pants but come up empty. Nothing there. But there's an odd sensation of something, somewhere, being kept…

Left breast. Over the heart, but on the inside.​

One hand slaps the chest and there's something hard there. He pulls open the leather coat and finds, sure enough, a pocket. Very well hidden, that. It's as if by magic but very much not magical so he's not quite sure why he thought that. Inside is a small metallic shield that shines like a star in the poor light of the room. Especially the numbers and the words. Officer Smith looks from it to him and laughs the laugh of a madman who's finally got the joke.

"Fuck me running. It's him. The guy they sent from IntAur. We've been looking for you for a week, pal."

Those were a lot of words that he didn't quite get. It must have shown on his face because Tightface returned with a flick of one hand. A stick of some kind-

Alder, nine inches short, unyielding.​

And the smell rapidly improves as the room explodes into a frenzy of self-cleaning. It's all rather startling. All he can do is gape at the strange development, and the two men, and fumble out his words.

"I'm sorry… what does this mean, exactly?"

Officer Smith sighs and claps one hand down on his shoulder.

"You're a wizard, Harrier."

 

[TotalAbsolutism]

The words are like a snake.

They strike from nowhere, unexpected, and yet…

And yet…

The impact isn't there. There's no bite to it. Just a faint chill and the sound of distant rain. These words have no surprise in their nature. Yet the meat is shocked.

Why? Why so rattled by something that isn't a surprise?

You left it long ago.​

"Oh."

That is all he says in response to the proclamation by Officer Smith. There doesn't seem to be anything else to say. No 'why' comes to him, nor even a 'what'; which is interesting, indeed. He is a wizard. Makes sense, says the head. It nods in approval. They seem to be expecting more of a response and so he continues.

"... that's good to know…?"

It is not the response that they want. Their shared glance is rife with unsaid things.

Too late to escape now, boss.​

"Were you aware that you are a wizard, Mister du Bois?"

Apparently. Or at least the news, while shocking, isn't a surprise. All it does is make him shiver, for some reason.

They didn't even bring any cake this time.​

"Do you have cake?"

This request comes by way of the stomach and the mouth delivers it dutifully in time with a deep and abiding rumble of the belly region. Given how lean that area is he suspects there hasn't been much cake in his past. The bulge is the result of rampant alcoholism, not over-eating.

"Ah… no. Harrier, are you… alright?"

Smith tries to make what he probably thinks is a subtle gesture to his partner. The other man approaches and with a flick of his little stick creates a light that he waves back and forth in front of the face. Their eyes meet an-

Sign says closed.​

No entry.​

Begone.​

-d Tightface reels back with a hand on his head. At first Smith looks shocked and his own little stick slides from his sleeve into his hand-

Yew, twelve inches, springy.​

But Brown waves it off with a familiarly self-deprecating chuckle. He straightens his back and retrieves a cloth with which to wipe his forehead.

"Definitely not a No-Maj. That hurt, Mister du Bois. Still, no hard feelings?"

Yeah, boss. No problem. Just let it pass.​

Absolutely not! He tried to read our mind, chief. Let him have it!​

What anger could be justified by so meagre a thing as this?​

There is no value in what you guard.​

Nothing worth being upset over.​

"I'd be surprised if you got anything from me anyway."

It's true, as well. His head still feels like it is gripped in a vise and his throat cries out for relief. He stands and puts the badge back into the little pocket. The badge. Not his badge. That seems important, too.

"You said you were… looking. For me? Not just because of the wallet? Why did you have it, actually?"

Jury is still out on whether or not it's actually his, though. There should be a mirror in the bathroom, but-

A web of pain and blood forms as the first strikes the silvered surface. What was there is obscured but all kinds of tears are visible between the cracks.

He had a feeling that was inaccessible. Smith is talking again now while Tightface Brown examines the neatly stacked tower of bottles. His eyes dart from side to side with precise movements; he's counting them.

"That's… perhaps something to discuss back at the Department."

He goes for the proper noun, too. It has a meaning above and beyond the word.

Camaraderie. Honour. Justice.​

Yeah, that's the stuff, chief. That's where we belong. Let's go!​

No, no! We don't want any of it, boss. Only bad things that way.​

Brown isn't pleased with the result of his count. It's all over his face. There are quite a few. How long is it since he started? Three days? Four?

Five hundred eighty-six, but who's counting?​

Lots of bottles. They are impeccably stacked. Ten per layer or so then four layers… oh, plus that one over there… there's glass shards, too, so he must have smashed some. Lots of bottles. So many bottles. Yet somehow not enough.

A trail across the city. Discarded and shattered against walls and in alleyways.

Not nearly enough.

"Have you still got your wand, Mister du Bois?"

He's the formal one. Partner is informal. Familiar, easy, neither of them calls the other on it. It's a routine. One to put him at ease, one to put him on edge. Not quite on edge. Still friendly. Close and distant might be better.

Close is usually your job, chief. Everyone opens up to you.​

This is just avoiding the question, though. It's not hard to guess why he's doing it. The 'wand' they're asking about isn't on his person. If it was then he'd have found it in his clothing. This doesn't rule out another concealed pocket, but…

Right pocket, chief. Crinkle crinkle.​

Just toss it, boss. No good'll come of it.​

The hand is already emerging with the scrap of paper inside. It's hard to read for some reason. So was the license, now that he thinks of it. World is as fuzzy as his head. Everything in soft focus. He squints and manages to make out a receipt. Looked like… three and five and… seven? But of what?

We got robbed there, chief. Less than half the original price.​

"I think that I... may have sold it."

He glances over at some of the bottles and doesn't add that it was most likely for alcohol. That much seems obvious. Although it could have been for cigarettes, he admits to nobody. Maybe even something stronger than either.

Can't do the job without it. Who ever heard of a sober hero, huh?​

Tightface knows. The set of his jaw says everything. Smith suspects but he's being nice about it. He pats the body on its shoulder and tries to adopt a placating tone.

"That's alright, Harrier. We'll find it, I'm sure. You've got the receipt right there. So why don't you and I just go and pick it up, then we'll all head back to the office together."

The head can tell that he's humouring them. How could any wizard sell their wand? Well, perhaps if they were destitute. But he has a feeling he isn't quite there, for some reason. It's hard to place just why. Besides, why has he not sold his coat as well? That ought to be worth a few sickles, surely. Though he isn't sure what farming implements had to do with anything.

His neck is doing the nodding thing but Tightface does not seem especially pleased. He steps over to Smith and without so much as a word aside pulls him away to speak in hushed tones. There's only one or two words that he can make out over the increasingly loud throbbing in his temples but they're having one of those fights that you're not meant to have in front of the suspects. Tightface is going to win.

"Fine, fine. Have it your way."

Smith lifts his wrist and taps his stick, his wand, on the watch there three times. Then he says, in a loud clear voice;

"Smith, inbound."

He stares at the watch for a moment and suddenly vanishes with a sharp crack that causes a painful flash to cut across the eyes. It isn't a real one, although his hand grasps at his belt anyway, and the moment passes quickly enough. Tightface eyes him up, shakes his head and then gestures at the door.

"Come on then, Mister du Bois."

The man has nothing else to say to the sad, unkempt drunkard. They walk out of the apartment together and don't bother to lock the door; he isn't sure where his keys are anyway. On the way out the young lady looks up anxiously from her desk and waves to them.

"Is everything alright offic-"

Her query is cut off when Tightface glances sharply to either side and turns to conceal his body from the open door to the street. The wand in his hand glows for a moment and then the girl's expression turns vacant.

"Could be trouble if she remembers the police visiting you; eh, Mister du Bois?"

His tone is faux-jovial and is not matched by his expression. The man did not enjoy what he just did but felt like it was necessary. This thought bounces around inside the head for some time until it feels a tug on its arm. They're pulled out into the street by the increasingly irritated Tightface. Something from earlier surfaces as the cold air hits their face.

"Are your names really Smith and Brown?"

Tightface shoots him a look of disbelief and breaks it quickly to glance up at the darkening sky. It isn't raining yet but it may soon. Somehow he's sure that it hasn't been for the past few days. His jacket would still be damp otherwise.

"Yes. Why wouldn't they be? Here, give me that receipt."

The paper is proffered and snatched away immediately. Brown checks it, looks up, frowns and then checks it again.

"You sold your wand for three galleons?"

His tone is incredulous.

Told you, chief. We got robbed.​

"I suspect that I haggled."

Not well, if that number's anything to go by. It's quite possible he lowered the price. Brown doesn't sigh this time but it's clear that he wants to.

"Come on. It's close enough to walk. Might clear your head a bit."

It does not clear his head any. There's a particular odiferous quality to the air that only exacerbates the skull-cleaving ache currently assailing the head. Not helped when they pass a food cart and the delightful stench of sizzling grease makes the stomach rumble. The man behind the cart grins and offers something meaty and warm wrapped in a sad-looking bun. At that moment it is nothing short of heaven incarnate.

He scrabbles for his wallet, locates it and stares blankly at the bills inside. After a moment he pulls one out and offers it to the man who laughs at him. Brown elbows in and snatches both wallet and bill from him. He flips through them, frowning all the while, and pulls out a different one to give to the food seller. A handful of coins and another bill are returned in exchange alongside the sweet ambrosia.

"Thank you for the food."

The man behind the cart nods and grins some more as the hands stuff it right into the mouth a moment later. It is terrible, but in a beautiful sort of way. This symphony of gristle and wheat product is exactly what they needed. Brown pushes them back into motion and tucks the money back into their wallet.

It isn't until half of the meal, which is theoretically a sausage although evidence isn't bearing out that hypothesis, has vanished into their stomach that he is able to breathe again. Hunger is a rather overpowering sensation once you've acknowledged it. The grease has exacerbated the overall sensation of 'worn-outness' but satisfied something more primal.

"You have over eight hundred dollars in your wallet, but you pawned your wand to buy hooch. How does that happen, Mister du Bois?"

That is a very good question, but it does slot neatly into the overall mental picture that they have been building thus far. There are, after all, far more bottles in that apartment than your average destitute alcoholic could afford. This suggests certain things.

"I think I might be rich. Somehow. Maybe I don't have as much, uh… 'wizard' money?"

More, actually.​

The thought comes with a memory. Pure, unrestrained joy and a pile of glittering gold. It is a childish moment, from a place that is far away and long ago. One which will not return. Tightface snorts and it is clear he is not interested in purchasing this particular explanation. Shopping around, perhaps. Never buy the first answer the suspect gives you even if you know it's right.

How many times did we tell them that one before it stuck, chief?​

They change the subject quickly.

"I thought it was too normal. Your names. For wizards, I mean."

At the time, at least. Now that they think about it again that idea feels… off. Brown clearly agrees given how he rolls his eyes as the only response. Aren't wizards just people? Some people have normal names. Stands to reason.

He stuffs the rest of the alleged food into his face and picks up his step; taking the turn before Brown reaches it. The legs are working on their own now and take him down an alleyway that's remarkably clean and nice. All the other people that are walking on the street pay no mind to them and don't seem to notice the presence of this tiny slice of city. No bins are present nor any evidence of those temporarily between domiciles sleeping here.

There is rubbish, though, of a sort. Some sort of wooden frame and some pieces of broken furniture are in a neat pile against the right-hand wall further down. Brown gives them an irritated glance as he enters the alleyway too before fixing his gaze upon the body.

"Well, this is a good sign that at least you're not a squib."

The way he says the word rankles at the ears. They protest to the head who considers the complaint dutifully. It's not like the other thing they said, which also meant 'not-a-wizard'. This means that too, but in an unpleasant way. It has been seen associating with awful accusations and terrible slurs.

Brown moves past the briefly frozen body and pushes open a work of art that, upon closer inspection, seems to be a door. The letters on it blend together, and are quite shiny to boot, but proudly declare this place to be 'Turlok and Winkes, Pawnbrokers'. Underneath it says, 'Established' but lacks any particular date. Just in general, then.

A treasury of smells is discovered as they step across the threshold. All kinds of scents that trigger tingles across the body which say, without a doubt, 'Oh yes, this is the place'. Though what kind of place that is remains up for debate. The purveyor is white of hair, long of nose and wrinkled of skin.

Goblin. Don't trust him.​

They look discomforted with the presence of what is quite clearly law enforcement in their store. The reaction they have to spying the body, however, is far more telling.

"Oh no."

It is a response that drips with despair. They leap onto the counter with wand in hand and wave it firmly across the room. In response the shelves, stuffed full of all sorts of fascinating items, retreat decisively into the floors and walls. Brown regards this with one raised eyebrow that he directs first at the shopkeep and then back at the body.

"Seems he recognises you, Mister du Bois."

This elicits a shrieking laugh from the crooked creature on the counter. They hop down from it and start waving their hands vigorously at the body.

"Of course! How could we forget? Three shelves toppled, oh yes, and still wouldn't leave until we bought their-"

They pause and look nervously at Officer Brown; who is rather pleased, in a stern sort of way.

"Listen, officer, we didn't want to, alright? But they kept holding it under their chin and saying awful things and we were, frankly, doing them a good turn. Gave them a fair price, too!"

Awful things? Like what, exactly, is the first question that comes to mind.

Just a little joke, chief. Nothing worth minding about.​

We were trying to cut back on those. They stopped being funny before the first time.​

Nonsense, just a tiny bit of harmless fun. Kills at parties.

Wand under throat, big grin, then scream at the top of your lungs-​

"Abracadabra."

Both other parties in the room blanch and turn as one to glare at him. The pointer of the two does what he does best and aims one long finger at the offending mouth.

"Don't you start that again! What if another one of our patrons hears you!"

The empty store is accusatory enough on its own that the suggestion echoes hollowly. Brown closes his eyes and keeps them that way just long enough for a calm, measured count to ten. They open again and he raps his knuckles on the countertop to gain the owner's attention.

"That's enough, Turlok. I'll write you a receipt for the wand; just take it down to the treasury office and they'll reimburse you the cost, alright?"

A piece of paper emerges from his coat with a flick of his wand and he is just starting to fill it out when he notices the nervous expression on the goblin's face.

"... do not tell me that you sold it."

Brown's glare must be just as stormy as his tone, though the head can't see it from this angle, because the proprietor backs up several steps with his hands raised defensively.

"We wouldn't, we wouldn't! Knew he'd have regrets and be back so we kept it under the counter, nice and safe. Only… only…"

They swallow hard and tug at the neck of their clothes with one hooked finger.

"... a friend of Snapwick's stopped by and was in the market for a wand, you see. Very firm. Wouldn't accept no for an answer. So… yes, we did sell it, in the end."

The officer puts the paper away again with a stiff motion and nods to the little person in an equally controlled fashion.

"Of course. Thank you for your help, Turlok. We'll be on our way."

He turns to leave and grabs the body by the arm as he passes by. Together they exit the building and it is only then that Brown pauses, releases the arm he was gripping so firmly and then proclaims his assessment of the situation in a tone of succinct doom.

"Well fuck."

This tiding is summarily ignored by the body because they have caught sight of the large, antique mirror that has been left on the other side of the alleyway. They'd caught sight of the frame on their way in but focus had been redirected to the door. Now, though, they see it. The horror in the mirror.

It gazes back with a particular expression that doesn't fit on the face at all. Everything's distorted at the edges, which is as much the fault of the warped mirror than anything, but it can't hide the ruin. Bedraggled, wispy black hair so out of control that it's hard to tell where the beard begins. Stains on the leather along with out-of-place patches; sewn shut by hand rather than magic. Heavy bags under the eyes, which are bloodshot to boot, and a certain redness to the nose.

Nah, chief, forget about all that. You're still on top.​

It isn't as bad as it looks, boss. You're just tired.​

Couple more uppers and you'll be right as rain, chief.​

Do not fool yourself.

You are only alive because magical liver cures exist.

You are only alive because you think they still need you.

You are only alive because you are too cowardly to end it.

You are too great a failure to fail correctly.​

The face of Harrier du Bois smirks back at him from the mirror. This is who he is, now. He's the kind of man who smirks at mirrors. At everyone, apparently. When he tries to stop the expression it doesn't stop; like it knows some big joke that he's not getting.

"Mister du Bois. Mister du Bois. Harrier!"

He's cut out of the moment by the sharp tones of Tightface Brown who looks uncharacteristically worried. The man is holding a cup of some kind, who knows where it came from, and is pressing it into his hands.

"Drink this. You're clearly dehydrated."

It's full of cold, tasteless liquid that nevertheless soothes the burning sensation in his throat. In Harrier's throat. Brown supports him and moves him so he can lean against the nearest wall. Once he's securely in place the officer starts pacing.

"What's-"

He takes a deep sip and swallows hard.

"The matter?"

Tightface stops moving his feet and lives up to his assigned name with how sour his expression is at that moment.

"Because, Mister du Bois, of who acquired your wand. I don't know how he found out it was here, but…"

The officer actually lets himself sigh this time and folds his arms.

"Your wand is in the hands of Sedge Snapwick. A goblin crime boss."

Oh.

Bugger.​

 

[Maven]

I am a simple fellow of simple tastes. I see quality writing, I watch.

 

[mr.azeroth]

Yo know . I was confused this whole chapter, so confused that i re-read two times and still confused .. hope to read this confusion more.keep'em coming..

 

[Sasori]

Maybe it's just my dialect, but the complete lack of contractions make this hard to read.

 

[TotalAbsolutism]

Maybe it's just my dialect, but the complete lack of contractions make this hard to read.

Click to shrink...

... any particular examples? There are quite a few contractions present, unless you mean something other than what I think.