The Exorcist

Light filters through thin, cream colored curtains, showering a spot on a turquoise trellis patterned area rug that rests on dark, uneven wooden floors, the dull splash of accent color center in a living space. Marking the center of the elongated track of sunlight is the sprawled out body of an orange and white long-haired cat. On it’s side it lays, front legs stretching tall, back legs mirroring, and fluffy tail lazily tapping a soft thud on the rug. It breathes in slowly, a content purr bubbling in it’s throat before it’s maw opens, incisors bared to the world, sandpaper tongue curling out as it yawns. It’s front claws extend before digging into the looped threads of the rug. Once firmly in place, the cat drags itself, crawling across the carpet as though it were much too lazy to stand to relocate itself elsewhere in the home. It tries to retract it’s nails, but gets stuck in the rug, which only prompts it to start tugging at the threads, which then only rips some of the loops out, fraying it. Pleased with the noise, the cat once again buries it’s exposed nails into the rug again, and proceeds to slug it’s way a bit further, closer to an off-grey colored loveseat whose back is against the cream curtained bay window.

Once close enough to the base of the loveseat, the cat pulls it’s claws free of the rug’s bonds, again the threading tugging and pulling to destroy some of the intricate carpeted turquoise loops. The puff of a thing retracts it’s limbs underneath it’s fluffy body and pushes up on all four feet, first hopping to the sitting cushions, then up to the backing of the loveseat. It’s pumpkin colored eyes finds a slit in the curtain panels, neck extending, long straight whiskers and pink soft nose finding the part between the sheer fabric, it’s ears pinning back as it pushes it’s head through to see out of the window to Melbourne Road. For the now, the road is relatively quiet, no traffic, foot or automobile, present. However, the feline finds the three planters resting at the windowsill, looking down to the bouquet of red flowers that rest inside. The occasional bee and butterfly drift by on their journey to and from Valentines Park, however the insects do not linger long as the vibrant red peonies weren’t real. Imitation silk, and of relatively good quality, as a passerby would never be able to tell the floral decoration is fake.

The pollinators, however, do find themselves to be disappointed frequently, but the house cat inhabitant does not mind. A yellow and black butterfly flits by, coming to rest on one of the crimson silk petals. The cat’s eyes quiver, immediately honing in on the butterfly as it’s slitted pupils constrict tightly then explodes to fill it’s once orange iris with the black. The cat chitters, chirping away at the butterfly which invades the territory. It hunkers down, every feline muscle twisting down like a tightly wound spring, it’s fuzzy bottom and tail wiggling in place, ready to pounce. A switch is flipped, and the cat bounds forward, it’s padded paws thumping against the windowpane with a loud bang.

“Arvenois,” a stern voice calls out from somewhere in the back of the house, the flat, monotone, yet velvety timbre coursing through the house, the volume plenty loud enough to remind the cat that his owner was home. Arvenois startles, scrambling from behind the curtains, hopping down until he stands on the seat cushions of the loveseat, puffed tail sticking straight up in the air. A loud meow is returned before the orange and white cat hops back into the windowsill.

The house is simple, more long than it is wide, the lower level comprised of the entry which opens to the living space, immaculately decorated in cool colors and prints of avian creatures on one wall, and a small bookshelf opposite it housing various works of a plethora of genres. A long hallway faces the dark wood front door, it leading directly to the back of the house and the small, fenced sitting area; the kitchen and dining room shoot off the left of the hallway, and to the right is a half washroom, then an almost cramped stairwell which leads to the second floor. The second floor’s layout is smaller than the first, the master bedroom toward the back of the home with an adjoining balcony, and a study to the front with a view of Melbourne Road.

And in the study, sitting at a desk, is the owner of this small home. Elbows are propped up on the desk, long, ivory colored, carefully manicured fingers laced together where a chin rests atop the smooth knuckles. A pair of lips, thin, but not without a feminine arch to them, are relaxed into a line, any telltale sign of emotion not showing upon them. In the middle of the sharp featured, bordering on gaunt face is an equally as sharp nose, and a pair of steel colored eyes to accompany it all. These eyes, the lids smudged with kohl, make the owner look vaguely sick, but not only does the smoky hint to sunken-in orbit make the person look ill, but the way the eyes themselves look... Odd. The sclera is still plenty white, but the iris and pupils almost have a clouded, bordering opaque quality to them as though the person were blind. Not once do the seemingly kohl-smeared lids blink. In a perpetual distant stare the eyes were, looking out to the window and to the street beyond, watching for what seems to be nothing in particular, expression lacking in every sense of the word.

The muffled smack of paw against window echoes throughout the home, winding it’s way down the hallway, up the stairs, and finally to the study once more.

The thin lips part again, no breath seeming to be inhale to prep any speech to be called out. “Arvenois.” The tone is masculine, deep, and smooth as silk, it reverberating through the rickety house. The eyes shift, yet still never blinking, legs pushing out from under the desk, the feet of the crushed velvet cushioned armchair creaking and squealing against the woodgrain of the hardwood. Limbs fall, broad hands finding a place on the flat surface of the desk, anchoring there to allow a hold to push up from.

Isarquin stands to his full height, his posture immediately taking on one of rigidity. His head swivels, the motion of both his body and his attention turning to the door causing some loose strands of his dark, cocoa brown, straight hair to fall from a lazily crafted twisted bun at the base of his head, and falling around oddly pointed ears. One of his hands reaches upward, lithe digits delicately gingerly pushing aside a lock of hair to tuck behind one of the ears. The cat… His lovely pet… Could be the biggest nuisance in this world, and the next world, especially when needing a time to meditate and relax to himself. Time to let the dreamsicle-colored thing to go play out at the back patio. Isarquin needed me time.

His hand rests on the back of the armchair, ready to push it into the desk when a mobile which rests right at the edge of the desk, begins to ring. One buzz. Two. Three. Isarquin’s hand leaves the carved backing, reaching for the cheap cell, and accepting the call.

“Yes?” The voice on the other end speaks, the information rather short and sweet, and relatively vague. However, right at the end of the call, Isarquin’s thin lips pooch just a touch. “I’m really delivering macaroons? … You know I love your macaroons. Yes. Yes, I’ll take the other dozen. Wait, with the special cream? Good, yes. Of course, Gram. You’ve got my supplies from the last go ‘round? I’ll see you shortly.”

And, with a soft ‘beep’ indicating the call is through, Isarquin takes the phone from his ear and shoves it in the pocket of his sharkskin slacks. His fingers get to work rolling up the sleeves of his deep purple shirt, stopping right at his elbows, then smoothing out the grey vest he wears over that.

This should be good.

As though something signals in his brain, Isarquin immediately walks from around his desk, to the corner of the study, to a small safe. He works on the combination lock, turning the dial multiple times back and forth, before it flicks open. Resting inside is a single, small leather bound book, the edges of the cover worn down and the pages frayed. It is small enough that he can stuff it into his vest, and as he does that, he pulls out a silver pocket watch from deep inside. Ten o’clock. Wasting no time, he steals away from the simple house on Melbourne Road, pausing only to quickly mark a rune of illusionary magic against his long Elven ears to hide them, heading first to Binturong.

On a few… Great many… Occasions Isarquin needed to visit Binturong was almost always… No, it was always on business. Not that he minded. Binturong was a coworker, albeit a crotchety, old, slightly senile, wonderful baker of a coworker. And, if there was one thing that his Elven palate loved, it was sweets. He did not mind to take on some of the correspondence she received regarding the need for his skill set, as it usually meant that he could get her to pass along some goodies. Plus, an unassuming geriatric woman is, at times, the perfect hiding place for any tools an exorcist could ever need. Those mothball smelling, tissue holding, ugly knit purses were a treasure trove and a black hole all at the same time. The amount of times he needed to stuff some packets of concentrated sea salt, some silver coins, bunches of dried sage, vials of birch oil were frequent enough that he knew he could trust Binturong with housing some of his belongings in a pinch.

Once he arrives at their usual designated location not too far from King’s Cross, a recently gutted office space, their discussion is brief and to the point. Isarquin steps up to the little old woman, and in return she offers up a leather, unassuming book bag. He knows it’s filled with his belongings. And confectionary goods. The important things.

“Jacklyn today, is it?”

“It’s Jocelyn when I’m out and about, actually, but you’re getting closer. Better than Rafael from the first few meetings, Brunhilda.”

Binturong simply laughs her cute little grandmotherly laugh as Isarquin takes the book satchel completely and throws it over a shoulder. “I’ve already put your train tickets in the bag, dear, along with your dozen of the macaroons and Ceddy’s. That is who is requesting aid. And do try to blink more often this time. As if that long hair of yours didn’t draw enough attention, you looking like a zombie does you no favors. Speaking of the sort...” She continues on in her shaky, senior, loving voice, relaying what Cedric had mentioned to her over the call. “... And do be careful, dearie. He says it’s a class four.” She lifts her veiny, bony old hands to holds up four arthritic fingers.

Isarquin doesn’t linger long after speaking to Binturong and getting the information needed, heading toward the train station. The trip in total will take close to five hours. He could only hope that Cedric can wait patiently enough during that time. He wasn’t completely familiar with him, only seeing him in passing at Board meetings, or even that one time when he thinks he saw him from afar in Richard’s Books. Cerulean hair, he ponders once he’s on the train to Bamburgh. Maybe glasses…? He had never payed too much attention to him, and only knew very little about it. Sometimes, the less is better. Arm’s distance with most has always been a good thing, he’s found.

The sun lifts in the sky, though the further north he travels, the more cloud coverage there is, so it became almost difficult to even tell the time. He knew he would arrive in the afternoon, closer to three. And if this turns out to be as Binturong had explained, which Isarquin has no reason to believe that this Cedric would relay faulty information back, then he needn’t waste any time whatsoever. Unfortunately, a long train ride is wasting time.

The station is just north of Bramburgh, and from there Isarquin takes a bus from the station to Bramburgh proper. And, judging by the directions given by Gram Binny, Isarquin should know exactly where to find Cedric without using Farsight at all.

The wind whips and picks up speed as he nears the rocky outcrop and coast, the dark sea looking just as dark as the grey sky. Isarquin walks along the tall grass, it becoming more and more thin and sparse as he nears the location of Cedric. He holds on to the strap of the leather bag with one hand, the other hand reaching up to his hair that threatens to tear free from the twist that holds it. In the distance, not too terribly far, he thinks he can see a figure sitting atop a boulder, an oddly ominous shadow cast long from the figure’s body though there was a lack in sun.

Not blue hair. It must be an illusion or disguise? Well… One way to find out.

“I’ve a dozen macaroons I’m needing to give away. Can I offer them to you?” Isarquin asks, hoping this person knows exactly what he means.

Though the whipping wind blew from the southwest, from the mainland, every few moments when it pitched in varying directions, Isarquin could swear he could pick up the nauseating scent of waterlogged death and… Mm, that, too. Isarquin’s pale, clouded gaze drifts away from the doppel known as Cedric, off to the lumpy silhouette of Newtown.

How long had Isarquin been Earth-side and meddling in the affairs of demons gone awry? Too long, he sometimes thinks, but it isn’t as though the burden of being Faefolk who specialized in exorcising demons was too much for his willowy shoulders to bear. No, in fact, he quite enjoys his affinity for banishing the unsavory creatures which warlocks tend to pull into this world. It is as though he is being the strict older brother ruining the younger sibling’s fun. ‘Put that back; you cannot play with that; go to your room.’ One of his most early, and fond memories he has is of a necromantic warlock who wanted to take the ashes of Jeanne d’Arc, use them as a binding, reanimate ‘her’, transplant the demon into the ashy corpse, and use her to cause panic and distress to those who executed her. All that Isarquin ended up with is a novice necromantic warlock who only got himself possessed and ended up drowning in Seine River.

Isarquin slings the strap of the leather book bag from his shoulder, unsnapping the clasps and whipping open the heavy flap that protects the belongings inside. The soft ‘oh, hell yes’ hits his ears and though a smile doesn’t touch his thin lips, it does seem to touch the corner of his softly smudged eyes, pulling the Tyra Banks coined technique of ‘Smiling With Your Eyes’. The macaroons will soon be his, and the extended hand Cedric offers does not get a handshake, but rather the package of cookies.

“Special cream, yeah? I take it you’re my Exorcism specialist, then? I don’t believe this particular road is oft-frequented by bakery salesmen, and I’m a bit too old for strangers to be offering me sketchy candy,” Cedric says.

“Special cream, correct. I made sure to verify all this over the phone before I made the train ride out here. She was very adamant about getting them to you, and I was very adamant about getting the extra dozen. I’ve yet to try one, but I’ve no doubt that Granny has, as always, crafted something of possible Michelin-quality results.”

After Isarquin shifts his attention back to Cedric, or rather Mister Theobald something-or-another Charrington, the cloudy grey eyes which almost match the sky above give the doppel a quick once over, a nod of approval of this disguise added before Cedric begins to speak again. “To be honest, I wasn’t expecting Granny to send me another Board member.” With a casual shrug, he added, “But I’m glad you’re here. Board members, at least, are competent.”

“Granny mentioned it was a class four. What did you expect? Is she wont to send you novices out of spite? … I would do as such, as it could yield entertaining results, but I digress,” Isarquin offers in return, his own accent having just the slightest French inflection to it. After all, just as Cedric is playing the part of the CAFE agent, he is playing the part of the English dressage equestrian Jocelyn Battier. Or, at least he enjoys telling potential ‘targets of interest’ this, as it usually garners a nice dinner date and drinks out of his tall tales.

As Cedric goes about opening the care package of macaroons, Isarquin begins digging into the book bag yet again. Nestled inside is yet another package of dozen delicious cookies, two sets of beads, one of a rosary and one of a Buddhist malas (though it did not matter of what ‘religion’ they came from, he used them to anchor a demon; but he did prefer the malas because the sandalwood beads were pretty), seven tubes of sea salt from the Dead Sea, three vials of purified water, a hand-holdable Anglican cross made of palo santo wood (again, it did not matter in what form it was crafted, as he had every intention in the near future to get a block of palo santo wood whittled into the form of a cute puppy dog because he found it humorous to throw that at an offending demon and banish it from the world), a treated and serrated blade bowie knife and strapped leg sheath, and a M1911A1 pistol with three preloaded magazines of demon treated ammunition and strapped holster to fit under his right arm. Isarquin gets to work strapping the weapons on, ensuring the holster fits perfectly around his chest and didn’t wrinkle or crease his vest or shirt, and that the knife’s sheath on his thigh without making his pant leg look ridiculous. Nope, he looked stylish and deadly. Perfect combination.

“Mmm, absolutely delicious,” Ced murmured. “Binturong always delivers. She tell you who she put in the cream this time around?” He chuckled. “Her neighbor’s grandson, apparently.”

Isarquin’s attention had been directed downward, focusing more on getting his plethora of weaponry in order, but the moment he hears Cedric mention something concerning about putting SOMEONE in the cream, his head snaps up, looking directly at Cedric. The unblinkingness only adds to the stare.

“Pardon, come again?” he asks softly, perhaps thinking that the beginner illusionary magic he placed on his ears accidentally seeped into his eardrums and vanished them. He did say Granny put something in the macaroons. ‘Special cream’ apparently did not mean that it was crafted with love and perfectly peaked egg whites. Isarquin always thought… Oh holy shit. With a soft sniffle of his nose, the noise sounding of one of utter incredulity, Isarquin proceeds to reach back into the book bag that houses his share of the macaroons and exorcism equipment, yanking out that care package and handing it over to Cedric. “Oh, here. I’m watching my figure,” he softly adds (lies) as Cedric begins to speak again, this time giving a debriefing of the situation.

“The whole place is overrun with the reanimated corpses of the villagers. Whether that’s Necromantic or a whole lot of OPDs, I can’t tell you yet, haven’t been over there to read the signature. To the northeast, we’ve got draugr. Those are OPDs or poltergeist repossessions. Some also have primitive elementalism. And right off the coast’s the octopus-head. A solid class four. I’d say the host was originally human, but the demon’s mutated it, probably amalgamated with other flesh it found. I’ve got a fairly good idea of the town’s layout. If we skirt along the coast and go around, we would probably run into less interference from the zombies and draugr, and get to the class four faster. But if it calls them, that’s going to be a real pain in the arse, so it might be better to clear out at least the draugr before we handle the stage four. It’s up to you. I don’t know what ritual you’ve got prepared.”

For the final time for now, Isarquin’s hand slips back inside the book bag, fishing out the mala beads and winding them around his wrist. Where the thick string is fastened together, a single, slender grey feather lazily hangs from it, it wildly twisting in the wind. It is just for aesthetic purposes. Isarquin is an elf of pretty tastes. “Farsight,” he simply says in reply. Cedric should know this, or at least he believe he should. He had no reason to hide any of his magical proficiency, and if Cedric had ever paid attention to him in any of the Board meetings or otherwise, he should know of Isarquin’s talents. “I’ll see if I can spot what may have been missed and gather more intel.”

After Isarquin’s smooth, French touched words come to a halt, he turns his look over to Cedric, watching the not-blue-haired man for a long, silent moment. With the seemingly glazed over eyes still fixed on Theodric, his head tips toward a shoulder, the few loose strands of chocolate colored hair spilling haphazardly. “I never have anything prepared.” And he is being truthful.

Shortly thereafter, he tears his look away from Cedric, staring down to the doppel’s feet. He wasn’t examining his choice of shoe, but rather going into the trance-like state of farsight. His own vision goes blurry, as though a film of cellophane is pulled over his eyes. The visible world slowly turns to black and white, nondescript and fuzzy, but then slowly begins to regain color again, this time to color of a run down town before it begins to take on shape of a run down town infected with zombie folk. The noises of pained groans and grunts fills Isarquin’s ears.

The words never form in Isarquin’s voice box, but the are sounded out clearly inside his mind, each syllable put forth mentally probing out to find Cedric. A bit rude it is to place oneself unannounced into a telepathic conversation with a person, but this is also the elf who enjoys slipping odd ‘thoughts’ into unsuspecting humans, urging them to come talk to him, or to buy that pair of stilettos that are way out of their price range. “Your observation is correct. From what I can feel, I’m leaning toward Necromatic? I suppose we will see more once we make it to land. By the way…” The telepathy is cut off, as well as the farsight.

Isarquin’s chin inclines, eyes flicking over to settle on ‘Theo’. “Are you a Farseeer as well? How did you get over there to scout?” His head then shakes, the question more rhetorical than anything. “I need not know anything else. We are doing no good standing here on mainland, and we cannot properly get to work unless we are there in the thick of it.” The grey, flat eyes regard Cedric up and down. “In the past I’ve worked solo with incidents such as these, even class four, but it is a bit different when said class four has a horde along with it. Though I do not know you, you’re a Board member, so I’m going to be trusting you explicitly. Understand that you can do the same for me with this.”

“Of course,” Cedric answers smoothly. “Cooperation in the field is always important. Now let’s get going.” Isarquin feels the other’s eyes on him, and he simply turns to meet the gaze and... Was he looking at the feather on the malas beads? He needn’t explain himself, he enjoyed bird feathers. And, plus, they added a very nice flair to the already gorgeous beads. If he were going to go out and play with demons and the like, he wanted to at least look good.

“‘Ethnic’ white girl.”

“Wait, what? What does that even mean?” Isarquin pointedly asks. His sharp-featured expression screws up oddly, looking both curious and, well, he thinks he should feel slightly offended. “Am I supposed to have taken offense to that?” he then asks shortly thereafter, his rolling, accented voice lowering to a whisper. The elf proceeds to stand there, simply staring down at the shorter of the two, pallid ivory face now having returned back to it’s undeterminable, emotionless state.

Cedric turns just enough away from him, and Isarquin squares his shoulders up to face the sea, but all the while his eyes are cut over to the doppel in disguise. Odd sort, this one is, but then again it seems like all faegenic were of the odd sort. And, he cannot say much, as he isn’t even faegenic to begin with, rather faelien entirely. How interesting it would be to be a doppel. Would one ever really know who they are, especially if they were needing to remain hidden behind a guise for a time? An interesting concept that he knows he had given thought to at one point in his long life. He couldn’t quite remember when, or what he even may have determined.

This string of thought is shaken from him as the ground itself begins to quiver and break apart from the coastline. The faint beginnings of surprise start to play on Isarquin’s face, but it is only momentary, as this isn’t anything too out of the ordinary.

“A doppel, an illusionist, a psion, you’ve weaponry on you, and I’m almost certain there is other talents shoved somewhere up your sleeve. Yet you cannot dispatch a class four along with a handful of draugr and mindless undead? I’m a touch disappointed,” Isarquin speaks telepathically, the disembodied voice tinting the words with just the slightest hint of sarcasm. The momentary bit of innocent teasing is cut short when the darkness settles completely over their little part of floating land, and his own eyes quickly adjust to the change in lighting.

“Alright. It looks like the townspeople haven’t moved from town yet. The draugr, though, have started to circle the rest of the island.” Cedric pauses. “And it seems like the townspeople are necromantic, but the draugr demonic…”

“You’re correct; the closer we get the much easier it is to tell what we’ve to clean up,” Isarquin verbally speaks up in reply. He creeps forward on the floating clod of rocky shore to stand right next to Cedric, studying Newtown along with him.

“Do you feel that? Yes… I was right. There’s another source of magic. My guess is an artifact that the demon’s pulling all or some of this necromancy from.”

“Merde,” he curses under his breath. “How many do you believe we have? It may be worth it to go straight for the class four and artifact and, as they say, grab the bull by the horns. If they are all connected by both, we could possibly end this quickly and with minimal hiccups. Provided, of course, it doesn’t call to the others.”

The clump of earth nears closer and closer to the island, and by this point Isarquin’s feet are almost hanging off the edge. Closer they come still, until they hover about three and a half meters above the water and the water beneath them is about knee deep. Without any further ado and without waiting for Cedric to put it in park, the elf vaults from the floating ground, leather book back adjusted so the strap is across his chest, he hitting the water with a splash. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t dare be wading in cold sea water, especially in his dress shoes and slacks, but these aren’t normal circumstances. The surf splashes against his waist as he pushes for the shore, thankful he isn’t getting completely soaked. Just halfway.

“What do you think?” he asks through the telepathy, though he doesn’t expect there to be a telepathic response. “Strike at the heart, I deal with the class four and you destroy the artifact, depending on simple circumstances; or clear out some of the townspeople and draugr first?” Once on the large grain sand beach, he turns to look for Cedric, his hands immediately going to his long hair and readjusting the twist it is in. Just like an ethnic white girl.

“It’s stifling,” he murmurs, more to himself than Cedric, though the small observation was accidentally spoken telepathically as well. An occasional oversight on his part, and to most who are telepathically inclined. When focusing on something else, words being spoken can also be pushed through any telepathic tether created. Most proficient in the art can cut off the tether at will, and normally he can easily as well, but when faced with a whole island town that has been killed, reanimated, and taken over by necromancy and demonic forces, sometimes the accidental words are relayed mentally. “It’s been a few years since I’ve felt a class four and all this… Background noise… Why this…?” He pauses, again looking to affix his attention to Cedric. “Do you have any ideas why this place was chosen? Because it’s fairly off the grid? This is such a remote place, which can at least have the possibility of no distraction, but it’s so far from anything of value.”

“Maybe I was lonely and wanted company. Or maybe I was concerned about the fact that this particular incident correlated with an aetheric spike so large that it made my cuttlefish turn a pattern not unlike what would happen in an unabridged compendium of Lisa Frank’s work. Or maybe I wanted someone else to get covered in undead demon octopus goop.” Before being impatient and jumping from the platform, Isarquin had overheard this and secretly tucked it away. Depending on how the afternoon progresses, he may thank him later for the trip and undead demon octopus goop covering. It doesn’t do wonders for the skin, but it is fulfilling and exciting. Worth it to have the wardrobe extensively dry cleaned. On more than one occasion did Isarquin end up at the launderer’s, locked in an intense staring contest, knowing fully he was being silently judged on that cardigan that an ornery class two had happened to projectile vomit on; it wasn’t his FAULT, he was being CAREFUL, and it just happened to wheel around on him and cover him in something similar to split pea soup; DO NOT JUDGE ME, WOMAN, YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND.

Speaking of, Isarquin silently thinks to himself that he needs to bring up having Coven-only laundry services in place at the next meeting. He’s certain he isn’t the only other one who has had an issues similar, and buying new pieces of a wardrobe begins to become uncomfortably expensive. … Not that he minds going shopping for new clothing. It is one of my most treasured pastimes. Perhaps he won’t bring it up. He’s been eyeballing this handsome navy sweater for quite some time and he’s needing a reason to purchase it.

Isarquin traverses up the short beach, to the porch where Cedric lands the coastline craft, looking over to him as he steps off and then carefully hides the package of macaroons up on the roof. “I like that plan. Cut off the head of the beast. We’ll have to take out some of the draugr on the way there. But eliminating the majority of the enemies would be worth it, easily,” Cedric says.

“Saving them for later?” he softly asks, keeping his voice at a minimum. He clears his throat and continues to listen, head nodding slowly. “Wonderful. As long as we are swift, efficient, and silent, we should have no issue. Done by evening tea, you said? Considering you’ve given away G-B’s ‘secret recipe’ on the macaroons, I can safely say I will not be partaking in those with my tea.” His grey eyes narrow, neck sticking out and thin lips pooching just a touch. “Is it blood? I noticed the…” He lifts a long finger, pointing at his own mouth to indicate he was referring to the fangs.

“Unpleasant, isn’t it? I haven’t felt something like this since the last time G-Bin had beans for supper.”

“Oh, hush your mouth. I don’t really want to imagine tha-...” He gasps softly, still trying to keep the voice down. “You were there for, what was it, not the most recent Board meeting for the one before that. You weren’t sitting near her, but I’m almost certain she ate some curry at some point before she came.” Isarquin lets that train of thought go, as he did not want to relive it. He had done well to push it far from his memory, the last thing he needed was to have it in the forefront of his mind as they worked through necromancy and demonic summonings.

Cedric begins to speak again, this time on the more pressing matter, Isarquin reaches into his bookbag and grabs out a single silk pouch of purified sea salt, stuffing it into his vest pocket, then unsheathing the serrated dagger from his thigh. “I don’t know. The class four couldn’t have picked a worse place for crossing in from the Other than here. Look at this. We could blow this whole place up, not even bother with a cover up, and no one would hear about it for half a decade at least. Unless… it didn’t choose this place at all.”

Isarquin’s voice slips back into his telepathic extension, responding. “I would suggest we blow it off the map, but then what fun would we be allowed to have? I did not make the train ride for nothing.” He pauses for just a beat in time. “Except to apparently bring you goodies.” He’d rather say it than Cedric, because something tells him the doppel would bring that up in an instant.

The pair sneak through the once quiet, boring little town, the tall elf bringing up the rear and following Cedric’s lead. His steps were almost silent, his gait as graceful as a dancers, and he kept up with Cedric with ease. The first signs of a ghost of a grin begins to curl on Isarquin’s lips, a thought humoring him. “This feeling never gets old. The demonic energy is bordering on nauseating; you can feel it pressing on your chest. Yet in just a few short moments, it will be gone. That instant it is vanquished is the most exhilarating release.” He would not lie that he enjoys his job a bit too much. If elves were meant to have a calling, this would most definitely be his. Despite faelien, and elves in particular, already having an affinity for magic, he was immediately drawn to Ritualism, and more importantly, Exorcism. Summoning beings never did anything for him, as it wasn’t as exciting to ‘create’, but it was much more exciting to ‘destroy’. He had honed his craft for centuries upon centuries, refusing to ever be content with what knowledge he had. Technically, he was lying when he said he didn’t have a plan. His plan was to be the most accomplished, efficient Exorcist in both Earth and Between. However, when he is faced with that which needs to be exorcised, he doesn’t have a plan. He likes to wing that part. Demons and those possessed never really follow a plan anyway.

“Now, this is just a theory, and I’ve no proof, but that artifact. Draugr are normally seafaring beasts. They’re not terribly uncommon on coasts, but when they do appear on land, it’s typically for a reason. Usually their ghost ship gets beached. But sometimes, disturbing their buried treasure can bring a ship of draugr directly to you.” Isarquin listens and nods his head, though says nothing in reply mentally. He doesn’t have as much familiarity with draugr as he would like as he much prefers dry land to the sea, but when you start picking apart the supernatural and those possessed, the meat of the matter hardly varies. Well, a little, but the concept is the same.

When the corner of the house flickers, the light bending so they could see what’s just on the opposite side. A pair of draugr. And as the light bends, Isarquin can see the peonies start to wilt and wither away, dying. It isn’t the draugr’s fault, either. He sighs softly. Hopefully the draugr were too literally brain dead to notice an elf was nearby.

Cedric speaks, whipping around the corner to meet his target, and Isarquin does the same, his sights set on the one nearest the garden shed. The elf is quick, lithe, his long legs swifty carrying him over the distance with little rustling or sound. The squelching noise of Cedric’s draugr being dispatched hits Isarquin’s ears, he not even needing to turn to see how the damage had been dealt.

His draugr’s back is to him, and Isarquin hops over a low, decorative, but still hideous white fence that encased both petunias and shrubbery. And draugr. About his left forearm were the malas beads, and he rolls his wrist to unwind the string, the sandalwood softly clicking against itself as it loosens, falls down to his palm, and now freely dangles from between his fingertips. He lifts his left arm, flicking his wrist and whipping the beads out, in one fell swoop looping and lassoing them around the draugr’s neck. With a quick yank backward, and a ‘hrrk’ from the creature, the beads, infused with magic, begin to sear through the waterlogged skin. Isarquin’s right arm, serrated dagger still in hand, lifts and as the creature is yanked backward, he plunges the knife deep into the chest of the monster. A faint glow begins to form around the wound, where dagger meets flesh, a tiny wisp of smoke rising up from it. Isarquin completes the trip down with the fallen draugr, twisting around to kneel over it now that it is on it’s back. He murmurs something soft and inaudible under his breath as the once writhing draugr goes still. The blade is yanked from it’s chest and beads pulled from about it’s neck.

Then, as though nothing of the sort had happened, Isarquin walks back over to meet up with Cedric and go about their journey, listening once again to the theory of the happenings of Newtown… And the soft sound of macaroon munching.

“Anyway. The artifact. Normally, the Coven’s pretty good about tracking where artifacts powerful enough to either summon a class four or raise a village’s worth of undead are, I’d say. But perhaps this one was hidden. Its energies smothered. No one comes out here, it could’ve slipped beneath our practitioners’ senses. Low tide reveals a big chest, the nosy ladies from Newtown open it, and summon the draugr. Some old sod uses the artifact inside to try and get rid of the draugr and instead manages to summon a class four demon--which, actually, destroys the draugr, but then opens a portal to the Other, lets in a bunch of other OPDs, and raises the village as its undead army. Of course, that’s all postulation. We won’t be able to confirm or deny until we actually see what that class four’s capable of. Not-precisely-speaking of, it’s not too far away now. You ready?”

“Do you find it a bit odd that something that powerful was untrackable. Even if it was, say, hidden in a treasure chest that some batty old women may have found, unless the chest was reinforced by something to block the signature, it seems strange that…” His telepathic voice goes quiet. “Never mind. I am, also, postulating, but I will leave that to you. You were the one to be sent out here in the first place; I am simply here to aid.”

As they creep ever closer to the class four, Isarquin occasionally reaches out to tap Cedric on the arm and to mentally poke him about if reanimated townsfolk or draugr were heading their way so they could adjust their path.

“At least they are fairly close to one another, the class four and the artifact. Should be just past this row of houses right… Here…” The street of rundown houses serve as a barrier between their target and them. All they need to do now is squeeze between them and get to work.

The moment Isarquin felt Not-Cedric’s eyes shift over to him was the moment he knew he made a fatal mistake. Still, he did not know him well enough, but he did know enough to not lay out any phrase or otherwise that could be set up for Cedric Greatness. “So you’ve never gotten laid, I see. I bet you’re the type of fae who likes to hit themselves with a hammer because it feels so good when you stop too, huh?”

He decides to go about his draugr slaying business first before even attempting to respond to that. It was quick work, and as they went along, nearing the row of houses, he piped back in.

“Excuse you. Whatever sexual history I have is not up for discussion at the present. We’ve more important matters to attend to,” he retorts back, mental voice a touch sullen. “And, I’ll have you know, I have gotten ‘laid’. That is completely different feeling entirely. Unless you yourself have not either, then you wouldn’t know the comparison.” There is a mental head bob to accompany this, and that is that, thank you very much.

“... But, yes, for lack of a better term, I do like to hit myself with a hammer.” Okay, now he’s done.

The last thing needed this day was to have some acquaintance poking at the more personal aspects of life. Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing, but Isarquin was never one to delve too deep about those matters to, well, anyone. Any friends and lovers in his rather extensive past were almost always held at arm’s length, only a very slim, select few able to get past the barrier he had up surrounding his inner most being. And he most definitely would not be sharing any even slightly juicy details right now.

“No, you’re correct. The fact that we’ve lost track of something as powerful as this would have to be in my theory would be worrying indeed. Again, though, I’m not sure. Once we’ve got the class four taken care of and the artifact in hand, we can look at whether or not it’s powerful enough for the task, and any protective wards that it may have had on it.”

Isarquin is still trailing behind Cedric just a touch and, after he’s taken one last survey of the area to ensure no wandering eyes have spotted them, his look rests on the back of Cedric’s head. “You’ve the proper knowledge to possibly destroy such an artifact? If worse comes to worse, and we do find this artifact is in need of disposal, and we cannot do such, what is our next step? You’ve a mobile to contact another of the Coven or even...” He pauses a moment. “CAFE?”

Odd it is, he thinks to himself, that he is asking about solutions to possible problems and helping to plan ahead for what may arise. Perhaps it is Cedric’s preparedness pet peeve slightly rubbing off on him for the moment. If he were alone, Isarquin muses, he’d probably run in there, exorcise the being, then mill over such a powerful, demonic artifact over tea.

“Let me see what’s ahead.”

Isarquin steps closer, immediately working on keeping watch in case some were to sneak up on them. But as Cedric goes still, and Isarquin assumes he’s simply going to be using Farsight, something catches his eyes. A swift blur of darkness bolts cross the street, and Isarquin snaps his attention down to it.

A… Wraith? “Absolutely fascinating, Cedric! I hadn’t the slightest inkling you were a Wraith. So that’s how you were able to scout earlier. My, I haven’t… I’ve only heard of you sneaky bastards, but I have yet to encounter one. Please, you must tell me how you do it.” This is the most excitement the pretty asshole has shown the entire time, except for when he was detailing how banishing demons was orgasmic.

In the meantime, he does focus, watching as he listens to Cedric speak of what awaits them. Knife is still at the ready, beads are still at the ready. His salt is firmly placed in the breast pocket of his vest. He carefully unfastens the flap to his bookbag just enough that the contents inside don’t go spilling everywhere, but so that he can easily dip his hand inside and grab what’s needed.

Cedric bolts, and that’s his cue. Isarquin does the same, bursting out from between two of the houses. His eyes scan the area, and just as Cedric said, a dozen draugr and the… Large… Class four. “Absolutely hideous,” he accidentally pushes through the telepathic bond.

Isarquin goes the opposite direction of Cedric, skirting around the barnacle covered behemoth as it begins to become occupied with feeling the OPDs being cut away from it’s host. The thing rises even higher, standing from the cold, salty water. He frowns slightly, and faces forward again, seeing a single draugr in his way. With his momentum, Isarquin whizzes by, knife arm outstretched, the blade catching right at the throat of the creature and it crumbling where it stands. Just as the blade leaves the rotted flesh is when the sandy earth beneath them shudders and quakes from the single stomp. Isarquin comes to a skidding halt, sand spraying everywhere from the sudden cessation of forward mobility.

“Unharmed still, I hop-...” Isarquin sees Cedric standing proudly atop the locked chest, and his question is answered. With a soft snort, he sheathes his serrated dagger back into it’s home at his thigh, and he pulls his pistol out from where it’s holstered at his chest. “My apologies ahead of time for being loud, but we’ve already announced ourselves. Given the arms and the like, it’s the best… Oh, no, no, don’t let it crush the chest. I’ll draw it’s attention. You do what you must.”

The dark gunmetal colored M1911 is drawn up, safety off, and three rounds of treated, purified, sweet-demon-burning bullets rip through the body of the tall, octopus monstrosity. The rounds sear and burn the path it cut, effectively eating the amalgamation of demonic flesh from the inside out. The class four roars in agitated pain, it wheeling around to face Isarquin with it’s beady, black eyes.

The pistol is holstered in place again, and elf meets the gaze of demon. It plods forward, stomping it’s way toward the offender, and a tentacle whips through the air, arcing in blazing speed, headed straight for Isarquin. Anticipating just that, with a delicate, yet elven athletic light step, Isarquin vaults from his spot right at the tentacle makes contact with the targeted ground. The elf, however, did not dance away too far, as he is already in motion. The single-feathered malas beads are in hand, an anchoring Ritualistic spell already having been cast and shimmering around the long sandalwood beaded cord. Isarquin slings his arm, the beads connecting with the slick, slimy tentacle. Immediately the beads melt through the flesh, fusing into the tentacle, and with a quick motion, Isarquin slams his hand into the ground, a spiderweb of silvery gold energy spindling out from where he roots the beads to the earth, effectively pinning the appendage there. No more stomping for this poor sod.

The demon bellows, the force of the spell having toppled it off balance, pulling it to the ground just slightly and making it almost eye to eye with the Exorcist. “Bonjour, mon amour,” Isarquin casually says as their gaze meet again.

A second, smaller tentacle sweeps the air just overhead, but isn’t low enough to even ruffle the hair atop Isarquin’s head. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, the noise completely disappointed in nature. Without a care in the world, he pulls the dagger back out from his sheath and stabs it in the pinned tentacle, dragging it up the length of the aquatic limb, all while lackadaisically grabbing his silk pouch of salt and pouring it in the jagged path the blade had taken. With both the anti-demon blade doing exactly as the bullets did, the salt is just an extra step, like salting a field. At this point, the elf is just toying with the thing.

After a moment longer, or at least until Isarquin is only tall enough to go so far up the tentacle, he pulls the dagger out, wipes the goo off on the demon’s face (and almost get devoured in the process), then walks a step back, rummaging in his book bag. Palo Santo cross. He hefts it a time or two, checking the weight, looks at the maw of the beast, then unceremoniously chucks it right as it opens it’s jaws to roar in disagreement. It gets stuck somewhere in the back of the throat. Isarquin says no other words, but rather stares at the being, the aura around him only seeming to ignite. The class four goes quiet for just a moment, then the most horrific, bloodcurdling, screaming and hissing starts to burst forth from it. It begins to twist and writhe, obviously in immense pain, trying to roll free of the bind that holds it still.

He watches, and after a little smirk of amusement, Isarquin steps away from the demon and heads back to where Cedric is along with the chest. From another vest pocket, he fishes out his little leather bound book, flips it open, and thumbs through the pages. Halfway through. A pencil had been shoved between the pages, marking the stopping point, and he begins to write something down, muttering while doing so.

“Twenty-fourth of July, year twenty-sixteen. Class four, working singularly. Presence of an artifact.” He places the pencil back between the pages, closes the book, and this time stuffs it in his bookbag.

Isarquin’s hair is a bit messy from the movement, some of the long tresses falling loose at the nape of his neck, at his temples. While looking to Cedric, he unwinds it, freeing the long locks completely, then winding it right back up. “Our prize for winning, yes?” he asks, nodding to the chest. “You’re uninjured, I trust?”

“Oh, I see. You’ve got particular tastes, then. Well, carry on, I’m not one to judge. … Point proven.”

The only response Isarquin could muster is shifting his pale eyes over to Cedric and giving him a knowing look. And he, with his flat stare and his emotionless, untelling face, ‘knowing’ is a mystery in of itself. He think it better to let Cedric take it however he wishes.

He says nothing in response to CAFE getting involved, as he felt the same on the matter. If they could handle it together, and alone, then he will take that. He and CAFE never really did get along anyway. Something about how a faelien who is capable of putting away class four demons seems like a threat, but he chooses not to speak much on that. Isarquin keeps his head down, goes about his business, and he is in the clear. It’s worked for centuries. Except for that one time. Oh, and that other.

Just before the charge, the single word response that sounded both dismissive and considering both caught Isarquin off guard and didn’t surprise him all at the same time. How all of that that is possible, he isn’t certain, but it’s true. Then again, from what he can gather, everything about Cedric seems like a duality. Or he could be reading far too into this doppel. He heads forward, focusing now on the task at hand.

He did not have time to check on Cedric’s progress, being much too busy with his tentacle-flailing friend, but after things had died down (literally) he went over to check on Cedric and the now open chest. In the other’s hands was a stone, from what he could tell.

“I suppose the lock wasn’t too much of a bother, since you’re already in and ogling the artifact, huh?” There was no response from him. Odd.

From behind him, his hearing picked up the sound of rustling and grunting, his head whipping to look over his shoulder at the suspiciously zombified noises. A pair of them, pitifully shambling their way toward them both. His pale eyes then trail over to where the now corpse of the class four is shriveled up to half it’s original, living size now that the demon had been ripped from the world. He forces out a grunt feigning intrigue.

“I wasn’t expecting these poor sods to be cognizant enough to know we’re the enemy with the host being banished and the vessel dead,” he comments, his calm voice picking up in volume as though to get Cedric’s input on the matter.

Still no response. Isarquin shifts his feet, shuffling around while tossing one more quick glance over to the unresponsive Cedric, turning to face the pair of OPDs. He half considers reaching for his pistol and taking aim, but if these two were still capable of rudimentary actions, such as wanting to go for Isarquin’s jugular and kill him, then there is a chance the others are too.

Instead, he goes for the silent approach. With little thought, almost as though the action were as second nature as breathing itself, the faint aura that constantly encases him glows a touch brighter, the light stretching out like hands grasping for something before suddenly and violently collapsing in on itself and Isarquin’s body. Instantaneously at the base of Isarquin’s feet, the soft white golden light reappears, crawling across the sand in a tight zigzagged pattern, sights trained on the pair of zombies. The light zips up from the sand, splitting in two and streaks straight through the chests of them both. There is no entry or exit. The possessed things crumble into a pile of limp limbs.

Pleased enough, Isarquin turns back around to see Cedric now seeming to have snapped out of his trance and…

“Granny’s saggy tits, what happened to you?” Something looked off. Was that fear?

He had no time to think on that, as Cedric speaks up. “Hey. Isarquin. Catch.”

The stone Cedric once held flips through the air carelessly, path arcing straight for Isarquin. As it nears him, he snatches his hand up and catches it, the stone cool to the touch. His eyes fall downcast, looking over the stone. Runes etched into the surf-...

The world vanishes as though someone flicked off a lightswitch or the sun immediately extinguished. It is cool, just like the stone he held once before, but not like the sea that surrounds the island. The air, blows one way, then the opposite, moist and sticky, putrid. It seems to latch on to his ivory skin. His elven eyes adjust within the timeframe of a few seconds and he can see the the protruding…? Those look much too smooth to be stalactites and stalagmites. His attention trails down to the flowing river about his feet. This is no river. This is no cave.

Panic sets off in his brain and he scrambles toward the opening, the pooled saliva splashing with every step he takes. He hops over the row of incisors and stumbles from the slick lips of the animal. He lands on the rocky floor, knees scuffing against the uneven surface, his hands hitting next and breaking the skin of his palms. He can feel a bit of blood beginning to trickle down his digits as he rises.

It would be better not to turn around, he thinks to himself, not even wishing to know the source of a mouth that a tall elf could stand inside. What he does see before him is utter darkness. A void. Nothingness. He had never felt so alone in his life. He thinks this is death.

Isarquin swallows thickly, knowing his fate is behind him and he must look. Part of him wants to look. Ever so slowly, hesitantly he turns, first looking out of the corner of his eye, then as he rounds the 180 degrees, the first thing he notices is the fur, the jet black, coarse fur that lines the muzzle. The maw, the jaws, the head… He has seen much in his life, but never has he seen something as massive as this. The whiskers were thick enough he could grasp both hands around them and he doesn’t believe his fingers would touch.

He didn’t even notice that a pair of blood red, soulless eyes were already open, staring right at him, piercing what seemed to be every fiber of his being. The ground underneath began to shake, the source of the quivering from the growl that begins to build in the monster’s throat. Standing right at his mouth, the reverberations from the growl physically seemed to drum on his chest, shaking him to the core. The louder it becomes, intensity growing, making his ears scream in agony. He has no time to react, the horror needing only to lunge it’s head out such a small distance, it’s mouth opening completely to devour Isarquin whole.

He will die here.

With a gasp as though a bucket of frigid water is dumped on him, Isarquin shudders and fumbles the stone, it falling to his feet. The world is bright, too bright, and he has to clamp his eyes shut to readjust. His chest heaves, pulling in heavy, open mouthed breathes, his heart pounding at a rate that he deem unimaginable.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he hisses, eyes snapping open once again to take in the world, to look to see where he is, reorient himself. Frantically he looks down to his body, his feet, then his hands. Nothing is out of place. His knees weren’t scuffed, his palms not ripped open from falling.

His kohl-rimmed eyes are wide and they drag up from the stone up to Cedric. A bead of cold sweat trickles down his temple. There is no telepathic line to Cedric open, there is no verbal communication. His once expressionless face wears one now. Terror. Terror unlike he has ever felt.

His pink tongue licks at his lips, he closes his agape mouth, and he stands there, body tense. He can feel his fingertips shaking.

“Holy fuck,” he chokes out.

The look Isarquin shares with Cedric right after the all too real vision dissipates back into reality is something shared by only a pair who have just seen, oh, a terrifying glimpse into something ominous, wicked, and extremely dangerous. As Cedric steps over to pick up the, Isarquin finally calms his erratically beating heart, his hands lifting up to nervously smooth out his grey vest. He sees the extended hand offering up the artist tainted macaroon, and for a split second does he consider accepting the cookie, but instead he shakes his head to decline.

“I will tell CAFE that there were signs of struggle and the dead body of draugr--though I don’t think I’ll give them that identification. The class four’s body, as you’ve probably noticed, will have been burned and I will say I saw ashes of what might’ve been another body. An agent such as Theodore wouldn’t have been expected to clean out the town, and I will say I spent most of my time either travelling to this island and back by boat or sneaking around and looking for survivors, as was my order.”

For the now, the only response Isarquin could muster is a nod of his head in agreement to all Cedric says, he planning out their… His… Next course of action regarding CAFE. Finally, as the disposable mobile begins to ring, Isarquin speaks up. “I am not necessarily a fan of CAFE as the next one, no offense, but this seems big. Dangerously, world altering,” he clears his throat, “big.” He levels his look to Cedric as the mobile is pressed against the doppel’s ear. The deathly serious expression written on Isarquin’s face plainly states that he is having difficult not discussing this matter right here, right now. However, the person on the other end of the line answers, and Isarquin looks away toward the class four’s husk that is burning and crackling from the flame. It smells like singed, rotten seafood.

Isarquin stares into the flame for just a moment, his brain processing all he had just seen, before he begins to follow Cedric as they track their path back to the hoverearth. None of this bodes well, and he can feel it deep within his elven bones. His hearing seems to tunnel as he focuses on that vision they both seemed to share. What did he see? What did he know for certain? Runes… Could he pick any of them out? He barely overhears anything Cedric says except…

“Prepare the cloaking chamber, too. Oh--and cancel my manicure tomorrow.”

Isarquin looks back to Theodric. “Where do you get your manicure done?” he asks casually as though he were asking about something so flippantly unimportant; and also as though they didn’t have bigger things on their plates.

“Tea? We’ve got a bit to discuss. I’ll pay.”

“We’ve more than a bit to discuss,” he tosses back, sounding a touch weary. “Where are we headed? I wouldn’t recommend we go anywhere where there could be unfriendly ears. Coven property? My home has had the appropriate steps taken with an anti-surveillance barrier for prying minds.”

His sharply angled (probably waxed) brows knit. “Do you have transportation to get back? Aside from…” By this point they had made it to the clod of earth that serves as their transportation back to mainland. “I’m unsure what the train schedule is, so I’m not sure when the next runs.” He first hops up on the plot of ground, then turns to extend a hand to help Cedric up.