Closed A Midnight Haunting

[Postmaster]

To whom it may concern,
•───────── [Date Goes Here] ────────•

Aelfric woke in the deep midnight, feeling in his bones that the darkness was back.

He wasn't a superstitious boy; or at least, he never used to be, but he still mumbled a prayer to the distant and immortal lords of Ælheim to watch over him. They didn't answer. Nobody ever answered prayers, not even the darkness. No, the darkness only ever wanted to play games.

He slipped out of bed. There was no point in trying to sleep until he'd heard the darkness out, and he knew he would be unable to rouse his parents or grandparents. And frankly, he was old enough now to understand that his father was just a man and his mother a woman and all of them merely Fælnir. Perhaps there was nothing at all they could do about it.

Aelfric left the small bedroom he shared with his sisters and walked down the small hallway into the communal living space, then kept going. The shadows deepened as he went, but he steeled himself not to look, lest he lose his nerve to phantoms and boggarts concocted entirely by his mind. Everyone said he was a brave boy, but he knew better. It was just that courage was the only thing he had to bargain.

Outside the little house in which Aelfric's family had lived all of his life was the shrine. It was a point of pride for his father, to have a small outbuilding in which they could conduct the sacrifices and rites to honor the Ælven lords of nature, a place to put little charms and prayers, and to display Grandfather's casket when the time came. Few of their neighbors had such a thing, but their family had been fortunate, up until the last year. Aelfric gathered his nerves tightly in hand, took a deep breath, and walked into the tiny building.

As he'd expected, the darkness was there. It gathered, formless, over the little stone table with the fresco of the Tree. As he approached, it opened its eyes and smiled at him.


"Aelfric," said the darkness, in its beautiful tenor tone, "Let's play a game, Aelfric."


"Haven't-" the boy's voice caught, a moment, but he powered through, "-haven't we played enough?"


"There's no such thing as enough, Aelfric. Not even the dead truly get to rest. But I won't make you, you know that. You don't have to play if you don't wish to play."


The darkness swirled, but its smile never wavered. The boy understood implicitly. "...what will happen if I don't?"


"Your grandsire's life fades, Aelfric; he will not see the summer festival. Unless, that is-"


Unless he won. Again.


The boy grit his teeth. It was tempting to say no, to go back to sleep. He understood now that the darkness would let him do that, would not shout or hit him or threaten. But it was too cruel; it might be Grandfather's time, but the summer festival was the man light left in that man's life, the reminder of his second wife (not Grandma), which was all he talked about nowadays.


"What do I have to do?"

•══════════⊹⊱❖⊰⊹══════════•​

Unbeknownst to Aelfric, however, this night he was not completely alone.

Frey had forced herself to stay awake that night, eyes closed, breathing even. Just before midnight, she'd felt a wave of drowsiness, so abrupt as to be plainly unnatural, then heard her brother rise from bed. It had taken her a moment to summon the strength to follow him- even standing made her dizzy. She crept down the hallway, bare feet padding against the wood, using the wall for support to remain upright.

She watched her younger brother sneak into the shrine, and saw the strange manifestation within, though she dared not get close enough to hear what they were saying. Still, the breath caught in her throat.

For months now, her family had been afflicted by strangeness; bouts of inexplicable misfortune and favor both. When her mother's wicked step-brother had disappeared and the blackmail he'd been using to extort her was lost with him, that had been strange, but believable. When her father's convoy had been lost in the woods and rediscovered a week later, it had been a blessing, though none of them could explain how or why it had happened. When, one day, her brother had woken up and she'd realized it was something else in his flesh, only for the true Aelfric to reappear the next day...?

That had convinced her that whatever was happening, it was not friendly.

The day after Frey observed Aelfric's clandestine meeting at the family shrine, she sought the services of a mystic. For a sum which would have horrified her mother, Frey purchased a simple charm, a little knot made of colorful threads which had been sealed to a wooden disc with wax, bearing the stylized insignia of Ældrassil. The man instructed her to press the wax against the underside of the shrine table, and explained that it would repel any mischievous ghosts, warning her that if the spirit was strong enough, it might not last.


The girl took the little charm home and made straight for the shrine- but as soon as she stepped over the threshold...


Sssssss


There was an ugly hissing sound, and a sudden smell like hair burning. Frey tore the wooden disc out of her pocket, only to find that the threads had burnt almost to nothing in an instant. The air in the shrine seemed suddenly thicker, distorted, and a horrible sawing noise filled the room.


ZrrrRRR... ZrrrRRRR...


Frey fled, mortified and in fear for her very soul, but nothing chased her. By the time she got back to her room, everything seemed normal, and she could have sworn it was all simply a waking dream. Except for the burnt talisman still clutched in one trembling hand.


It seemed that half-measures would not do. There was only one way to rid their family of this evil.

•══════════⊹⊱❖⊰⊹══════════•​

Yr. Obdt. Svt.
Postmaster

 

[Velho]

༺༉❁ Spring 17 year 124 of the third age ❁༉༻
<notes>

Ferriers, mind, were a rare breed– probably only a handful held the title in all of Ælheim, and most of which were holed up within the coveted confines of Ælfiríki. Beyond them, there was one that lived in the tenebrous bog of Hespæria; often he and those from greener climes would bicker between themselves about exactly which among their ilk would be tasked with venturing to Græntún any time there were reported problems there. And more often than not, Velho of Hespæria would draw the short straw in that regard, much to his great vexation. He seemed to travel far better than the others, for he was reinforced by Devorare and they were not– but a Scourge traveling 'better' is not a Scourge traveling well.

Nevertheless, he'd made the journey in spring to Rømskog, that area having been quite overdue for a clean-up with regards to pernicious, incorporeal apparitions. And after staying there for a few days, he'd been informed of a smattering of incidents, one of which being the strange haunting of a family housed along the city's outskirts along the forest's edge. Velho didn't really care much to do anything about it for the sake of helping anyone, more that he simply enjoyed the process of Ferriment no matter the complexity or simplicity of the case.

This one had him curious in particular because he'd been told that the 'Ghost' in question had apparently been asking its victims to play 'games' with it. Rare was it that Ghosts ever cared to do such a thing, and so Velho did suspect that this was likely a tad more complex than a simple haunting…but all the same, he had a variety of tools at his disposal to deal with problems of varying type and scale.

•༺༉❁ ❀ ❁༉༻•​

Velho and his Fælnir ward, Æhti, arrived at the apparently haunted homestead 'round the witching hour. Both of them were dressed for travel, though the Æld'Norai was far more ornately so than the Fælnir. The moon hung high in the sky and a thick fog floated through the surrounding trees with temperature cold enough to make one's breath turn to mist. They did not bother to wake the family from their slumber, for the Ferrier had already been informed that the 'Ghost' in question tended to make manifest at a shrine not too far from the home itself. He need not contend with nor disturb the humans if he did not have to, or if they did not go to him.

The two of them walked along the shrine's well-trodden dirt path, nearing the construction in question; Velho, tall, thin and withered, stood slightly bent, utilizing a cane to maintain his balance. Still, his movements were smooth, graceful in their fragility. Æhti, far shorter but not short for his race, stood tall, broad, and walked with good posture, though not quite confidently. All was quiet aside from the occasional sound of an arboreal critter skittering about in the forests beyond.

"You said this one's behavior was abnormal for Ghosts?" Æhti asked, his soft voice still a sharp contrast to the otherwise quiet night air.

He was feeling somewhat anxious, and spoke seemingly in an attempt to abate that.

"...correct," a tired, blunt answer was all Velho responded with.

 

[Postmaster]

To whom it may concern,
•───────── [Date Goes Here] ────────•

The discrepancies began piling up as soon as the beleaguered Ferrier and his pupil arrived, in fact. The family shrine was small, but well-kept; plainly it was cared for and used commonly, but the family in question were laborers and craftsmen. They had neither the means nor the know-how to ritually cleanse such a place, and it should have been filled with the lingering traces of the various joys and tragedies it had witnessed. Yet this shrine was clear of all miasma, as if a powerful mage had prepared it for a working just days ago.

Nothing inside indicated the presence of any living or unliving thing, at first, save for the barest tingling of apparition at the very edges of the soul. As the two spoke, however, the darkness within stirred.

The air over the altar table thickened as it drew in prodigious quantities of aether from around and about the quiet shrine, the shadows growing deeper and deeper in the space of flickering moments. Then, a pair of red eyes opened within the darkness, peering out and up at the two. They blinked, twice, perhaps in surprise, and suddenly shifted, disappearing and reappearing in different corners of the shrine, as if something was trying to get a better look at the two.

Though nothing had materialized, a third voice piped up.

"Looking for ghosts, is it? Am I to be evicted, then?" It might have belonged to a young boy, still too small for a change of voice, and it carried hints of nothing but enthusiasm in its tone. "Shall we join battle, your arts against mine?"

The darkness around the shrine roiled at that, as though the ghost were preparing to materialize Tendrils to strike at the two men. The eyes continued to shift for a moment, then paused, turning upward as an idea suddenly struck their owner. The threatening aether within the shrine subsided, drawing even further inward, and a body at last materialized around the eyes. It was the body of an Ælven boy, attired in only a light tunic and pants, sitting cross-legged on the altar table, hands resting on his knees as he leaned forward, grinning with too-sharp teeth.

"How about a little game instead, mmm?" Although the spirit spoke and the Ælven boy seemed present to the eye, sharper senses revealed that it remained somehow immaterial to all else. "See if you've the skill for your craft. I'll give the two of you three questions--nothing too obvious, now, or I shan't answer--to figure out what type of haunt I be. If you win, I'll go quietly. If you lose..."

The image of the young Ælf raised a finger to his lips, pondering an appropriate forfeit.

"Let's say, I take the children. Three questions total, one guess from each of you. Fair terms, no?"

•══════════⊹⊱❖⊰⊹══════════•​

Yr. Obdt. Svt.
Postmaster

 

[Velho]

༺༉❁ Spring 17 year 124 of the third age ❁༉༻
<notes>

Velho had immediately shifted his own internal hypothesis off of 'Ghost' the moment his eyes clapped onto the shrine and he detected not a shred of Ethos. Were a proper Ghost behind this apparent haunting, there would be at least some strands…and yet, the shrine was immaculate– clear of even magical debris. Passing bizarre, that.

Æhti, still quite new to excursions like this, was wholly out of his depth. Despite his imposing figure, he stood by the frail ælf with an air of obsequious obeisance towards him, not wanting to step or speak wrong and somehow place the pair into grave danger– or step on the Ferrier's toes at all, really. The gathering black fog, the eyes, that youthful voice; he knew not a whit about…whatever this was.

Velho had seen traces of Saol in the shadows of the apparition lurking 'round them by virtue of his Lifesight, granting him another clue as to the creature's nature. He'd been poised to disperse himself to Ashes and curse anything that lived– anything of Saol– in the immediate area with Bane upon hearing its threat, even Æhti, whom he'd shortly thereafter Allay of it. But, luckily, the creature, in all likelihood some sort of spirit, retracted its threat and replaced it with the offer of a game.

Velho was not surprised given what he'd learned prior to coming out here, and, indeed, he was amused– the playful spirits were the most interesting ones in his mind. They always had the most fascinating motives, even if such was the simple notion of 'just for fun.' This whole short sequence of events, the black shadows, the eyes, the manifestation of a strange boy– all of it was new to Æhti, however, who stood by in stunned silence. And when the rules of the game were named, he looked to Velho, clearly deferring to him to ask these questions; he was quite afraid of saying something stupid.

Velho exhaled a breath of a laugh, one corrupted with the dust of Ashes. "A fine offer," he said.

"Tell me, then– what's your favorite way to waste time?"​

The question was bizarre to Æhti, the man unsure what useful information he'd get out of such a query, but Velho always seemed to know what he was doing. Surely, then, such a question was calculated? And further, gambling with the lives of the children was far from a 'fine' offer in his eyes, but…to an Æld'Norai and whatever in all the planes this was, who was Æhti to argue?

 

[Postmaster]

To whom it may concern,
•───────── [Date Goes Here] ────────•

The spirit child sitting on the altar grinned wider at Velho's easy acceptance of his terms, shifting his right hand behind himself so he could lean back somewhat. He noted the younger man's discomfort with interest- plainly, the senior was in charge here, not that he needed much context for that. Doubtless he was some sort of junior, perhaps an apprentice?


The older gentleman did puzzle Postmaster, just a bit. An ælf, and no mistaking it, but as sickly and decrepit a specimen of the race as he'd seen since he entered the shadow of the slumbering dragon's wings, long years ago. He'd certainly seen no accounts of the breed dying of old age, which meant the man must be harboring a vile disorder indeed; but could not the famed masters of Saol repair it?


Velho coughed out a laugh, releasing a breath which smelled strangely familiar. Sadly, incorporeal and limited by the elven form both, the spirit had no hope of identifying it further. Still, his instincts cautioned him to take the old man seriously. Whatever was wrong with his health, he was plainly confident, enough that the cat's little threat display had done nothing at all to frighten him.


"A fair question." the spirit acknowledged, delighted by the man's quick response and willingness to play, "I spend short days and long years watching the play of mortals and immortals, of men and beasts, for study and sport. Some call me obsessed with games, but this is mere hypocrisy; everything which lives plays at that which fascinates it. I simply admit to it instead of seeking high-minded justifications to cover it up."


This was certainly true, though Postmaster hoped his little soliloquy would serve as a bit of subterfuge. In truth, Rakshasa were rare enough outside of the great northern desert that there should have been little chance of a random guess, but the tone and direction of the old man's question gave the spirit pause. His kind were dismissive of the 'norai's expertise, in general, but the cat had learned that surprising depths lurked beneath the surfaces his kin thought shallow.


"But there are times when simply watching will not do. Sometimes, the only way to see if a thing can fly is push it from a ledge."


There- that was the traditional justification of the Rakshasa for their play, at least among those who accounted it necessary to have any justification at all. No matter how learned this ælf might be, he wouldn't know that, and it was always most delightful to proffer clues which you knew were too scant.

•══════════⊹⊱❖⊰⊹══════════•​

Yr. Obdt. Svt.
Postmaster

 

[Velho]

༺༉❁ Spring 17 year 124 of the third age ❁༉༻
<notes>

A perk of Velho's age and the academic nature Ælhem's sorcerers, and of his mother's settlement as a whole, was that the man was well learned. In his case, his education focused in particular on Mysticism, as such a subject overlapped immensely with his profession. And when determining the type of spirit one was dealing with, an Æld'Norai's Lifesight could be situationally useful. One such instance was with respect to creatures such as this– he could see the entity possessed Saol, revealing it to be a Cambion…of a sort.

Now, the actual guesswork came in when determining precisely which type of Cambion, as each Metaphor had its own. Velho immediately felt as if he could nix all five elemental Cambion, as those types struggled deeply to not make manifest their element in some way at all times– drawn to it like moths to flame, they were. Couldn't be Saol, either, because spirits of Saol would be blindingly bright to those with Lifesight. He could also cut Miasmata, given that such Cambions would leave Ethos behind like a spider's web and, well, there was none. And lastly, he could exclude Absentia…the Endless were never subtle when one was faced with them directly. At least, to those who knew, they weren't.

So then, what did that leave?

Somnium, Fabula, Anathema, and Aether– all of which could have rather eldritch Cambions.​

The false boy before him answered his first question, and while such an answer did not exclude any of the above four outright, it did weigh each of them slightly.

Velho nodded to the creature. "A fair answer, then, to a fair question…" he began, his speech slow.

"I live similarly, insofar as I simply follow what fascinates me…in my case, that being the arcane esoterica of the world 'round me and planes at large," he took a breath, Ashes mixing with mist on the exhale.

Æhti's eyes flit from the spirit to his master and back and forth a few times. Velho did not speak much 'round him aside from commands, brusque answers, or explanations leaning towards the academic and always impersonal. So this perhaps would afford him some insight into the ælf as well? Curious as he was, he dared not interrupt.

"What draws you to observing mortals so, would you say?" A question asked without a semblance of urgency.

 

[Postmaster]

To whom it may concern,
•───────── [Date Goes Here] ────────•

The spirit raised a brow at the elder Ferrier's reply. It seemed as though there was not a single thing which could disturb the creature's smug demeanor; but then again, even such an aggravating thing could be a clue, in the right hands.


"Is that so?" the spirit's tone was casual, almost dismissive, "Doesn't much narrow things, really. Surely the key distinction between arcane esoterica and the everyday is mere familiarity? Why, the Fælnir in these houses make more of themselves day in and day out, while your kind must often rely on extravagant contrivances to achieve the same. What is high magic to one is mundane to another. To say nothing of... well, we're getting ahead of ourselves."


Finishing his thought might have provided almost too much of a clue, though there were very few spirits which could reproduce at all, really. Still, to say that nobody knew how Post's kind were made and nobody had ever made more of them, that might have raised some suspicions. Rakshasa were almost uniquely confounded by their own origins.


At Velho's follow-up question, however, Postmaster's false eyebrows drew together, grin fading to a pensive frown. It wasn't that he'd never given the matter thought, of course. It was simply that it struck close to the heart of things, for it was that question which had led to his decision to leave Arcanis, an age past. An uncomfortable matter.


Still, it was a fair question, and the cat would not abandon his own game over that. "It is the way of everything. To live, to grow, one must find novelty. The solipsist fades, lost to decay; the traveler sees things they could not imagine, and in so doing becomes able to imagine them. In aspiring to greatness, you born upon the ground reach heavensward for illumination; those of us with natural refinement must instead scour the creatures below for our lessons."


It was a breathtaking display of arrogance, but Postmaster would never understand it as such. When he had made his arguments in Arcanis, they had been scoffed at as exemplars of a humiliating philosophy, which failed entirely to reckon with the natural supremacy of his people. Regardless, he felt compelled to go a bit further, sharing some of his own study.


"But there are lessons there worth learning." the spirit gestured lazily towards the nearby human dwelling, "In every man, woman and child, there are traces of what once was, and seeds of what could be. Everything which walks or crawls in the dirt contains the flickering reflections of a peculiar potential which I have yet to understand. But I will." The Rakshasa's confidence was absolute, which was perhaps the prerogative of an immortal researcher.


"Have you seen it yourself, Ælf?"

•══════════⊹⊱❖⊰⊹══════════•​

Yr. Obdt. Svt.
Postmaster

 

[Velho]

༺༉❁ Spring 17 year 124 of the third age ❁༉༻
<notes>

Velho had not expected the spirit to return questions his way. But, he supposed, he ought not be surprised– the apparition had, after all, admitted that he found his fascinations to be rooted in mortals. And, though it hurt the Ferrier's own pride, the Æld'Norai shared more similarities with mortals than they did with Cambions or other spirits. Their own immortality was wrought from a pact formed between them and an ancient fae– Ældrassil– rather than simply…being. It only made sense for a curious spirit of such predilections to ask questions of him.

"Exactly," he began, "...I seek to familiarize myself with that which I am not, my interests centered around Mysticism and slowly spiraling outward into all branches of Arcana."

Velho offered this as a form of clarification before letting the spirit continue on to answer his second question. This next answer, and the unfettered arrogance of it, was quite interesting– for it had been delivered without a trace of hubris, simply stated, merely matter-of-fact. And then, the false boy's further explanation piqued the Ferrier's interest ever further.

For a moment, he would sift through his mind to try and pin down the spark to which the entity referred. It was the word 'reflections' which narrowed his thoughts down to 'things that once were,' and though he held a few potential guesses in his mind's eye, he was bold enough to say:

"Yes."

Because he did see the potential in mortals to be more.

He himself was twice cursed. Once with Scourge, a Blight that had germinated the black seed Nihilos planted within all that lived, inviting a process of endless decay. The second with Devorare, another perversion of the flesh he'd taken to stall this decay and stabilize himself. Both of these curses were wrought from the remains of the same long destroyed divinity: Kratyx. They twisted him, but in doing so, provided him with a very delicate internal balance and immense power.

And yet, these twists, these curses, were but 'reflections' of what once was, of what power the flesh itself could contain. And if it was the flesh's potential to which the apparition referred, then he'd more than seen it– he was touched by it twice over. Velho had half a mind to guess something random, something wrong, just to keep the spirit 'round longer; his own curiosity burned to learn more of the spirit's ambitions.

Rather, instead, he lifted a hand and placed it on Æhti's shoulder, his sleepy, lavender gaze landing on the human as well.

"Æhti– the third question," he said, his hand falling away in the same breath.

This startled the Fælnir, for one because Velho almost never touched him. Indeed, the young man only knew his touch in the context of healing– otherwise, he rarely even stood all too close to him. But for another, it shocked Æhti that Velho wanted him to ask the last question. Thrust into a spotlight he did not want, the boy blinked rapidly, stunned.

"Uh…" he stammered; he didn't quite know what to say.

"...um…do you…do you need to eat?" Æhti realized that this might be a dumb question but this was all he could think of at the moment.

Velho did not outwardly react for the most part. If one were looking at his face, however, one might've seen his lips press together slightly and the expression in his eyes lighten for only a moment– the question amused him.

 

[Postmaster]

To whom it may concern,
•───────── [Date Goes Here] ────────•

Postmaster watched passively as the elder Ferrier gave his one-word answer, studying the man's eyes. There was, he fancied, a flicker of introspection there, of memory more vital than the ashes on his breath. Well could the cat believe it. Though few mortal men seemed inclined to study their own potentials, an ageless Æld'Norai had long years to catch sight of it.

And really, why else should one take an apprentice if not to teach, and if teaching, to learn?

It wasn't entirely surprising, then, when Velho instructed the junior--an apprentice for sure, the cat thought--to ask the final question. It was, however, an unmistakable sign that the elder Ferrier thought he had his answer. After all, you wouldn't turn a trial into a teachable moment unless you were on the precipice of victory.

Well. thought the Rakshasa to himself, We'll see.

For all of that, Æhti's question wasn't terrible. As part of an array of similarly-designed questions, with a little refinement, it could have captured an important difference between certain classes of spirit. Reprising his long-departed days as a lecturer, Post gave a reply dripping with indulgent paternalism:

"A logical question, but poorly-formed. You mean to ask if I require food and drink in the manner of mortal creatures, but all spirits without exception must replenish the power they expend in some way. I could fairly respond that I do, but mean only that I absorb some form of the metaphor for sustenance."

"Yet, I will answer the question you posed. My kind do not absolutely require physical sustenance in the manner you do, but it is to be preferred to the alternatives."

Starvation was, in fact, one tool used sometimes by young Rakshasa who sought to teach themselves the power to syphon metaphor, though not all of his kind were willing to submit even to such temporary privation. Raw metaphor was useful in many ways but while ghosts were perfectly happy to sustain themselves off the power they drained, the more complex and transcendent sorts of spirit preferred richer fare.

"Well, gentlemen, I believe that is three questions asked and answers given. I await your answers with much anticipation."

The spirit reclined again, this time against nothingness, as though he were lounging on a padded divan instead of sitting on a bare stone altar table.

•══════════⊹⊱❖⊰⊹══════════•​

Yr. Obdt. Svt.
Postmaster

 

[Velho]

༺༉❁ Spring 17 year 124 of the third age ❁༉༻
<notes>

Of the four Metaphors of Cambion that Velho hadn't ruled out, the more the spirit spoke, the more his answers weighted the Ferrier's guess in one particular direction. Though even of their number, this one was certainly an odd duck. He answered Æhti's question like a teacher encouraging a student to learn– something Velho did appreciate, but he found it curious for a spirit of any type to respect mortals enough to bother with that.

Æhti nodded at the false boy's answer, and it confirmed for him that the spirit before them was a Cambion; a standard Spirit would feed only through Syphon. Velho had been slowly imparting knowledge of Mysticism onto the young man, but he'd certainly proven to be the sort that learned better through doing than through books. This bothered the Ferrier not, so long as the knowledge did, eventually, sink in. Still, the names of each type of Cambion floated around in his head as if enshrouded in a hazy fog. He couldn't recall all of them…Onryo, Djinn, Rakshasa, Mithræ…Aarakora?...Abyssal?…the rest escaped him.

Æhti wasn't quite paying attention when the spirit lazily leaned back, requesting their guesses, distracted as he was combing his mind for a guess.

There was a moment of silence.

Velho's gaze shifted to the young man beside him.

"Well, Æhti?"

The Ferrier's question yanked Æhti from his ruminations, putting him into an incredibly anxious state once more. He realized that he was being made to speak first as Velho likely did not want him to simply parrot whatever he'd say, but that did nothing to quell his rising panic. If they spoke wrong, then three children were dead. He didn't like this game.

"I…I don't know, I'm confident he's a Cambion, but I…don't know which. I'm…sorry," the boy stammered.

In the year or so that he'd been the Ferrier's apprentice, they'd yet to actually run across a Cambion; most of those tended to happily stay within the confines of their own planes. The fact that he recognized even that much was good enough– showed he'd been paying attention, in particular since Æhti could not see Ethos, nor did he have Lifesight.

Velho simply nodded to Æhti, a response that confused the other, but then set his eyes back on the apparition.

"Rakshasa," he said, his voice carrying the cool confidence of a man who either knew he was right or didn't care if he was wrong.

Not even that answer quite fit, but every other category even less so, in his eyes.

The Ferrier continued, "...but whether I'm right or wrong, do let me know if you've any glimmer of an interest in collaboration. I think there's overlap to be found in our fascinations."

 

[Postmaster]

To whom it may concern,
•───────── [Date Goes Here] ────────•

The spirit's grin widened as Æhti confessed ignorance, though in truth he had never expected the Fælnir man to land on the truth. Whatever great potential might hide in his unprepossessing form, the great disadvantage of mortality was time. A dearth of experience could be remedied only imperfectly by study and aptitude, if at all.


But when he turned away from the mortal and to the elder Ferrier, it was with a certain amount of reluctance, for he could practically feel that he'd overplayed his hand with that one. Still, as Velho gave his answer, the Rakshasa burst into a gale of laughter. His form grew hazy and indistinct, Ælven features tearing apart in brief flashes of Saol as the spirit worked its Seeming. Within seconds, the whirling aether had reformed itself into the shape of a small black cat, still chuckling.


The darkness around the cat solidified, forming a bright red collar with a golden bell and a crimson-feathered hat. Postmaster finally reopened his little red feline eyes, catching his breath.


"Ah, you have the right of it. Too many clues, perhaps. Then again, I shan't rob you of your due- it was still a canny guess, given how few of my breed ever venture the shadow of your slumbering tree."


The cat stood upon his hind legs and snatched his hat off his head with one paw, performing a courtly little bow. "I am the Rakshasa called Postmaster, though I wore a different name in ages gone. My kin called me a sage of Ælphyne, and in time I decided to make good on the claim. And so you chance upon me here and now."


Postmaster placed his hat on his head once more and returned to a four-footed stance more usual for felines, eyes still on Velho. His eyes narrowed as the Ferrier suggested collaboration.


"Overlap, perhaps, but I fail to see the use. Study of men and beasts alike is a lonesome pursuit, difficult to capture in the retelling, and flesh a significant liability in the process. Although..." A thought occured to the distractible feline, who turned towards the wall as if to track something, "Come to think of it, I do lack for an appropriate place to conduct my experiments. The facilities of Græntún, it must be said, lag far behind the elegant temples of the Jin'Norai. Nor indeed could I risk conducting them in the wilds, for I've no great wish to go to war with the Ælven watchers."

•══════════⊹⊱❖⊰⊹══════════•​

Yr. Obdt. Svt.
Postmaster

 

[Velho]

༺༉❁ Spring 17 year 124 of the third age ❁༉༻
<notes>

The sound of the false boy's laughter was jarring to Æhti and he froze, briefly assuming that the spirit was mocking them. Had Velho gotten it wrong? Then began its transformation; flashes of Saol shining through tears in the façade.

No– post shift, a dapper little cat sat in place of the ælven boy. The Ferrier was right, to the Fælnir's immediate and immense relief. Æhti exhaled, letting out the breath that'd gotten caught in his throat.

Velho's expressions were always subdued when compared to most others, but in the moment he looked right chuffed; pleased with himself. "More often than not, the Metaphor that guides a spirit is wont to betray them– when it's not obvious, that in itself is a clue. One that points to Aether; raw potential," he explained, ultimately, what had sealed his answer– more for Æhti's benefit than anyone else's.

The Ferrier had seen nothing that confirmed Rakshasa, only details which excluded nigh everything else. Anathema and Somnium fell through due the spirit's nature, and Fabula, ultimately, because this was surely no Djinn.

He breathed in, then out– more Ashes in the night air as the feline spoke. The cat's little bow was utterly charming to Velho, though Æhti was a bit more wary of the spirit.

"A pleasure to meet you, Postmaster. I am called Velho fyn'Seiðr Hespæros, and," he gestured to the man beside him, "...this is Æhti von'Sverreson, my ward."

He listened as the cat-spirit mulled over his offer aloud, and though Postmaster's initial reaction was dismissive, he did come 'round.

"My own home has ample space for experimentation and is, by all accounts, clandestine. I'd be happy to allow you use of it," his response punctuated with a nod. "I live down river from the lake– in Hespæria's Thokkmyrr. An easy trip by boat, an easier one by portal– or Apparation."

 

[Postmaster]

To whom it may concern,
•───────── [Date Goes Here] ────────•

The cat nodded along; it was typical of rakshasa that Postmaster put very little stock into names, picking them up or dropping them as he pleased. Some of his staff clung to their old names, no matter how much he tried to explain to them that they were meaningless. Only Sphinx had actually asked for one, to help her separate from the life she'd led before the Rakshasa's game.


But when the Ferrier mentioned the settlement again, a light clicked on in the cat's head. "Hespæria... ah, yes, the witch's grove. I have been there myself but rarely, though my cats travel there betimes."


It took the Rakshasa a moment to realize that this might seem something of a mysterious declaration. He cleared his throat, then clarified: "I am so called because I own a delivery house in Rømskog port, and my cats deliver post through the city, and far and wide beyond. I'd thought to recruit the child Aelfric, for he has shown himself brave and level-headed for his age... but perhaps I bethought the wrong sibling the wiser. Ah well." The cat blinked slowly and tilted his head, giving the impression of a shrug. "You have won our game, and I will keep my word to trouble this family no more."


Still, with one game done, more came to mind. Postmaster hopped gracefully down off the table, landing silently on the earthy floor near his visitors' feet and began padding slowly off into the night. Over the past few years, he'd had--to his estimation--great success in observing the comings and goings of humankind, showing him things he thought would be quite valuable. On the other hand, his older research had fallen behind, and he had new and exciting ideas for that.


"Perhaps there will be a reason to meet again, Velho fyn'Seiðr Hespæros. But I warn you, my research process is not... convenient."


Postmaster had considered many different places within the country of the aelves before setting up his business, including Hespæria. He'd decided against it, mostly because he misliked the idea of living so closely under the watchful eye of the aelven witch. He would never have admitted to anything so base and uncouth as fear of her, but certainly he had no real interest in subjecting his fun to such scrutiny.

•══════════⊹⊱❖⊰⊹══════════•​

Yr. Obdt. Svt.
Postmaster

 

[Velho]

༺༉❁ Spring 17 year 124 of the third age ❁༉༻
<notes>

A Rakshasa referring to their underlings as 'my cats' sounded a bit strange to Velho's ears, as it would be hard to assume that other Rakshasa would submit to anyone, even another of their kind. Still, would it be so bizarre for a spirit that took such a shape to surround themselves with others also in feline form…? He did appear to have Seeming, after all…

Postmaster's continued explanation all but confirmed this thought; his 'cats' were all once something else. Such a notion disturbed Æhti, though Velho appeared unbothered. The former was at least relieved to hear that the spirit would honor his word.

"Ah, in recent days I've heard word of such a…ah, novel delivery enterprise. I had considered trying it myself at some point," Velho commented. "What a curious recruitment model, though...but I suppose you wouldn't do it if it didn't render you dependable employees, hm...?" He spoke in a way that was more musing than anything else.

He had considered the idea of using such a service to send something to himself, curious about the efficiency of little cats delivering parcels.

And at the notion of Postmaster's research being inconvenient, the Ferrier returned a wan smile. "My own isn't quite within the realm of 'convenient,' either…but if you'd require additional space beyond what I have on offer, such can be arranged easily enough by way of Druidic construction; worry not," he replied.

"'Til our paths cross again, then," the Ferrier would bid farewell.

This job hadn't been taken for payment, so there was nothing to collect– and so he turned away, meaning to return back to where he and Æhti had been staying. The latter ended up having many questions along their return journey, and Velho would slowly endeavor to fill in the blanks for him.

 

[Vicissitude]

꧁══════════•༺༉{Reviewed/Canonized}༉༻•══════════꧂​

Postmaster

+30 XP (~3000+ WC)

Velho + Æhti

+30 XP (~3000+ WC)

And the children were spared the fate of becoming mailcats! Debatable whether this is a 'good' thing.​

꧁══════════• ༺༉ ❁ ❀ ❁ ༉༻•══════════꧂​

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