With A little Faith (Cont.)

[Cauchemar]

The bakery
The stable
The gaol
The meeting house
The tavern
The remedium

...and countless other less important buildings in between. Each would have their feather, and the carved ring, too small for a finger. Some places jade, others amber. Still it was nearly the same in every place. A small, but carefully depicted feather, painted in dark red. The ring left on the ground near the feather. The feather was never obvious. Never grand and gauche. One would have to know the building, the town, to notice them. And they would have to look ever so closely to see what it was if not more than a smear of blood, or a spatter of mud.

As the sun began to rise this morning the painting upon the Remedium was finished, the ring placed carefully on the earth below it.

"His will be done, in all I do
'Someday I will return to you'

His name be praised"

The hooded figure would disappear into the woods once more.

[Dulcie]

A ring and a feather found together. It could have been a poem if Dulcie was that way inclined, but as it was she was focused primarily on making sure the tavern was clean inside and out. The building was practically her home, and she knew each and ever inch of it, which is why she immediately noticed the painted feather on the stairs leading up to the Dagger's porch and the ring that was laying near it. Clearly it was a symbol of something and Dulcie never really cared of any of that sort of nonsense. It could be a kid's prank, or a cultists symbol or some strange anchoring something or another for some sort of demon. Trouble is what it was.

Grumbling to herself Dulcie would settle down on the porch and begin scrubbing away at the feather that appeared to have been painted in blood, using all of her cleaning techniques and powerful soaps to get it out. Her success was moderate, managing to get most of it away, with only a faded hint of the painting beneath it. It was good enough for now. Tomorrow she'd give it another go when her arms were less sore and she could put some good effort behind getting the rest of it out. Blood stains were the worst.

As she trudged back up to the dagger she'd turn the little amber ring over again in her hand. It was tiny, way too tiny for any of her fingers, not that she would have been inclined to put it on. The thing and that weird feather just gave her a distinct feeling of wrongness. Maybe it was just because it was another strange mess at the end of a long day of messes. She made her way back inside, looked at the ring one more time and then pitched it into the fire. The fire was the only place that strange objects should be, and burning things solved just about every magical problem in the book. In fact she was feeling quite proud of herself until the thing started to make a screaming sound. She covered her ears, drowning out the sound of the screaming, but there was the ring in the middle of the fireplace, growing a bright red and screaming. It was definitely the right choice to burn it. Rings don't scream. Period. The thing continued it's screaming longer than Dulcie would have liked, until finally the bright red ring began to lose it's form, melting down the burning logs that it had been sitting on and sinking to the bottom of the hearth.

Dulcie watched the melting ring until the last bright ember had gone out. She was glad it was gone, and glad that the screaming had stopped, though it was likely to give her nightmares for a week. Rubbing at her ears she would walk away from the hearth and back to the kitchen, not having noticed that the melted ring had sunk right into the stone at the bottom of the hearth.

[Cherny]

It's the late-autumn sun that does it, a mere month from the solstice; blazing cold in a crystal-blue sky, angling along Bridge Street just so; forcing those walking southwards to duck their heads or be blinded. So it happens that a boy making his way towards the south gate is paying more attention to the cobbles before his feet than the bustle around him. Abruptly he pauses, frowning, and peers more closely at the ground a little way ahead. Something caught in the hollow between two stones, the edge catching that slanting sunlight and glowing with golden fire.

A quick glance to each side, but he can see no one paying him any mind; thus decided he quickly stoops, thin fingers snatching up the shining thing into a tight fist before he hurries briskly on. It's only a hundred yards later that he pauses to inspect his prize, narrow shoulders hunching protectively; a tiny circle of what looks almost like solidified honey, though he guesses it to be some sort of coloured glass. Too dainty to fit even on his smallest finger, carved in a pattern like braided hair.

It's the matter of a moment to slip it into his coat pocket, there to mingle with other small treasures he's collected here and there. Inwardly pleased with this latest find he continues on his way, unaware of the feather mark painted low on a butcher's shopfront far behind him.

[Tolleson]

Once a week Genny visited the Remendium, usually with a pie for Janessa and the doctor. It had been a habit before she’d left, when Giuseppe lay injured beyond belief and one she intended to keep up. It wasn’t just a reminder to help the helpless, or be constant in good deeds, but it was the best place to practice mixing herbs. A skill she didn't want to loose simply because she had too many letters to write, inquiries to make and books to read. Not to mention there was almost always someone she knew come from a fight at the Dagger, injured by Catch, or gods forbid they had a cold. So it was with a light heart but a head focused on a myriad of problems that Genny came, basket on her arm and concentration on the road, lest she trip and ruin the treat she carried.

It was a beautiful autumn day this one, a soft breeze, the air crisp and colorful leaves filling the branches, the air, and in piles upon piles on the roadside. But even on such a day and from this distance, something looked amiss at the Remendium. Letters. Cryptic words that seem all too familiar and disturbingly so.

Nearer to the building, Genny set her things down and retrieved a journal. Her left hand began to copy the words in her own fine script. She began to step closer, making notes in a flurry across the page, details she would undoubtedly share with Glenn. One foot before the other, one ankle caught another and just as she had reached out to touch the ‘paint’ she found her face in the earth, a ring pressed into her forehead.

Among the fallen foliage the ring had been lost, even as jade glinting in the sun it may have been near impossible to see. But here, the klutz curled her legs under her and held it in her palm, turning it over and giving a glance between words and the object. Perhaps a connection, perhaps not; the small thing was placed in the journal on the page with her notes, secured and tucked away. First, she stood and would go to see if the Remendium staff had any paint on hand and then it would be a visit to Glenn.

[catch]

"Ride a cock-horse to Barnbury Cross, to see a fine lady on a white horse, with rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, and she shall have music, wherever she goes."

So he sings, the words resonating in his throat, lifting high into the open rafters of the Dagger's stables. He turns the little ring between his hard, horny fingers, the sea-green thing a smooth coldness in the rough. He had fetched it from Mortimer's curious lips. It just like a little pebble, something fetched from the Lake. And it is his. It is his, because rings belong to men, and he gives his little goat an affectionate grip of his little horns, while his other slips the ring in his pocket.

"Let's f-f-find you th-the best stall, for when you are g-g-grown," he will say, secretly, and so he, too, misses the blood-thin feather that is so meticulously painted.

Boys and girls come out to play,
The moon doth shine as bright as day.
Leave your supper and leave your sleep,
And join your playfellows in the street.

[Cauchemar]

Dulcie would awake to find, should she look again, that the feather not only remained, but was once more exactly as it was before. As if painted new this very morning. No footsteps near, no brush or pot of paint.

When dear Genny would open her journal to show the ring to the Governor, she would find a curious thing indeed. Above and beneath it were coal black rings of burned paper. The damage to perhaps five pages front and back. Exactly in the shape of the ring and nothing more. The ring remained, small and beautiful in the circle of ash.

Cherny and Catch may notice nothing about their rings, unless they look at them in the darkness of the wood or the candle-less night of their rooms. Then, and only then, when no light was present, would the rings glow, ever so gently.

[Galacia Tarin]

A slippered toe pushes at the frosted earth at the corner of Altias Bromn's bakery. The deep red feather had been the first thing to catch her eyes, but it had been the sensation that had drawn her here and to several other buildings in Myrken. In the dirt below the wicked little mark she found a ring of amber. It's surface etched like the braid in a young woman's hair. Carefully carved and delicate. So tiny as to not fit a single finger, even if she had been foolish enough to try it on. So was not so foolish.

Lips pursed as she looked at this thing in her hand. Turning it over and over with a long talon of deepest black. The smell, the feel of it, familiar, but somehow off. There were many she could share this knowledge with. Many who would not believe, many who would exploit her knowledge. No. This was something that needed to be shared with someone who had nothing at all to gain from this discovery. Someone who knew the danger, even if only from what he had read.

The braided bracelet at her wrist was toyed with, shining white and glimmering in the morning sun. Human hair, and a silver clasp. A trinket. A trophy some might say. But now? Now it was a touchstone, that with the knowledge she had gained from Elliot, she might find the intended recipient of her new found knowledge. Desite how little she really had.

[Treadwell]

The tiny red feather and jade ring would be left at the toy shop, both unnoticed, for now, during Treadwell's absence. There they stay, waiting to be seen and picked up, respectively, by the vacationing, portly shopkeeper.

[Dulcie]

The innkeeper had a whole string of curses to fill the air with when she returned the next day to find the feather apparently repainted from the day before. Suspicious eyes would look around the area, looking for clues of who might be sneaking up and painting the little feather again and again.

She tried a new tactic today, scraping away the painted feather from the step with her knife. Perhaps the mystery painter would just give up!

[Cauchemar]

With the death of Thadius Dhrin the rings had screamed. All over Myrken those tiny rings shrieked and wailed for some long minutes. They cried out as his life blood drained over the hand of Ariane Carnath-Emory and glittered on Thadius' blade in the hand of Lamai. They glowed red hot, burning everything they touched. Small contained heat, but enough to leave a mark wherever they had been, whether book, or grass or pocket. With the very last beat of his heart each one of them shattered. No more now than dust where had once been a beautiful work of art.

Just before dawn on the lawn of the Broken Dagger two figures stood. One tall and thin, one so small. They stood before a pool of blood which had days before seeped into the earth, leaving stains upon the grass and glittering bits of crimson in the frost. The small one knelt on the frozen ground and placed a bundle of silver lilies on the stain upon the earth. The flowers seemed to mirror the color of her curls. Behind her the tall one would place a hand upon her shoulder and squeeze gently, as if to reassure her.

"Night has passed
The moon is flown
The distance from us
Now has grown.

Your spirit lives
Within our heart
And from us you
Will never part

Those who did this
Will rue the day
In your name
They all will pay"

The sweet sing-song voice spoke these words with a light heart, a promise, not a threat. Rising then, she would take her mother's hand, and the two, silver and red, would return to the shadows of the forest, the lilies left upon the lawn.

[Cauchemar]

"Do you still feel them, Dove?" Her hand caressed the young girl's cheek tenderly as she looked into those beautiful jade eyes, brushing back one of those platinum curls. She was such a beautiful child. No mother could have wanted more. So beautiful, so talented, so full of love for her father.

"Yes, mama. They still see. They whisper in town. They speak of Him wanting to die. How this is all part of His plan. Was it part of His plan Mama? Did He want to die?" Those eyes seemed to look into her very soul, searching for answers to questions even yet unasked. Her thin lips pressed in a tight line. So strong even after His death. So patient.

Such a difficult question to answer. How does one explain years of planning, preparation and then a sudden change in direction at the chance of redemption? Had He meant to die? No, certainly not. Had the perfect opportunity presented itself? Absolutely.

"No, he didn't mean to die, love. Some things just are as they must be. Do you remember what he told you that night? That he would always be with you? He told true, yes?"

The smile that blossomed on the girl's face was beyond beautiful. Her smokey green eyes glittered with love and magick.

"Yes Mama, Father is with me always. Just as he promised."

Cauchemar smiled at her daughter. At their daughter. Another stroke of her hand for the girl's cheek.

"That's my girl. Now, you need to say your prayers and get to bed. We have painting to do in the morning."