2020-03-11 - The Last Endeavor
Byron grabbed some feathers from outside the hospital after Lilith killed the gross crow. He decides to do what any overly curious Mentalist would do...(This scene immediately follows The Dress and the Spike)
IC Date: 2020-03-11
OOC Date: 2019-10-22
Location: Bayside Apt/Penthouse
Related Scenes: 2020-02-06 - Let the Right One In 2020-03-11 - The Dress and the Spike 2020-03-16 - Talking Crow
Plot: None
Scene Number: 4250
Not much of a smoker, Byron sometimes enjoys a good drag off a cigarette to set his mind at ease when he knows that a particular reading might tap into something disturbing or worse. This is what he's doing right at this very moment, inhaling deeply from a lit cig as he stares out into the dark void just outside of his terrace doors. Whatever he had experienced just now has him reeling, forcing him to take another puff from his cigarette. Seated on his couch in the living room, he already changed out of his business attire, only donning a long sleeved hunter green turtle neck sweater and jeans.
By now, he'd already removed his hand from the spike. Leaving it sitting on the coffee table beside Lilith's magical box. After a few moments to catch his bearing, those dark eyes shift to stare down at the macabre object. Then? He leans forward to set the cigarette into an awaiting ashtray before straightening back, his gaze now falling back onto the opened Veil box. A half filled glass of whiskey sits off to the side.
If the spike dragged him into a dark, traumatic vision, he's more than wary that this feather would do the same. If not worse. The feather was from the Veil as far as he's concerned. Licking at his lips, tasting the nicotine flavor found there, he slowly shakes his head, murmuring, "I don't know why I even care." He speaks of his curiosity, reaching a free hand to take the feather within his grasp.
<FS3> Byron rolls Mental (8 8 6 5 5 5 4 2 2) vs A Bone White Feather (a NPC)'s 4 (8 8 7 4 3 2)
<FS3> DRAW! (Rolled by: August)
<FS3> Byron rolls Mental (8 8 8 8 7 6 5 4 3) vs A Bone White Feather (a NPC)'s 4 (8 6 3 3 2 2)
<FS3> Crushing Victory for Byron. (Rolled by: August)
The feather is a strange shade of white, like bleached bone or driftwood. Here, in the real, it could be from just about any bird, except there are flecks of black tar on it from where Lilith crushed the bird it belonged to.
That's the first thing that comes to him: the tar. Slick, oily, sticky. Not much of a smell beyond heavy minerals. The smell broadens, and he sees a huge, dry lake bed, cracked and empty, a dull grayish white, with a black spotch of pond or possibly the final dregs of the lake itself at the center. It's ringed by huge, jagged, dark purple-black mountains. He flies beyond that; oh, yes, he's flying. He is that crow, soaring on a chill wind over the dead lake, beyond its mountainous confines, with flaps from his ghastly wings.
Past this is a strange forest. It's oddly colored and shifting, like its made of bioluminescent trees. Or perhaps that's just how the crow sees it. There's a dim shape in a clearing: a house, to judge by the angles. The crow is flying to it.
The crow's emotions are mild, almost absent in a way. It's a vessel of some kind, and the faintest tug at its gut is bringing it here, to this house.
Seeing things from his own eyes within the comfort of his living room and then seeing the world through the eyes of a bird is disorienting. It takes Byron a moment to realize just what is going on. There are times when he'd see the face of the owner of a particular objects and sense an emotion to go with it. But he has experienced this as well. Seeing everything through the owner's eyes.
Where was this? He's trying to sort that information out in his mind. Is this somewhere in the Veil? It had to be. Having no control over this memory or vision, all that he can do is follow the path of the crow to wherever it wishes to go. By the looks of it, it's that lone house.
The uncertain, hazy nature of the landscape certainly suggests the Veil. It could just be the bird's memory isn't that good, of course, but Byron has a suspicion that's not the case.
The house is simple, red sided with black trim in an Eastern European style. A metal chimney leaves a line of smoke, and to one side is a pen of goats, their eyes dark red, their horns tangled crowns of four or five prongs. The crow flies to a front window and pecks at it, a rhythm Byron's mind Glimmer immediately translates from morse code.
Vivan.
"Oh, what now," a scratchy voice grumbles from within. The curtain covering the windows flies aside, and the crow braces itself, ready to flee. The woman looking out from the old, warped glass is ancient, pale and wizened, with snowy white and iron gray hair tamed in a complex braid. She wrinkles her nose, opens the window to let the bird in, grumbling, "About damned time."
The crow hops in and lands on the back of a chair at the hearth. Inside it's a homely affair, herbs drying all over, odds and ends tucked into shelves and peaking out from under tables. There's a pair of lanters providing a little light in what serves as a kitchen area and the stairs that lead up, but most of the light comes from the fire. A half-moon array of stones, each carved with a symbol, arches around the edge of the fireplace. The woman settles herself opposite the crow in a rocking chair.
"So then. Finally worked up the courage to read it, did you?" She smiles, cold and calculating. "Byron Thorne."
At first the tapping sound would be something completely overlooked, but somehow his mind is able to make out the code almost immediately. Vivian's name. Where he usually just experienced the emotions attached to the residue-- being frightened, when the owner was frightened almost to the point of feeling pain. Things of that nature, this was different somehow. Rather than simply replaying a memory of this strange bird, it's like Byron was being transported somewhere else, himself.
Vivian's name being on the tip of that crow's beak brings out his own anger and if he could, he would lash out at this very moment. But lash out at what? He was the bird!
Then, he takes notice of the odd woman with the silver braids. Who was she? It's not his own curiosity that brings him inside, but the crow does the work for him. As the bird hops forward to settle down on the back of that chair, Byron's cautious eyes study this mystery woman, her mannerism, the way in which she moves. That's when she utters his name, making him blink. How did...? Can he respond to her?
It never occurred to him to say anything. He was unlikely to change the outcome of other memories in the past. But this was no memory, was it? Uncertain if it would matter and after giving this much thought, he finally tries to speak, "Who are you?"
The woman watches the crow, and thus Byron, like she's listening. He can feel her attention, and with it, the crow's apprehension. The crow knows who this is, and is wary, even though it answered the summons.
After a second of this scrutiny, she breaks out into a raspy laugh, waves her hand dismissively. "I'm sure you're asking me something or saying something in response. Don't bother, I can't hear you. This is the past, a scrying, the things this bird--or some part of it--has seen. Set down, in my way." Another smile. "Some of us can see both ways, you know. I knew you'd look. Or might. And if I'm wrong, and you're one of the others, well--no matter. Listen now."
She leans down to the half-ring of stones and picks one up. "The name bearers will keep coming until their progenitor is dealt with. You may seek me out, if you wish for more information." She turns the rock, and Byron can see the image carved into it is a cocoon suspended from a braided ring of just-budding vines.
Sensing the apprehension coming from the crow, Byron tries to figure out what else this bird can tell him. The familiarity between the crow and the woman has him curious, more so why this crow is nervous to be here right now. Almost as if it were here against its better judgment.
Staring blandly at the woman once she starts to cackle, the helplessness of being unable to communicate is starting to get to Byron. Fine, so this was some kind of memory. But did this woman have this exact conversation with the crow and if not...
Name Bearers? Does she mean the crow? The crow was an asshole trying to get under their skin by tapping away at those names. Important names.
"Seek you out how?" Byron asks, despite the woman being unable to understand him. His gaze then turns to the carved image on the rock. What did it mean?
Some of the crow's reactions filter forward: it knows who this is. All of its kind know this one; the furious grandmother, wise and fierce, uncanny and unforgiving.
The woman continues, "There are those who can help you find me." A geesture at the stones, and the bird looks upon them. Byron makes out four more images: a full, blooming rose, its center an eye; a fouled ship's anchor; a deer antler set against a disc, feathers dangling from its prongs; a sort of tree, its top willow-like, almost suggesting a human mind, the base roots ending in thick formations of crystals; an old-style parchment letter, sealed with wax.
"It won't be easy." She's holding another stone now: this one has a pair of arrows, formed of wheat shafts, crossed to make an X, a bounty represented in each compartment of the X. "You'll probably fail before you succeed. Or you can try to help that one yourself." She sets the stone down. "Choice is yours." She reaches into an apron pocket, pulls out a bit of honeycomb and offers it. The bird is tempted, but wary. It edges along the back of the chair, hops down to an arm and gingerly takes it in its beak. The taste is sweet and heady, dizzying even. Byron thinks he might be swaying on his feet.
Dimly, he hears the old woman's voice growing close. "Now then, little one." The woman holds out a hand, and something in Byron's--no, the crow's--mind twinges, painful and sharp. The old woman grabs it firmly around the midsection in one hand (were her fingers always that long?). "Let's make sure you remember all this, and send you on your way."
Byron finds himself to be just as wary as this crow is. Especially as he's taking in some of this bird's knowledge. If this treacherous creature, the one who had attacked Lilith in the end, was afraid of this woman, then maybe he should be afraid as well.
These images presented to him, it would take a lot to memorize each and every one of them, but Byron attempts to do just this, studying each with care. It doesn't help that the woman brandishes another stone with yet another image on it. "Help who?" He asks with futility, though he's eyeing the stone right now.
When the crow spies the offered honeycomb, Byron's own suspicions are raised. But the crow's been here before. It survived to fly another day and torment them at the hospital. What about the stone? Can he force the bird to take claim of it? He has his doubts even if he tries his best to will the thing to do his bidding, even if this is a glimpse of the past. Then his tastebuds are seemingly assaulted by this sweetness on his tongue.
The sudden growling in his ear takes him aback, the light-headedness is distracting enough. It's not completely unpleasant, almost feeling as if he were drunk. This is followed by a sudden excruciating pain in his head, one that makes him seethe in silence, just as the old woman picks the crow up. As tempting as it may be to retaliate with his own mental trickery, he refrains. Probably because of that sharp ache in his head.
There's no response from the bird to his commands--but then, perhaps there wouldn't be. It's psychometry, after all. This has already happened. But does she sense it anyways, his feeble attempts, or did she foresee that too? It's one or the other, because she grins at the bird (no, at him). "Oh, I do hope you'll come visit. You're a feisty little one."
It's not clear to Byron how she does it, but there's a sense this conversation happens multiple times, overlaid. Sometimes she says another name, which he catches in merged syllables. (Alabellithanorzhak.) In between, the crow is in a small, wooden cage, fed well and kept clean, but trapped none the less. It caws names nonstop (VivianRoseNaomiGrantZacharyIsidore) until the old woman covers the cage with a cloth, and the memories are plunged into darkness. This repeats, and repeats...and repeats.
He's flying again (no, the crow is), at some point, released, thrown into the air. The sensation is dizzying for him, and calls up nausea. The bird wheels around, allowing Byron a view of the house. The goats all walk into the cellar; their pen picks itself up and marches in after them, a rickety parade of wood planks and rope. The doors slam shut, and then the house...stands up on a pair of stout, strong chicken legs, creaking and shuddering. It shakes itself, walks off into the forest.
The crow turns back towards the dead lake. It passes through a mist, and Gray Harbor comes into view. Addington Memorial. A window ledge.
Tapping. Arguing. Byrone's own voice, almost unrecognizable except he knows he was the one who closed the curtain and yelled at it. Agony, as Lilith reaches in and tears it apart, and a chilling shock as something shoots out of it to gouge her, how dare she do that when it was only asking for hel--
He's back in his Penthouse (well, he never left), and under his fingers is a small pile of gray dust and salt. Nothing more.
Byron's mind is already lightly spinning, but with that sudden pain comes some sort of clarity. He's more focused now, hearing the blur of names slipping from between the old crone's lips and then hearing the names of others drifting out of the maw of the crow.
Before he knows it, it's all over. So he thinks. He was up in the air again, not even remembering taking flight. Then the sill bird decides to go kamikaze through the air as if it had a death wish. Or that's what's racing through Byron's mind right about now. If he could make it stop, he would! In the distance he observes all the oddities surrounding that house. Like some Wonderland bullshit right there!
The next thing he realizes is that he's at Addington Memorial. He remembers... Oh God. He remembers this day clearly enough and all that he can do is stare through the window as the bird just tap-tap-taps away.
While he likes to tell himself that he has no fear of Lilith. That he can handle her, as he'd done so in that one Dream... just the brutality in the way in which she kills the bird is incredibly agonizing. He can feel her powers ripping through him. Then comes the odd sensation of... he's not quite sure what. He tried to determine if the crow had mentalist powers that he used against Lilith in retaliation. The way that he's able to strike fear into his own victims or make them believe that something is happening to them through complex illusions. Was it something similar to that?
When he comes to, he's reclined back against the couch. The glass of whiskey remains half-empty, but the cigarette has mostly smoldered and ashed out. He was drenched in sweat and he could feel his heart pulsating rapidly in his chest. "Shit..." He murmurs out almost breathlessly. The entire journey having taken his breath away. What was the bird trying to tell them? Leaning forward, he snatches up what remains of his cigarette to take a long, much needed drag from it, before exhaling it all out in a thick cloud of smoke.
As he sits on his couch, smoking his cigarette, Byron catches a glimpse out of the corner of his eye: a bone white crow, standing on the railing of his deck. It caws once. He shouldn't be able to hear it with the doors and windows shut against the later winter cold, but he does, just barely. There's a name under than faint sound.
Stephen.
The crow dives off the railing and is lost to his sight.
Byron's mind was still reeling and yet he was trying desperately to shut out the intensity of what he'd just witnessed. For a moment, he begins to zone out, his eyes staring, unfocused towards the dark television screen. Who knows for how long he would've remained in this state if it wasn't for the caw of a crow coming from the terrace somewhere. This wakes him from his idle trance, his head slowly turned towards the closed French doors to see the creature outside.
Yet it's voice sounded so clear.
He's conflicted by the sight of the bird. It was asking for help... He thinks. But he's not sure. That's just the last impression he got from being a part of the crow. Whatever conflict he had quickly dies once he hears that single name cawed out in the darkness. Despite his father being long dead, Byron was still haunted by their turbulent past together. Even as an adult, his father could still strike fear into his heart. He was wracked by a fearful chill, his blood running cold within his veins.
Even after the crow departed, Byron felt frozen in place, his dark eyes staring at his own reflection cast back at him through the glass of the door. It's almost as if he'd seen a ghost.
Tags: august-gm byron plot:nemo