2020-08-06 - Cat's Eye

The Dream breaks apart, sending them back to their lives.

Or does it?

Cristobal finds himself in that scratchy ass turtleneck sweater and ridiculous wool cap again, the ones he was wearing in the tavern before they spoke to 'Coira', before they went to kill a wizard and he took one for his boss. He's not in the town, though the smell of the ocean and the feel of a chill, damp wind blowing inland tells him he's still close to the coast. He's in a forest, next to a river, with a hunting lodge sitting before him. It was once a grand affair, arcing over the river via a footbridge, with a sweeping front porch and fancy, stained glass windows. Now it's in dire need of fixing up: the roof has more than its fair share of moss and lichen, some of the siding and molding is rotted, the bridge looks treacherous at best. Yet it seems habitable enough. The windows are clean and whole, the frame's stable.

Out front an older gentleman is puttering around, a younng pair of kids trailing behind him. He has a round, seamed, careworn face, almost leathery in the way someone who's often on the often will get; thin, white hair braided back; a close-shorn, white beard; and patched, linen trousers and shirt. His boots are a bit newer looking, maybe even recently-mad. The goat kids are younger versions of the beasts their motley group was offered for the trek to the wizard's tower.

The man glances up from his task--cleaning some form of tack for a riding animal, looks like--and blinks at Cris. "Ah. Maestro. Herself is," he gestures at a stable to the right of the lodge itself, "just in there."

The old man coughs on a laugh. "Shovel manure? Maestro, give us a little credit. We'd not ask that of you." The goats baaaaah in their demonic, metallic tones, echoing that sentiment despite being...goats. "Hush you two," the man says, half-turning to bat each on the head. One nips at his shirt in response, the other butts him in the hip.

The stable is as run down as the rest of the structure, but the interior is clean and dry. The breezeway is swept, and tack hangs from various hooks and cross beams. Except the stalls don't have horses in them; they have boars. Or, something like a boar; they're much bigger than any swine Cris has ever seen, with big, stiff manes and long, brilliant tusks, some capped with metallic tips. Their coat colors vary widely as a horse's might, as well. They huff and flick their ears when he comes in, peering at him curiously.

Coira is washing a saddle on a rack at the back of the stable. She's in much the same outfit Cris remembers from the start of this adventure, though now she wears a simple tunic of black with gold embroidery. The sleeves have been rolled up, and her hair is bunned on top of her head. She glances up when she hears him come in. "Ah. The last one of you has arrived." She resumes soaping the saddle with a heavy sponge, spreading the oily lather in a thick layer of dark gold.

Coira laughs, gives Cris a sidelong glance of, 'Ah--you're one of those'. It's not an unkind expression, at least; she's more amused than exasperated. "And what do you have to say of what was seen and done there in his tower?" It's an honest question, though the way she flicks a furtive glance at Cris suggests she's wary of what he might say, based on the others.

Coira glances between her work on the saddle and Cris by turns. She sets the sponge on the bar of saddle soap, swaps to a damp rag, wiping the black, tooled leather clean. She makes a low sound, weighing his response. "Some," she admits. "But he was, ultimately, an intermediary. It was the huntsman who did the worst when he didn't need to," her expression tightens a moment, then eases, "and my step-mother who took advantage of the wizard's meddling to depose me." She sets the towel aside, begins rolling down her sleeves. "And, regardless, he was the one I wouldn't be able to handle of my own accord." She turns to face him. "No, Maestro--you've robbed me of no satisfaction. You've relieved me of a heavy burden, and my only regret is that I can't do the same." She gestures towards a door at the back of the stable, which seems like it will lead outside and towards the lodge. "But I can, at least, offer you something of value."

"Rams," Coira echoes, sounding amused. "Those we don't ride here--we have gemsin, and geit. But the peoples of the Northeast peninsula, I'm told, have rams." She moves to a stall closer to Cris, holds out a hand. The night black boar inside it nuzzles her hand, and she rubs its ears in turn. It makes a low sort of grunting, growling sound of appreciation. "Rams aren't so intelligent as gemsin, and can be ill-tempered." The boar-thing sighs, as if in agreement. "But if ever I do find myself in your strange land, Maestro, you need only ask and I will give you my aid." Her eyes meet his briefly, and she dips her head, perhaps in a gesture to seal a pact.

She pats the boar on the cheek, turns to head towards the door. "Come. Your bauble awaits."

Out this back entrance of the stable is a side door into the lodge, probably meant for discrete exits of various sorts. The simple set of steps up to it are cast stone, cracked and mossy. "Watch your step," she warns Cris over her shoulder as they head inside.

The door leads into a mudroom of sorts, which in turn leads into the kitchen. There's no one in it at the moment; there seems to be at a pause in proceedings of making a meal. Bowls set aside with handcloths laid over them, probably with rising dough; a pot simmering over the hearth; the remains of chopped vegetables heaped in what may be a compost pile. "Care for a drink? We have ale, mead, and cider." She pulls down a pair of goblets and immediately begins to fill one from a large jug; mead, from the smell of it.

"'Playing' host, is that what you think I'm doing?" Coira sounds almost offended. Almost. She pushes the first goblet to him, filles one for herself. "You must come from a strange world indeed, that the master of a house doesn't offer a simple drink to a guest." She sets the jug back on the shelf from which she took it, considers the question of tobacco. "We do have smoking leaves, yes. It's a primary export crop from the Western reaches. I'm not sure it's the same as the leaf from your world, but you're welcome to some, if you like." She moves to a large table, pulls down a jar of what certainly looks like rolling tobacco, as well as a small pouch containing rolling papers and small bead-like objects that seem to have a filtering property. She gestures for him to have at, settles back against the table and sips from her mead.

"Mmm. Perhaps." Coira watches him roll the cigarette, expression thoughtful. "That's unfortunate. I suppose to them you're--what, disreputable?" Her tone turns dryly amused. "I've a bit of that problem myself. Perhaps that's why I insist on civility. I know what it's like to go without it." She tilts her head at the hearth as a source of a light; there are numerous long sticks by the fire to use for such a thing.

The flavor of the tobacco is dark and sweet, like a fine pipe tobacco, with a suggestion it might have been grown among interesting spices. The sort of thing only hardcore, organic granola farmer people from Portland who drink civet poop coffee insist on. Good stuff, but also the kind of thing Cris knows costs a good $100 an ounce. And here, it's in a canning jar in a rundown hunting lodge overseen by a bandit queen.

"We do," Coira agrees, examining a spot on the floor. "But sooner or later, we learn that life isn't sustainable. Then we die, or," she straightens from the table, "we change." She nods for Cris to follow, leading him out of the kitchen and into the entrance hall.

This part of the interior is similar to the exterior: former opulance fallen into disuse, slowly undergoing repairs. The windows are recently cleaned, to go by the dirty rags and buckets of filthy water scattered around under them. They depict various images of a life cycle set to the seasons: in the first, a stream holds newly hatched fish, which a little boy reaches down to touch while an osprey hatchling begs for food from its parent in a large oak tree; in the second, the boy, now a teen, tries his hand at fishing, while the young osprey learns to fly, and the fish leap after bugs from the stream, acorn-heavy oaks hanging over the banks; in the third, the osprey hunts at the command of a young man, snatching a fish out of midair, surroudned by autumn-red oaks; in the last one, the man rides off into a winter forest, the osprey on his shoulder, with the stream frozen over.

A huge, once-beautiful staircase sweeps up to the second floor. In front of them are a pair of newly-replaced doors in blond wood; Coira leads him to these.

"It was," Coira confirms. "I was last here when I had five years...or perhaps seven." She frowns a little, shrugs aside the discrepency. "It's the first place I reclaimed, when I could, as it holds only good memories for me. Memories of my mother and father and I, when we were happy." Before her mother's illness and death, and Griffin's machinations.

She seems amused by his solution to the ash, but makes no comment, just opens the doors. Beyond is a great room, complete with a huge, blackened fireplace. The walls are bare, but this was obviously a trophy room. And it was packed with them, to go by the tight, geometric arrangement of ghostly shapes where soot was kept off the walls by the heads and horns of who knew how many kinds of animal. Those are all long gone. Now, it's packed with things.

Coira had said she had a collection, and this wasn't any form of hyperbole. The usual fancy furniture one would find in a room like this has been replaced with display cases, work tables, and dressers, and every surface is covered. From fancy scrying orbs to ornate staffs to figurines to large glass jars of knicknacks: if it might be valuable, it's in here.

Coira gives Cris a look that's equal parts horrified and fascinated. 'Rolling in the grave' isn't, maybe, translating quite right in the Dream. Or perhaps the people here don't bury their dead, only cremate them. "Rolling in her grave," she echoes. Well, she doesn't sound offended, at least.

She shudders a little, sets the question of that euphamism aside in favor of looking around at her collection. "No, nothing of the sort. I simply," she moves to a chest of drawers, sets down the goblet of mead in exchange for a small, ceramic vase covered in lovingly detailed, gold paint calligraphy on a black, crackled glaze, "worked for trade. Traveled the roads, helped people with their problems." She sets the vase aside. "My reputation grew and so did what I could command. Money is good, of course, but," she looks among the items, "so are good. Especially those rare and powerful. And so," she raises her hands, "you may take your pick."

"The others each felt something call out to them, as a wizard might." Coira shrugs. "I imagine it will be much the same with you." She gestures as if to shoo him. "Look. Wander. Something will call." She resumes sipping from her goblet, watching him closely. She's quite interested in this choosing process.

And, as she's said, Cris doesn't begin to feel something tugging at the edge of his perception. From that part of him that can move things at will, that part of thing he remembers August trying to coax into finding something he'd lost. There's a sound like a guitar being strummed, a smell like fresh caramel. Somewhere over...there, on the top shelf of a curio cabinet stuffed with gemstones and crystals.

Coira follows at a respectable distance, pausing when he comes to the cabinet. It's a mishmash of minerals, gems, and similar specimens, with heavy wood shelving to support the weight. She nods. "It's unlocked."

The source of the sound--or smell, or feeling--sits among a collection of similar shining shapes. These aren't geodes or slabs of crystal for Reiki or crystal balls, though; they're skulls. Animal skulls.

The variety is vast, from a rather large predator skull--a wolf, maybe--in red-veined obsidian, to a raptor skull of labradorite flashing dusky gray-blue and yellow, to a snake skull of deep purple amethyst. They don't seem to be arrayed with any rhyme or reason, but one in particular shines brighter than the others: a mammal skull, in smoky quartz. It's probably from some manner of cat, and about the right size for a cat's head. He's not even touching it yet, but he can feel the chill of the quartz in his hand (or is that the purr of a wiry-furred cat?).

Cris' hands close around the skull, and it's not cold, as he could have reasonably expected. It's warm, like Dante's cat almost. Is there a light at the base of those eye sockets, a memory of vigrant green staring back at him across a million years? Not the sabre-tooth tigers of his children's dinosaur books and movies like 10,000 BC; this creature had shimmering scales under wiry, dark brown fur riddled with brilliant color patterns, and a barbed tail.

Something bumps against his leg. The skull grows warmer in his hand. Then hot. He can feel the teeth digging into his palm; the light and sound and smell from it are overwhelming, blotting out everything else--

He's back where he was before he entered the Dream, the slowly cooling feline skull in his hands. The hand-rolled cigarette is gone, but the effects of it linger; the promise of one HELL of a hangover.