2019-11-01 - The Stranger

Whenever Byron Thorne drops off Alexander Clayton and Isabella Reede at the docks, he'd be left carrying her, but at the very least, given his training and his newfound strength, she's light and almost boneless in comparison. While her eyes remain open, she is for the most part unconscious. Her dark-haired head rests his shoulder arms and legs dangling off the suspension bridge he makes with his arms and body. It's a short walk, from the parking lot and towards the boat.

The moon remains full, pregnant with white-blue illumination that washes over the vague shapes of other vessels, and reflecting starkly off The Surprise's pure-white color, as if a beacon in the darkness, or a blade slicing it apart. Despite the frantic activity of the evening, in this part of Gray Harbor, at least, it is silent and still, save for the creaking of wood and waves washing against sand and fiberglass - most of the fun and trick-or-treating is happening elsewhere, oblivious to the ruined wedding. Luckily, by all accounts, James and Maria have elected to stay together in spite of the horror that has been visited upon what should have been the happiest day of their lives.

It could be a trick of the mist, but as he gets closer to his destination with her in tow, he'd find the mist-shrouded shape of a tall man, his silhouette rendered even taller by the top hat he wears, the shadows it casts obscuring his features save for how the moon lines the cut of his jaw - clearly a man. Gloved hands rest on the rail leading to the Boardwalk, with eyes obscured by nonsensical obsidian lenses - it's dark, and so foggy, how he manages to see through them is a mystery.

"Found your feet, did you?" he says, amiably enough despite his whispery tenor, as if he just hadn't caused whatever damage he intended at the Church. "Heartening, in a way. It isn't every day that someone almost gets me."

There's a smile. He'd be able to sense it, instead of see it. The top-hatted man lowers his head and smothers a chuckle somewhere in his collar. "Ah," he says. "That would be too easy, even for me."

He unfolds himself from his easy lean, turning until he's facing Alexander in full, but the mist cooperates strangely, blanketing him until he can only spy a vague detail or two; the pocketwatch chain that curls up into his waistcoat's pockets, the trim physique, and long legs rendered even longer by platform shoes - like a spider masquerading as a man. It's a costume, in the end, but one that he wears well - especially when it obscures the physical details that an investigator would take note of immediately. It could be deliberate, or an extremely lucky coincidence. After all, they don't know each other.

But his face remains shrouded. Moonlight glints off those dark lenses.

"I didn't take you to be the Camilla of the group, asking me immediately to unmask. But I suppose you can call me an..." He waves a gloved hand vaguely. "Involved citizen, if you will. And there's plenty of things to be concerned about in this little town, don't you? Still, you all performed your roles magnificently." His head tilts slightly. "Does it hurt?"

And by the tone he uses, he does not mean Alexander's physical injuries.

"And yet you manage to understand the reference, or at the very least what it infers, so I gather you read a lot in spite of it." The top-hatted man's whispery tone even sounds pleased. "Are you a detective, then? A police officer? Only one would undertake such a pragmatic view on puzzles." He'd sense the smile through the mist. "Shall I be the Moriarty to your Holmes?"

It's rhetorical at best because he's already moving on, a contemplative noise emanating from his high collar. "Hm? The bullet? Oh, yes." There's a laugh. "It hurts like the dickens, but it's nothing that won't go away, with time. Don't despair the pain too much, regardless. What is it that thing that people are often fond of saying? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger? Or what doesn't kill you now will kill you later? Mm...I think the latter might be more accurate. Are you fond of accuracy, Mister Holmes?"

"Well, forgive my presumption, because it does hurt." The man rolls his shoulder gingerly. "But if you mean whether the failure hurt, I wouldn't consider it as such in spite of your meddling. Not really. After all, you need to be alive in order to experience joy, don't you? Happiness, love, a life together, and the pain that follows in witnessing with your own eyes how it can be stripped from you so easily, and so nonsensically. It would have been counterproductive, I should think, if the bride and groom had died."

He'd sense his surprise, but he recovers quickly; another laugh, though it is one that barely carries - the mist gives it voice and weight despite the low tone. But he still sounds pleased. "I read somewhere that True Names grant power over the subject if someone knows them. Perhaps you shouldn't be so eager to give that away, Mister...Clayton. Especially to one such as me."

A hand reaches to the side, bracing it against the rail; the deadpan taunts, or straightforward questions, merely intensify the smile he can sense through the dark. "The amount of energy expended was ridiculous, but to call it mine, or completely mine, would be an exaggeration." His head dips, and Alexander would finally see it - how he focuses on the woman in his arms.

"She burns like a star, though whether it's one that's about to come into being, or one that's about to collapse, I can't tell just yet," he murmurs. "Pity, though, that she'll never be what she could be. I think I would enjoy seeing that, but alas. We can't always have what we want." His head lifts to focus back on him. "Have you tried to crack her head open like an egg, yet?"

That smile broadens. "Would you like me to?"

Anticipation fills the air; he can taste Alexander's bloodlust and the investigator would know that he wants him to. Wants him to try. Wants him to drop his precious bundle and launch himself into every effort to satisfy it. Gloved fingers drum lightly on the hidden pocketwatch in his waistcoat, toying with the chain, suddenly restless with the need to do something.

But Alexander doesn't rise to it and the disappointment is almost palpable. The top-hatted man sighs, and clicks his tongue against his teeth. The drumming of his fingers cease.

"Well," he begins, perfectly affable still. "You and I don't know each other. Until tonight, we were strangers. There's a good ring to that, I think. Stranger. It encompasses many things, and all quite appropriate. But should I, really? Leave town? Why is that, Mister Clayton?"

He asks the question as if he knows the answer, but is willing to throw the dice as to whether Alexander will answer him anyway.

One day, someone is going to kill you.

"That's what I thought. Perhaps that would be you, Mister Clayton." It almost sounds wistful. "Perhaps."

Peregrine gestures vaguely with a hand. "Nothing in particular, I like watching the moon over the water, and it's just not as pleasing watching it over Gray Pond - macabre place, that. Coming across you and her was in many ways a coincidence." Another smile, and one that bares his teeth; it flashes disconcertingly in the dark. "But I suppose only the foolish and the uninitiated still believe in such things, around here. I'm certain you agree that under the right light, conversations can be terribly illuminating."

He pushes away from the railing at that, turning around and adjusting his hat, pulling it lower over his forehead. "For what it's worth, I'm glad she isn't too terribly harmed. She caught my eye, and I couldn't resist....a sign, I think, that you and I probably have more in common than anyone would initially surmise." He angles a look over his shoulder. "May we never meet again, Mister Clayton."

There are other words, left unspoken, but perhaps it's the way he says it that implies the rest: But we will.

With a breezy wave, his back turned, the man steps back into the mist and lets it swallow him.