2019-11-10 - The Yellow Sign

Captain de la Vega's invasion comes without warning.

The psychic beast that he is, all savage brutality with little to no regard for finesse, shatters through the gossamer web of the mind that he is searching for, glittering fangs bared. The moment he breaks in, he'd find a space that's almost tranquil - a gentleman's conservatory, one that would remind one of old paintings from Renaissance masters. He'd glimpse a globe spinning on its axis, a roaring hearth, and rows and rows of books. A piano, with its collection of sheet music, rests underneath delicate oval portraits of unrecognizable faces. There's even a plaque on the wide, heavy oak desk, hand-carved and ornate, with a name engraved on brass as well as a couch - one that would remind a person of those long, classic ones from old psychologists' offices.

He breaks through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a peaceful lake, and lands on all fours, shards of glass catching firelight and leaving streaks of crimson and gold at his wake, but before he could even see the name, his surroundings suddenly shift. He might have drawn first blood, but his quarry recovers quickly - the name plaque dissolves into mist, the finer, painstaking details and minutiae of this peaceful room dissipating into spectral tethers, and Ruiz's psychic form finds himself in a dark, formless, yawning space - abyssal enough in its quality that he is unable to determine where his mind starts and where the other begins. The bridge is just as formless as night, and with no stars or moonlight to guide the way.

<<I suppose if there's anything I could say about the citizens of this town...>> begins the voice that greets him, following a tap-tap-tap, the echoing sound of ebony on marble. <<...is that they're full of surprises. To what do I owe this visit, Fenrir?>>

<<You laugh>> says the voice; it is pleasant, polished and erudite, and doesn't seem at all perturbed that someone else's presence has managed to barge into his mind. <<Why is that? From the act of drawing first blood? Or is it because you recognize the reference to the Eddas and how well it fits you?>>

Ebony on marble continues to tap, and darkness seems to unfold; the lean, almost reedy shadow stands several feet away from the prowling wolf, though Peregrine's face remains largely obscured by the bowler hat he wears on his head, and the dark glasses that keep his eyes from view. He's dressed in a suit, today is charcoal-gray with pinstripes, and gloved hands curl on the heavy metallic head of his walking stick, though the details there are obscured by his fingers. The only spot of color from the palette of neutrals he seems to favor is the yellow flower pinned to his lapel, a sharp contrast to the rest of him.

As the wolf tastes the air, attempts to grab a scent, he would find the darkness...completely and utterly sterile and still, save for the movements of Peregrine himself. Even the flower doesn't seem to exude anything. It is disconcertingly, distressingly perfect, how clean and devoid of any impressions this space is.

<<Actually, I didn't. Know that you would find me.>> A ring of truth there, sweeping through the darkened bridge like the wind. <<You demonstrated remarkable initiative, Fenrir. As I told Mister Clayton several nights ago, it isn't every day that someone almost gets me. Which one were you that night, I wonder?>> A hand detaches from the walking stick, and touches the air. He, too, sniffs - Ruiz's psychic eyes would briefly find the shape of his nose - sharp and bold. <<...aha. The gunman. I can smell the powder, and taste the blood.>>

The question about Isabella has that hatted head tilting. His amusement only grows. <<I already answered these questions, I think, though I suppose I couldn't blame Mister Clayton for not passing on the details of our conversation, which leaves me wondering, in the end, whether she's his Isabella or yours.>> He waves a gloved hand sideways. <<I told him that she caught my eye and that is the truth, my lupine friend. What that actually means, however, I'll leave for you to parse. As for what I'm doing here, I'll tell you what I told him - that I'm an involved citizen. Sometimes, I watch. Sometimes, I do more than watch. Either way, I learn, and earn, plenty.>>

Somewhere behind the curtain, those keen, burning eyes would see it - the glimpse of an old memory tinged in grayscale and sepia. His wolf's ears might prick at the distant strains of a quiet conversation - the familiar, polished diction from the man in front of him, but clearly from a different time, speaking to another - and by the words and the 'voice' of this remembered, ghost, infinitely younger. He is sitting behind his desk, though his features remain obscured, and the blond boy he is speaking to lies on the couch, but on his side - away from Ruiz. He can't be no more than eight years old.

"You were right, doctor." He sounds excited. "The birds can talk to me now."

A hand lifts, finger extended from where he is writing. "You know that isn't what happens, lad. Try again."

"Sorry." The boy sounds contrite. "I mean, the birds feel things, but I can make them feel what I want them feel."

The curtain snaps shut, but not fast enough. There's a long, drawn out exhale from Peregrine himself as he taps absently on the walking stick. <<The form you choose to use in a place such as this is very appropriate.>> His voice is more contemplative rather than distressed, and a hint of resignation slipping through the syllables. <<But not completely accurate.>> And why would it be, when that brief note of joy sings across the empty space - with so much silence and cleanliness, this utter lack of anything to define it, that piece of uncomplicated happiness at being called a poet burns like a small sun before the fires of aggression consume it again, and choke it into ash. It carries nothing of the monster that dominates the other side of the bridge.

There's a soft laugh, afterwards - it is warm, but altogether humorless. <<Oh, no. Not me, Fenrir.>> He slowly rises from his chair at that, tapping his walking stick on the marble once. His gloved fingers reach inside his waistcoat and draws out the pocketwatch from within and checks the time. <<But whether I want it or need it?>> He looks up, because he feels it - the twisting, intense sensation of grief and fury that feeds the infernal furnace of the wolf. <<What would you say if I offered to take it? All of it, and leave you the room to change your flames into a different color?>>

He gestures to the wolf. <<Or is this the shape you have resigned yourself to until the day you breathe your last? Feral, lonesome and perpetually consumed from within? No fire lasts forever, my lupine friend. It needs fuel. A catalyst. And when it finally depletes everything inside you to the point of snuffing out, what do you think is offered to the dying embers to keep them aglow? Not you, not when there's too little of you left. Whether you intend for it, or not, those around you pay the price. Were I less educated, I would be encouraging you to end it. But death, unfortunately, is wasteful for one such as I.>>

He snaps the pocketwatch shut, the click echoing sharply across the endless empty. <<Well, this was utterly illuminating. Is there anything else, perhaps, that you would like to ask me? This can't be healthy, you know. Being connected to me for very long.>>