A Murder of Crows - Chapter 1

A brick buidling. Two floors. The sound of shod hooves and wooden wheels against cobblestones just around the corner. Entrance - Butler in black & white. Orante staircase. Oriental rugs. Cloak room.

First room - Smell of pipe smoke. Dark, but lit well enough to read. Mahogany accents. Wingback chairs of deepest claret velvet. Humidor of pipe tobacco on fireplace mantle.

Second room - Smell of roses. Windows of ivory lace. Pettipoint chairs surrounding card tables. Fine china on display in curio cabinet. Fainting couch. Silver tea service near entrance to kitchen.

Arrived, took off his hat, got some tea, sat down, and waited for the storm.

The full moon has long disappeared behind thunderheads. The wind began howling in the skeletal trees, and the smell of humidity took over the entire region.
And then it started to rain.
Not just any rain. But a veritable downpour, like the tears of a forgotten god. I can't help but compare it to a divine flood.
My horse is tired. Its black mane is soaked. But I keep pushing it toward the eerie lights I can barely see through the rain. As I approach the old building, a frail-looking stable boy come to fetch my horse. "Here, sir! I got'im!" - he shouted over the thunder.
"Anyone inside?", I asked.
"Just a businessman! You're long due, sir!"
"I know. I certainly took my time to return here..."
And on that note, I left the cold embrace of the night. But as I enterd the hall of the mansion, I couldn't help but feel out of place here. The warmth of the fireplace seemed unfit for me. Like I belonged out there, in the wet arms of the darkness.
My black hair starts to dry, as I pour myself a drink. Through the crystal glass, I see the businessman the boy mentioned. With little more than a nod, he acknoledges my presence. I take off my raincoat, trying my best to look presentable.
"I wonder who will show up next...", I mutter.
As if replying, a thunder crashes outside.

I rise, holding my cup of tea. Smiling slightly, I approach the drenched wanderer.
"Greetings... Quite the storm we're having, isn't it?"

"Heya, Mister!"
The farmer pushed the gate shut, and turned slowly to the sound behind him.
There was a small man on the road, drenched by the rain despite a large coat that only served to ridicule his short features. It looked by the life much like a drowned puppy.
"Though", thougth the farmer, as the short man splashed through the mud towards him, "probably one you would like to kick.".
The puppy tapped his hat with a finger as a way of greeting, and pushed some of his hair out of his eyes.
"I'm sort-a-lost.", the man said. he had the type of nagging voice that makes people imigrate. "The coach didn't make it up the hill, the wheel broke, see, stupid hole in the road, can't see why they don't fix it, so i ahd to walk 'cause the coacher said he isn't going to fix it now in the rain and he think he didn't liked me that much anyway, well, that figures, right, go on, kick the reporter, so there I set out and I walk and now I am..." The man stopped his speech to reach in a pocket in his coat, to pull out a small black book, that he started to leaf through.
"Bleechmore manor". He muttered, looking up at the farmer. "Silly name if you ask me."
"Bleackmoor" saided the farmer. He eyed the man suspiciously.
"Yeah?" The man penned something in his book. "How do you spell that?"
The farmer shrugged. He didn't trust the little man much, but he had to know. he stepped a bit closer and bent towards him.
"Why you want to go there?" he asked.
The man showed a toothy grin, the flashed something in front of the farmer's face.
"Didn't introduce myself yet, eh?"
It was a small card, with a crease and a few smudges.
It read

W. Fudgick Daily Sun reporter

"So why should'nt I go there, eh?"
The farmer plucked the card carefully from the man's fingers, as if it would explode.
"The manor has been empty for years. Now suddenly people flock from all over, and a waiting staff has arrived. I've alreday seen one coach and a horserider drive up the road. I haven't seen so much traffic since the old Lord died."
"Is that so." said the reporter. "My. My. Isn't that something. So what way?"
The farmer thumbed a direction.
As the man turned to leave, " he asked "So what are you going to do there?"
A toothy grin flashed. "How would I know? I've just been asked to come here. But there is bound to be a story in here somewhere. There always is."
The reporter tapped his head again, before he wandered off in the direction the farmer had pointed out.
"Not a puppy.", the farmer thought, watching the man climb up the road. "He looks more like a... weasel. Yeah."
He tucked the card in his vest and sighed.
This was going to mean trouble.

Surprised by the sudden reply from the black-clad gentleman, I whirl on my heels, facing his sillouette against the fireplace.

"Ah... Yes... Sorry, I was lost in my ramblings. Yes, it is quite a storm. Seems to fit this place. My name is Claude Lafitte, from New Orleans. And you are...?"

The smile on my face doesn't even flicker as I respond.
"I am no one of consequence."
I turn and walk back to my suitcase. Picking it up, I pull a small envelop from it. The name "Claude LaFitte" is written on it in a flowing script.
"I believe this is for you."

My eyes open wide, even as I retrieve the envelope from the dark gentleman. My coat leaves a trail of waterdrops, as I bring it closer to my chest.
"Wha... What is this?"
As the thundering storm rages outside and a dead tree scratches the bay window like a skeletal hand, I dare to ask the more important question...
"Who do you represent?"

My smile again seems constant at Claude's surprise and confusion.
"I represent parties interested in you. Please, feel free to open it."
With that, I turn around and retake my seat by the fire and quietly sip my tea while I place my black suitcase next to me.

Puzzled, I can't help but make a ridiculous face.
"In me?"
Fumbling with the now-wet envelope, I end up tearing the top of it. Not without a paper-cut.
"Ow! Cursed envelope!"
To that remark, the businessman can't help but smile.

A tiny locket drops out of the envelop, and Claude catches it with his free hand. It is a delicate silver and gold locket on a gold chain. Wrapped around the locket is a small peice of paper. Claude unfolds it and reads the poem within it.

"Trickster and teacher, Thought and memory, Hero and guardian, Scavenger and greed, Black of hair, pure of heart Seeker and the sought Find me, and your fate"

Locket in hand, Claude ponders about what to do.

I looked up the hill at Bleackmoore Manor, a forboding house with a tinge of evil in its scent. The pouring rain didn't matter to me - I was used to worse, in the service of the Foundation. The bag of herbs under the opera cape I wore was a comfortable weight at my side, something I was used to, rather than the unsettling feelings that Bleackmoore was giving me. I started up the hill as thunder and lightning crashed through the heavens.
Reaching the old manor house, I knocked on the door, and pulled one of my cards into my hand. I checked it quickly to make sure that it was the right one - it was. Karl Wolfemann, German, from the Luna Foundation. Wondering what was going to happen next, I stood at the door, wondering who would open it in a godforesaken place like this...

"Hold open that door!"
Weasel skidded over the muddy coblestones towards the pool of light that erupted from the manor's open door. Though "Manor", he could not help notice, would be a bit of an overstatement. The whole thing was a large brick building, flanked by two timber buildings that seemed to function as a stable and a servant's residence. Two - maybe more - gargoyles were roasting on the roof, looking rather out of place. A small tower could be seen on the back of the building. The different color of the stone suggested it was decisively older than the rest of the house.
The butler opening the door was slightly taken of guard when the short man pressed past another man that had just stepped over the treshold. Weasel tried to stop, turned, slipped, and skidded over the wet floor, untill he finally came to stop in the center of the hall, in disarray and drenched to the bone.
After carefully closing the door behind the other gentleman, the butler took the man's card.
"Ah, mr... Wolfemann". He nods solemny, beckoning to a door in the back of the hall.
"The others have already arrived. Shall I take your coat?"
"Yeah. Don't mind me. It's not like I'm anyone important." the Weasel muttered.
The butler smiled, a thin smile that conveyes that all he was doing was being polite.
With great difficulty.
"Ofcourse sir. I shall have a towel fetched for you so you. Let me handle your coat, and escort you to the vestibule, sir..."
Weasel flipped his card, with less elan than he had hoped to.
"William Fudgick. I'm from the Daily Sun in Boston."
"Quite so." The butler took the soggy piece of paper, and helped the man out of his coat, which turned out quite a venture. "I would suggest a warm spot near the fire would help you dry, sir. I will get you a towel immediately."
The butler stiffly walked through a servance enytrance, and the Weasel turned towards the other man.
"William Fudgick. Reporter. You can call me Weasel, if you like. All my friends do. They say it's 'cause I 'ferret' out the news. Come to think of it, I guess that means they should call me 'Ferret' then... Well, never mind that.
Who are you? You know our host?"

I discreetly stepped back from the man in front of me. While he seemed harmless, I couldn't help but remember that weasels could be some of the deadliest - and most persistent - animals of their size, if they wanted to be. Tightening my grip on my cane, I carefully considered what I wanted to say.
"My name is Karl Wolfemann. I represent an organization known as the Luna Foundation. I am here to determine whether or not the Foundation should invest in some of our host's...endeavours." I wished I had thought of a better way to say that - the pause, at the least, was awkward. I silently cursed myself for not having listened more carefully when they were discussing my cover, and for not having learned to disguise my accent better.
"As for who our host is, I am not certain. All I know is that my employers received a letter in the post, requesting that I be sent to observe the proceedings, and take back my recommendations. If I might ask, why are you here? From what I understand, the current Lord of Bleackmoore does not usually appreciate media attention, and the Boston Sun would count, I imagine."

The weasel rubbed his stubby face.
"Luna, eh? Heard about them. Arent's they the guys who bought those chunks of land in north Massachusets? Some lumber company or something..."
A grin formed on the weasels face as he registered Karl's confusion.
"I think I talked to them when we wrote about the man-eating Yeti of Massachussets. Well.... ofcourse we embelished that story a bit. But hey, the guy was ripped to shreds! Pity we never got a shot of the beast that killed it, mustbhave been larger than a grizzly, but see, we have LOADS of stuff in our archives and... ehr... right. Look. we do serious stuff too, yaknow."
He turned and walked to the end of the hall.
"And I don't know our host, either. If ya need to know, I was sent to replace Sturben, me collegae. He went with unexpected leave and hasn't shown up for about a week. We found the invitation in his desk. Me boss thought I should go instead, as I worked with Sturb' on some missions, and it's possible that it ties in with something he was working on."
A wide grin appeared onm his face.
"Maybe the something was you eh?"
He pushed opened the door and entered the warm room beyond.
"Oh, look here. More people. Is that tea hot?"

I look up to the newcomers and nod my head in response to their entrance. I rise from my seat, and approach Mr. Wolfemann.
"Mr. Wolfemann, I presum?" I ask, extending a hand, the other holding my briefcase.

I nod my head slightly towards the man with the briefcase. "Yes, I am Wolfemann. I am afraid that I cannot shake hands with you - neither of us would find it all that...pleasant. My card." Extending my free hand, the card I had prepared earlier slipped into it from under my sleeve. "I am here on the business of the Luna Foundation. They heard of some business that our hosts would be involved in, and received an invitation for one of their representatives to attend this evening's gathering in hopes that the Foundation might take some interest in their dealings.
"By the way, sir, I believe you have me at disadvantage - you know my name, but I do not know yours?" I cock my eyebrows slightly, awaiting an answer, wondering if I might have said too much, considering the Weasel's presence, of my reasons for being here...

All of a sudden, this all becomes a dream... The fireplace sheds no heat, the house ceases to exist, Mr. Breifcase vanishes. All I see is this small, fragile anchor to my sanity. This tiny chain that traps me in my own guilt. This physical manifestation of my curse.
My hands - numb as they are - manage to open the locket. How familiar it seems! How horribly familiar! Inside I see a small hand-colored photography. Even with my eyes closed I could describe the two faces that stare emptily into nothing. The pale skin.The rosy cheeks. The blue eyes. The red-brown hair. One of them I lost to the Lord. My sweet, dear Francine. And the other. The other...
"Your daughter." Mr. Briefcase's voice snapped me out of the mausoleum in my mind.
"My missing daughter. The one the Lord let me keep after my wife died. The one I lost..."
"Here. In Bleakmore's grounds. Ten years ago. When she was only six years old."
By now my tears had broken through the dams I kept in my eyes for a decade and came cascading down my cheek, much like the raindrops trickled down the bay windows. Oh, how I'd love to blame this man in black for my pain. How I'd love to hate him. But my pain was inflicted by myself. And my hatred was aimed at no one but me.
Mr. Briefcase let me recompose myself before continuing...

Editor's Note: at this moment, Claude had not yet noticed the new guests.

I continue to ignore the Weasel's presence as I return my hand to my side.
"I am no one of consequence. You, however, are of great interest to certain parties. That is why you were invited here. Please, feel free to enjoy some tea and relax whilst we await more guests."
With that, I turn back to see Claude crying. My smile not even changing, I calmly respond to his words.
"Your daughter...."

Weasel sunk back in one of the chairs, the one closest to the fire, warpping his hands around a hot cup of tea. Sipping the drink, he examined his companions. Each one has a secret, he thought. Each one is hiding behind a mask. The problem with a secret is that, ultimately, it will be revealed. The mask will have to come off some time.
Right now, though, he was not feeling very secure about himself. There was something definitely unsettling about all of this.
He sat up straighter. "Okay... Mr no-one-of-consequence... What are we here for? Are you here to gloat about that man's past? Or did you actually have something planned?"
There are times, he rembered, that it may have been wise to not ask questions at all. To just sit back and let things unravel. A good reporter would have known when to be quiet.
But being quiet had not helped Sturben, had it? And Weasel was too unnerved to mind correct reporter etiquette rigth now.
"What do you want of us?"

Focusing carefully on what's going on, I reach into the pouch at my side, considering using a spell...but no, that wouldn't be wise. If the Weasel noticed, he would certainly have no problems with publishing it, and the risks would be too great - the Legacy wouldn't want me using a spell so indiscreetly, if I could possibly avoid it. Walking over towards Claude, I place a gloved hand on his shoulder, and say something very quietly.
"We all have sorrows, my friend. What we do with them is what makes us strong or weak. Come, sit by the fire, and explain to us what has happened to you - perhaps then we lay these ghosts of the past to rest, ja?" Hearing the Weasel's comment, I nod my head. "Indeed, what are we doing here? I know that I have come to see about our host's business, and I know that we all are here for a reason, so why don't you tell us what that reason is. Schnell, before we lose our patience." Drawing my hand back from Claude's shoulder, I go to a chair and sit down, nervously tapping my cane on the floor.

I turn from the mourning man to regard the sitting Weasel.
"You are William Fudgick, also known as the Weasel. You are a well known reporter for the Daily Sun. Wasn't it you who was involved with that... incident in this town? What was it... 5 years ago?"
The Weasel continues to watch me, remembering.
"It is unfortunate that the Times dismissed you. Such a fantastic story. If only you had proof that those things had actually happened."
With that, I turn to address all three visitors.

As I hear what the butler, if that is what he is, says, I stop tapping my cane. He seems to know so much about the others - what does he know about me? About the Foundation - does he know about the Legacy? And - if he does - is he on the side of the Light or the Dark? I quietly set my cane across my lap, and speak to the strange man.
"You seem to know everything about our two companions here, just what do you know about me - and how did you find any of this out? You have brought one man to the brink of madness, and another back to his painful past." Suddenly twisting the head of my cane, I draw the silver blade from within it. Standing from my chair, I level the point of my blade, directing it towards the butler's chest. "I demand you tell us why we are here, and who you represent. This I demand of you, sir. I would not like to think that I might be speaking with something, rather than someone, and you are leaving me with that impression even now." Knowing that I would have to think fast if he were working against the Legacy, I started to bring to mind the workings of a spell that I had avoided casting for a long time, and letting the mystical impressions fill my mind. I would be ready to speak the words and work the spell as soon as it became necessary - if it became necessary.

I calmly stare at the blade that has been leveled at my chest, and for the first time, my smile fades. With my face straight, I level my gaze at the brandishing man.
"I am no one of consequence and those whom I represent wish to remain anonymous. And yes, I do know of your Foundation and the Legacy it wishes to place upon the world. I do not seek to counter it."
The spell in Wolfemann's mind suddenly seems to flow away, as if he never remembered it. The blade remaining leveled, only his eyes show his confusion.
"I do not come to threaten. I am merely a messenger."

Wondering what it was that could have wiped the words from my mind, I lower my blade to my side - but don't return it to its sheath in my cane.
"Get to the point. I, at least, grow impatient." However, I smile mentally. He doesn't know as much as I had feared he knew - the goal of the Legacy, for one thing.

Weasel had been silent for a while. Memories of the incident were flooding back to him. How much did the Briefcase know? Did he suspect his role in the matter? He couldn't. Even Sturben hadn't known. He wouldn't have believed him, at any rate, even had he told him, which he couldnt. Not ever.
The body had been mangled beyond recognition. When they had arrived on the scene, competing reporters of different newspapers at that time, the body had been sent to a mortuarium. Any traces of the beast had been long lost. The locals insisted it was a bear - and the authorities had already closed the case.
In fact, there was probably no way for the two men to have found out the truth, if the two hadn't teamed up. Sturben had an uncanny knack to fish in the backgrounds of people, gathering the motive of what turned out to be a gruesome crime. And Weasel, well... Weasel had an eye for forensics, and, ofcourse, his nose.
He was shaken out of his reverie when Karl pulled out the blade. Carefully, the reporter slid out of his chair. As Karl lowered the blade, he moved behind the Briefcase, blocking the exit.
"Yeah...", he said, carefully. "Let's hear it."