Aberration Series (N-P) (Unreviewed)[]
Old Finchley Tram Shelter
Near Nanmore bound Line,
Commonwealth of Toria,
Wednesday Evening, 7:15 P.M.
The salt-laced wind whipped around the slightly derelict Old Finchley Tram Shelter tugging at loose corrugated panels and whistling through cracks in its weathered timber and steel frame. More a forgotten afterthought than a functional part of the landscape, it stood plonked, almost apologetically, between the quaint coastal street of Hogan’s Gap and the more bustling Canmore District. Its faded blue paint peeled away in sun-bleached patches, revealing the gray wood beneath, like an old bruise surfacing. Weeds tenaciously pushed their way up through the cracked concrete foundation, a silent rebellion against the shelter’s abandonment. The once proud lettering, proclaiming “Old Finchley Line,” was now barely legible, obscured by years of grime and the relentless assault of the coast weather. It was a ghost of a bygone era, a silent witness to the ebb and flow of life in this corner of the world, standing as a stark contrast to the vibrant charm of Hogan’s Gap and the bustling energy of Nanmore District. Yet, despite its disrepair, or perhaps because of it, the Old Finchley Tram Shelter held a certain melancholy charm, a story whispered on the breeze, just waiting to be heard.
“You know, they say if you listen real close, you can still hear the clank of the tram tracks,” Hornsby the licorne said, squinting through the smoke of his seed pod pipe. He sat on the bench outside the shelter, the sun casting long shadows across the lined equine face.
The young nezumi girl beside him looked up from her sketchbook, curiosity sparking in her her large eyes. “The Art Deco one behind us?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder.
Hornsby nodded, tapping the ashy bowl of his pipe against the armrest. “That’s the one. Back in the Yngvi times, this was the heart of the resort center, you know. The trams used to come through here, full of people dressed in their Sunday best, going to the grand theater or fancy restaurant along the Bridgenia Promenade.” He gestured to the now deserted terraced street where weeds and mosses pushed through the tiled pavement stones.
The nezumi girl’s curiosity grew. “What happened to it all?” she questioned, her pencil hovering over her sketch.
“The gods eventually punished them for their arrogance,” Hornsby said, his pale eyes misting over with the ghosts of memories. “Like the humes in the Tower of Babel story, the Yngvi built too high, too fast, didn’t pay attention to the wisdom of the past. They forced other sapient species into servitude to work in their colossal factories and opulent mansions. Then, from their very heart of their capital, the Great Yggdrasil Woods surged forth, and the Yngvi’s world crumbled. That was when the trams ceased to run, and the people fled. The earth consumed their splendor, leaving only remnants of the old Nanmore District.
The nezumi girl’s hand stilled, her pencil poised in mid-line. She could almost sense the burden of history pressing down on the once-majestic edifice. “But why does the shelter remain?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Hornsby in haled deeply from his pipe, allowing the smoke to swirl with the dust motes in the air. “Well, some believe it stands as a reminder of what was, a monument to the folly of ambition. Others claim it’s haunted, that the spirits of those lost in the chaos linger here, waiting for a tram that will never return.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “But I reckon it’s just too stubborn to fall down. Like me, I suppose.”
The nezumi girl’s eyes widened as she took in the shelter’s fading grandeur, the intricate patterns of the Art Deco tiles chipped and faded, the metal and wooden framework bent but unbroken. She could perceive the beauty beneath the decay, the echoes of a time long gone. “What was it like, back when the trams were running?” she prompted, eager for more of the old licorne’s tales.
Hornsby’s expression softened as he reminisced about days gone by. “Oh, what a sight it was! The shelter sparkled, lights twinkled like constellations, and the trams glided silently through the streets, ethereal as phantoms. Laughter and chatter filled the air, with everyone dressed to impress, while the fragrance of fresh blooms from the nearby market wafted around. The whole world buzzed with potential, and this place was the threshold to it all.”
He took a thoughtful puff from his pipe, further drifting into nostalgia. “You could set your clock by the trams. They would rumble down the tracks, a rhythmic pulse of advancement. The conductor, a dapper chap named Charles McFeely always greeted the ladies with a smile and a courteous tip of his hat. The tram itself was a wonder, adorned in chrome and polished wood, with plush seats that embraced you warmly, even in the chill of winter. It was an era of grace, a time when the world felt newer and brighter, and the future was an untouched canvas waiting for the Yngvi brush strokes of innovation and beauty.”
The nezumi girl’s pencil danced across the page as she tried to capture the vibrancy of the scene he painted with his words. She could almost hear the distant echoes of laughter and the clack of heels on the worn pavement. “What was the last tram like?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the quiet rustle of the remaining leaves of the surrounding trees.
Hornsby leaned back, his eyes unfocusing as he searched the archives of his memories. “The last tram . . . it was a sad affair. The city was already changing, the people knew their days of glory were numbered. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and fear. The tram, it was the same as always, but the lights seemed to flicker a bit more, the chrome a tad less gleaming. The passengers were few, mostly stubborn holdout and old former servants like me, clinging to the past glories of Empire with desperate hands. As it pulled away, it felt like witnessing the final breath of a cherished friend.”
The Nezumi girl lifted her gaze from her drawing, her heart weighted down by his somber words. The sun sank lower in the sky, draping the shelter in a sorrowful light. She sensed the melancholy that enveloped them, a tangible aura that clung to the crumbling structure. “What happened to the people after the trams stopped running?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Hornsby paused, collecting his thoughts, the faint glow of his pipe illuminating the deepening shadows. “Well, they tried to rebuild, but it was never the same. The saplings from the Great Yggdrasil had taken root deep in the earth, and they grew fast. It’s said the old gods were displeased with the Yngvi and their Hualau servants for their arrogance. The city couldn’t keep pace with the relentless growth. It consumed the buildings, the streets, everything. As for the original people, they scattered to new places, starting anew. But the shelter remained, a silent sentinel to a world that was passed by.”
The Nezumi girl nodded, her pencil hovering above the paper. She had immortalized the shelter in all its decaying glory, the once-beautiful tiles now a mottled mess of greens and blues, the rectangular frame a twisted testament to the power of nature. She glanced around, envisioning the lively street of the past, and shivered as the first raindrops began to fall.
Nanmore Royal Pavilion Tram Shelter
10.5 mi away
9 P. M.
The rain intensified, each droplet striking the corrugated metal roof of the dilapidated tram shelter with a mournful cadence, reminiscent of a dirge echoing through the void. Within its shadowy confines, a solitary figure slumped in a timeworn wicker chair, shrouded in the dim light that flickered sporadically from the failing ceiling fixture. This shelter, once a proud emblem of hope and progress nestled in the vibrant heart of the Historic Nanmore District, now lay ensnared in the clutches of decay. Its once-vibrant Art Deco tiles, now peeling and faded murmured tales of a bygone era when the air was thick with the promise of a bright tomorrow, and the clatter of trams resonated like the very heartbeat of the city. Now only the mournful rumble of distant thunder filled the silence.
The figure within was a stark anomaly against the backdrop of ruins a pale elfin boy of perhaps thirteen, clad in the latest designer attire that seemed almost ethereal amidst the decay. His garments, a delicate fusion of shimmering silk and intricate lace, clung to his slender form with an unsettling precision. His eyes, resembling frozen sapphires, were wide and unblinking, mirroring the rain’s glimmer outside like twin pools of moonlit frost. Despite the autumn chill that seeped through the air, he wove only a gossamer-thin shirt, the fabric clinging to him as if it were a second skin.
There was an unsettling stillness about him, a watchful anticipation that felt akin to a trap set to spring. The atmosphere around him crackled with an unspoken tension, as if he were a tightly wound coil poised to unleash a torrent of energy at the slightest disturbance. The only sigh of life came from the sporadic twitch of his long fingers, drumming an erratic rhythm on the armrests of the chair, resonating with the storm’s tempo. His gaze remained fixed on the murky puddles forming on the cracked concrete floor, as if he sought to unearth secrets hidden within their depths.
The sound of footsteps drew near, each splashing tread a cautious murmur against the drenched payment. His pointed ears, which had sagged under the weight of countless disappointments, suddenly perked up with a jolt. Breath held tight in his chest, he felt the world around him still. The footsteps intensified, each echoing thud igniting a flicker of hope in his eyes, building with every raindrop that fell outside. He leaned forward, the chair creaking in protest at his sudden movement. The rhythm of the steps became unmistakable, a heartbeat in the silence. Yet, as the figur3e emerged from the shadows, his gaze sharpened, and the tension that had coiled within him unraveled like fog under the sun’s gaze. It was not the one he had been expecting. Once more, his ears drooped, and he slumped back into the weary watch of his vigil.
Behind the small figure, shadows thickened, the cold silver light resembling twin glacial pools growing ever more intense. They sliced through the darkness, sending icy tendrils of dread spiraling down his spine, despite his resolute stance. The rain had transformed the world outside into a bleak monochrome, and the shadows flickered upon the walls as if the very spirits of the forsaken tramway had awakened, yearning to reclaim the warmth of a forgotten time. Yet, he dared not turn, his gaze fixed on the expanding puddles that greedily swallowed the light, as if they were ravenous mouths eager to consume the secrets of the night.
Once more, the distant echo of footsteps reverberated through the desolate streets of the Nanmore District. This time, the rhythm was heavier, each step deliberate and laden with purpose. The youth’s heart quickened, a tremor of recognition coursing through him– this was different. His unblinking eyes remained locked on the archway of the shelter’s sole entrance, veiled by the relentless rain. His ears, once drooping in despair, now stood erect, attuned to the frequency of hope. Each footfall grew clearer, a ticking clock of anticipation making the seconds down to an unknown climax. The figure outside the shelter trudged closer, the weight of their presence palpable, a harbinger of something yet to unfold.
The footsteps grew more pronounced, the rain momentarily relenting to allow the sound to pierce through the din. He could almost sense the vibrations of the approach through the soles of his polished boots. Shadows behind him elongated, stretching toward the ceiling like dark fingers reaching for something just out of their grasp. The youth’s heart raced, frantic mouse thrashing within its confines as his eyes scoured the dimness for any flicker of movement.
Then, the footsteps halted abruptly, plunging the space into a silence so profound it felt as though the very air had thickened. The stillness was a stark contrast to the tempest raging outside, and he remained frozen, every sinew taut with anticipation, the weight of expectation pressing down upon him like a heavy fog. The only sounds were the rain’s relentless murmur and the distant growl of thunder, a harbinger of the chaos that loomed just beyond the threshold. The puddles at his feet quivered, the ripples radiating outward like whispers in a vast, unseen ocean.
With a sudden burst of anger, the youth hissed, the sound sharp and unnatural, piercing the quietude like a shard of ice. It was a sound that didn’t belong in the gentle melody of the rain– a serpent’s warning, a creature of the night’s cry of frustration. The puddles at his feet shivered again, and this time, the tremor grew into a full-fledged quake, sending ripples outwards as if the earth itself was responding to his agitation. The lights above flickered erratically, casting grotesque shadows that writhed and twisted like serpents on the wall.
Behind him, the shadows grew denser, coalescing into something more substantial than mere darkness. The dark cables swirled and twisted, taking on a life of their own, forming into a sinuous form that seemed to be made of the very fabric of the night. The entity was vast, its shadowy branch like tendrils reaching up to the low ceiling and stretching out to the rounded edges of the room, as if the shelter had suddenly been invaded by a living piece of the storm. Its eyes, two pockets of deeper blue, fixed upon the youth, seemingly in response to his fury.
Elya’s Hearth
Wednesday Evening
7:32 P. M.
Sully’s heart hammered as he pushed through the door, the sound of rain pattering against the metal awnings and dumpster, echoing in the alleyway. The warm, spice-scented air of Elya’s Hearth enveloped him like a comforting blanket, momentarily soothing his frazzled nerves. He stepped into the now dimly lit front lounge, half-expecting to find a couple of stern-faced officers waiting to grill him about the recent cooking material theft plaguing the area. Instead, he saw Simargl, the feathered dog dragon baker, and her mole man assistant, Barnaby, huddled over a steaming pot of tea at one of the round wooden tables.
The sight of them was a peculiar relief, but their furtive glances and whispered conversation filled him with a different kind of dread. Simargl looked up as he approached, her sharp eyes piercing through the shadows. “Ah, Sullivan,” she said, her voice a mix of urgency and honey. “We’ve been waiting for you. We need an audience with your mother.”
Barnaby nodded in agreement, his whiskers twitching. “Yes, it’s about something rather . . . sensitive. We wouldn’t want to bother her, but it’s quite important.”
Sully’s nerves tightened again, his mind racing. An oracle consultation? That could mean anything. But before he could ask for clarification, Ely, now in anthrop form, emerged from the back, wiping her massive hands on a dish towel. Her scales shimmered a warm gold in the soft evening light, a stark contrast to the tension in her eyes.
“Mom,” Sully began, trying to sound as casual as he could manage. “Simargl and Barnaby need to talk to you. It’s important.”
Elya nodded, her expression unreadable. “Send them back to my office, please. And keep an eye on the front, I’ll be busy for a while.”
Sully complied, escorting the two into the back of the café where his mother’s office was. The curved, elegant room was a cluttered mess of scrolls, crystal balls, and various mystical artifacts, the air thick with incense and the faint hum of a crystal singing bowl. Elya followed closely, her fringed tail flickering in agitation.
Elya took considerable time adjusting her bulk behind her writing desk, before regarding her two guests seated across from her.
“Now, what seems to be the issue?” she asked, her voice carrying an authoritative asked, her voice carrying an authoritative tone that usually sent humans scurrying.
Simargl hesitated, her bright feathers ruffling. “As you may know already, from the various papers, a possible outside source is sowing chaos,” she said, glancing uncertainly at Barnaby, who gave her a reassuring thumbs-up. “Various folk have noticed some troubling irregularities in their supply deliveries. Cooking utensils, costly ingredients, even finished products have gone missing, and the quality of what remains has been questionable at best.” She sat for a minute regarding her clenched fists before looking up at Elya. “Last week, forty of my best berry pies were taken out from underneath our very noses! And in broad daylight too! It’s a devastating blow to our bakery’s reputation and financial stability. Well, we are asking for your help to find out who’s exactly responsible.”
As he lingered in the hall, Sully felt his heart plummet. Could it be that Odor’s thieving had extended to his mother’s suppliers? He tried to keep his face neutral, but his eyes darted to the burlap sack still sitting by the rear door. The last sack he forgot to give Odora minutes earlier.
O, MAMKA MY!
Elya’s gaze soon spotted him, she frowned then slowly followed the direction of his fixed stare. “What’s in that bag, Sully?” she asked, her voice low and measured.
Sully swallowed hard. “Just some . . . uh, stuff I found. Thought maybe it could be useful,” he improvised hastily.
Elya’s frown deepened, and she gestured to the bag. “Let’s see it.”
Sully reluctantly pulled out the hat boxes, his heart racing. “They’re just some extra hat boxes, Mom,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Though we could use them for . . . for decoration or something.”
Elya’s gaze remained on the sack, unconvinced. “Decoration?” she repeated, her voice a low rumble. “Interesting choice for a dragon, who doesn’t even wear hats.”
Sully’s mind raced. “I– I know it’s weird, but I thought they could hold . . . uh, snacks? Or, or maybe we could start serving fancy desserts that match our mystical theme?” He tried to laugh it off, but it came out forced.
Elya’s gaze didn’t leave the hat boxes. She took a deep, measured breath. “You’re hiding something, Sullivan,” she said, her voice a soft warning. “And I’d prefer not to have to pull it out of you with my claws.”
Sully felt the heat rise to his cheeks. “It’s nothing, Mom. Just . . . stuff.” He hoped his voice didn’t betray his lies.
Elya’s gaze never left the sack. “I think it’s time we had a little talk, don’t you?”
Sully’s eyes darted between the bag and his mother. He knew he couldn’t lie to her. Not in front of the guests who were now staring at him in growing suspicion. Not about something like this. “Look, it’s just some stuff I found,” he admitted. “Odora had them, I just didn’t want to leave them out there.”
Elya’s frowned grew more severe. “Odora?” she murmured, her tail swishing behind her. “The pooka? What does she have to do with our supplies?”
“Yes, I would like to know that too,” Simargl’s amber eyes narrowed. “It’s no secret that Odora is quite the . . . acquisitive soul. We’ve all had our share of shining things disappear around her. But if she’s been pilfering from us, that’s a serious concern. We rely on those supplies for our livelihood, and Elya’s Hearth’s reputation is also at stake here.”
Sully’s throat tightened. “I– I didn’t even know she was taking from here. I swear, Mom. She’s just a friend, and I didn’t think . . . “
Elya’s eyes narrowed. “Friend or not, you know better than to get involved with Odora’s schemes. She’s been a thief and a trouble maker since she was hatched.”
Sully swallowed hard. “I didn’t know she was involved in these thefts. I just helped her move some stuff, I didn’t know it was stolen. I’m really sorry.”
Elya’s eyes narrowed even further, the room seeming to shrink with her growing anger. “Sully, you know better than to trust that pooka. She’s one of Tod Winnokur’s lackeys, always looking to swindle or pilfer whatever she can get her claws on. And now she’s brought her thieving ways to our doorstep?”
Simargl nodded solemnly. “Indeed, she’s been known to associate with that unsavory character. It’s no surprise she’s involved in these thefts. But what concerns me most is the implication for us. If it’s know we’re connected to her . . .” She trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.
Elya’s tail slapped against the floor, sending a tall stack of scrolls toppling to the ground. “We can’t have our reputation tarnished by association. We need to figure out how to handle this before it escalates further.”
Sully’s shoulders slumped. “So what do we do now, Mom?” He glanced nervously at Simargl, who was watching the exchange with a mix of concern and simmering anger. “Do we go to the Council? The police? Or do we look for Odora first?”
Simargl loudly snorted like an industrial vacuum cleaner. “Look for Odora?” she said with a gesture of deep scorn. “In this wretched weather? We’ll all catch our death of this Fimbul cold!”
Her feathers fluffed up and she shivered dramatically. Elya’s gaze didn’t leave Sully. “We’ll deal with Odora later. First, we need to figure out the extent of the damage. Who else has been hit?”
Sully’s mind raced, trying to remember Odora’s earlier bragging. “I– I think she mentioned The Spicy Dragonfly, and . . . The Goblin’s Griddle. And maybe some of the street carts in the Kecksies District?”
Elya’s expression grew darker. “Tod’s influence reaches further than I thought. This isn’t just simple case of theft anymore; it’s a declaration of war on our communities. And he’s using your friendship with that pooka to get to us. You need to be careful, Sully. Tod’s not a High Elf to be trifle with even though he’s still in middle school. His family still has a lot of influence around here.”
Sully nodded solemnly, his mind racing with the gravity of the situation. He had always known that Odora was a bit of a trickster, but he never thought she would drag him into something nefarious like this. He felt a twinge of betrayal, but also fear for his mother’s safety. If Tod was involved, it meant that the thefts weren’t just about greed, but about power and control.
Elya’s tail continued to swish as she thought. “We’ll need to be cautious. I’ll reach out to the other victims and see if we can pool our information. Maybe together we can piece together where these supplies are being taken to and cut off the source before it causes more damage. But Sully, you stay far away from Odora for now. We don’t need any more trouble then we already have.”
Sully nodded somberly, his heart sinking into his stomach. He wondered how exactly he was going to cancel next weekend’s get together with her at the pizzeria. “I understand, Mom,” he said eventually, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll stay clear of her.” He couldn’t believe he’d been so naive.
Historical Nanmore District
Hogan’s Gap, Old Town Section
Commonwealth of Toria
9:30 P. M.
Odora shivered as a deep chill crept through her thick fur, the rainwater beading on the tips of her large ears and tail as she hurried through the deserted streets of Hogan’s Gap. The solar-cell lamps flickered overhead, casting long distorted shadows that danced and stretched like the nightmares in her storybooks. Her newly purchased rain boots squeaked with each squelching step, leaving a trail of dark footsteps on the shiny cobblestones that gleamed wetly under the moonless sky. The tram shelter’s lone flickering overhead beckoned her like a lighthouse in a stormy sea. Tightening her grasp on the bulky pie sack, she quickened her slogging pace, eager to escape the dampness that clung to her like a second skin.
Unlike the Old Finchley Shelter, Nanmore Gate was little more than a shell, its glass windows all shattered and the metal frame tagged with the remnants of a hundred spray-painted gang and sigil symbols. The corraded walls were plastered with peeling posters of forgotten “rubbish hipster” concerts and numerous lost pets, their eyes staring back at her with accusatory glares. As she approached, the silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of someone stirring within.
Odora’s grip tightened on the sack of pies. The instructions from Tod had been clear: deliver the pies to Jarvis at the bus shelter and then leave. After Jarvis made the exchange with the witches, he’d bring her the game chip. By the way her fur stood on end suggested that something had gone wrong. Her instincts had never her astray before, and she wasn’t about to let them down now.
The sounds grew louder as she approached, the rhythmic creaking of something moving in the shadows. Odora’s eyes narrowed, and she slipped behind a nearby dumpster, peeking around the corner at the shelter. A figure slowly emerged, hunched over and awkwardly moving, like it was trying to shed an invisible rain poncho. It was definitely not the small silhouette of a teenage elfin boy. More like a gangly shadowy something from one of those horror shows she wasn’t supposed to watch at home.
Her heart hammered in her chest as the creature took shape. It was tall and emaciated, tight gray skin that looked like it had been stretched over a framework of thorny bramble branches. Two pupil-less eyes, glowing like embers in a flickering campfire, peered out from a mess of dark stringy hair. It had to be a spriggan, one of the Grub Street witches’ auxiliary henchmen. But why was he here? The exchange was supposed to be simple: she gives the pies to Jarvis, he takes them to the witches, she gets the game chip. Now the plan was unraveling before her eyes.
Odora’s claws dug into the wood bracing of the dumpster, her breathing slow and shallow. The spriggan was definitely not Jarvis, and he was definitely not happy to see she hadn’t yet made an appearance. He snarled, his numerous teeth like sharpened twigs, and took several paces into the street. She could envision the pies in their separate boxes, piled higgledly-piggledy in the sack, still warm and fragrant. The witches had wanted something special for their banquet tonight, something to win their favor, and now it was all going to be ruined.
The creature’s eyes swept the area, passing over her hiding spot. Her heart thudded in her chest, but she remained still, her fur plastered to her body in fear. The spriggan paused, his long hooked nose twitching as if he’d caught a scent. Odora’s breath caught in her throat, but the creature grunted and turned away, disappearing into an nearby alleyway. She waited, her long tail twitching with anxiety, until she was sure he was gone. Only then did she dare to peek out from behind the dumpster.
The shelter was empty, save for the lingering smell of something rotten and mildewy. Odora’s eyes darted around the area, searching for any sign of Jarvis. But all she saw was the rain continuing to fall, the puddles on the cobblestones reflecting the flickering lights like a shattered mirror. Something was definitely off, and she couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. The instructions had been clear: deliver the pies to Jarvis, no deviations.
Fine! She decided, finally fed up. Not sure where Jarvis lives so I’ll just leave the pies at the shelter then. If Tod asks me about it, I’ll just say I heard Jarvis moving about in there.
Odora’s thoughts raced as she crept closer to the shelter, her heart pounding in her chest. She had to be smart about this. If she could just leave the pies and get the game chip without being caught, everything would be fine. But as she approached the doorway, the sounds grew clearer. It was definitely someone– or something– still moving around in there. Her stomach twisted with a mix of fear and annoyance. Another spriggan? Great! I’ll just chuck the bag into that freakin’ shack and leave then! Frack this whole game chip idea! Forget Tod, Jarvis and everyone else in that poshy, layabout, slacker Eloi crew!
But as she drew closer, she could make out the unmistakable crunch of gravel underneath shoes and a sound of a wooden chain groaning under immense weight. That wasn’t part of the deal. She peered through a gap in the shadows, her eyes soon widening with shock as a brown-garbed figure stooped then slowly emerged from the doorway. It was taller, leaner and more menacing than the spriggan she had seen earlier, its hair a twisted tangled crown of twig-like quills, with eyes like cold pale ice that seemed to pierce right through her. It had to be one of the Grub Street witches themselves, a head lieutenant judging by its height and hair length.
Odora stumbled a few steps back, her bulging eyes frantically searching for Jarvis cowering form behind the creature looming up like a weathered gibbet tree. If she was facing the worst-case scenario of an unexpected meeting with the Witch Molls then she had no intention of facing them alone.
“H-h-h-h-ello,” she finally stuttered out. “I-I’m here with a delivery for Jarvis.”
Odora’s fur stood on end as she stared up at the parchment-skinned face, her heart racing like a jackrabbit’s in a hound’s sights. The creature’s slow tight grin was more terrifying than the stormy night around them, a twisted smile that promised lengthy trouble and quite possibly, perdition.
“Ah, yes, the delivery,” the witch croaked like a massive heron, her pale eyes flickering to the bulging burlap in Odora’s stiff arms.
“Jarvis is . . . indisposed at the moment. But I assure you, your pies will be in good hands. I am Moog. I will take them off your . . . paws,” She stepped closer, her bony hand reaching out.
Gritting her chattering teeth, Odora quickly slipped the sack from her aching shoulders and thrust it at the angular form.
“Well, I’ll be on my way then,” Odora, taking another step back. But Moog’s hand shot out, grabbing her small arm with a strength that belied her rail-thin appearance. The witch’s grip was a vise, and she didn’t flinch as the frigid rainwater ran down her desiccated skin and into the deep crevices of her deeply seamed palm.
“Not so fast, dearie,” Moog cackled, her bear trap grin widening. “You’re just in time for the autumn festivities. I insist you join us. After all, you’ve brought the main dessert course.”
Odora’s eyes widened in terror as the witch yanked her effortlessly around towards the shelter’s yawning mew. “But . . . but I just wanted to drop these off and get the game chip!” She protested, her voice shaking. “I’m not here to make trouble . . . “
Her knees quivered as she faced Moog’s glacial pools-for-eyes. She tried to tug her arm free, but the grip was like frozen iron. “P– please, let me go,” she stuttered. “I’ve done what I was told. Just give me the game chip and I’ll leave you to your . . . festivities. I don’t want any part of this!”
“Ljósálfar and his kinfolk make great trouble with us, makes great trouble for you too,” Moog simply stated, her grip on Odora’s arm unyielding. “But you’re not just anyone, are you? You’re Christy, Bray and Silas’s little foundling. And we all know how protective cynocephalies are of their own despite their origins.”
Odora froze. “How did you know about Mum and grandparents?”
Moog’s smile broadened, showing filed teeth sharper than the shards of glass that lined the shelter’s windows. “We know much about those who dwell in our city, dearie. Much more than you might think. Now, come with me. You shall be our guest of honor at tonight’s banquet. After all, we must thank you for bringing us such a delightful offering.”
Odora’s stomach turned, and she felt a cold sweat break out along her spine. She had always heard the muted whispers about the Ymir Troll Witches, the way they ruled the underbelly of Yggdrasil Territories with a mix of fear and dark ice magic. But she had never imagined herself face to face with one, let alone in their subterranean lair. The bus shelter, she realized with a start, wasn’t just a meeting place; it was a checkpoint to their hidden world, a main gateway to the notorious Grub Street.
Moog tugged her closer, her grip like a tight manacle. “Don’t worry, dearie,” she crooned. “You’ll be quite safe with us. After all, we wouldn’t want to upset your folk . . . especially Silas, now would we?”
Shore Groves Heights
Between Hogan’s Gap & Murre let
Wednesday Evening
10:48 P. M.
It was late at night, and the storm outside was relentless. Bill and Willy exchanged worried messages, their shell phones beeping like frantic crickets in the dark.
“You still going?” Willy texted, his words stark on the glowing screen.
Bill lay on his bed, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. He glanced at the screen, where the message blinked ominously then at the darkness outside. The heavy rains pounding against the panes seemed to increase that feeling of dread in him.
Turning back to his phone, he took a deep breath. “Not sure,” he replied, his stubby thumbs over the keys. “The vibe is just . . . off.”
Willy’s response was immediate, filled with anxious emojis and colorful question marks. “Yeah, I knew you mean. It’s like someone forgot to tell the universe it’s just a party.”
Bill nodded to the empty space, his reflection in the rain-spattered window nodded back. “Exactly. And all those Terran kids in the Kecksies District, they could use a bit of cheer after what happened to Hualau-Urth.”
Willy’s owl avatar popped up on Bill’s BlogCubes, startling him. “You’re right, Bill.” It hooted out a green speech bubble. “They’ve all had it rough, especially the ones who lost their homes to the AI/robot uprising.”
The latest Mirror Earth crisis had finally displaced thousands of people from their Real space Dimension, forcing them to integrate into the neighboring Midgard dimensions. The various multiverse governments, including the Faerie Territories had promised them shelter and upmost support, but the reality was starker than the shadows lurking outside both boys’ windows.
“You know what?” the owl avatar suggested. “Maybe we should give all our invites to those Terran kids.”
Bill thought a minute, his calloused thumb hovering over the screen. “You think they’d want to go?” he eventually replied. “Lately, Tod’s becoming a Purist, Speciest jerk. He might not appreciate it.”
“Well, it’s about time he learned a lesson in inter-dimensional respect and empathy, don’t you think?” Willy shot back, the words appearing in a burst of yellow. “Right now, they’ve got nowhere to go, and Halloween’s supposed to be for everyone else, not just the cool elite kids who think they own the night. Besides, it’s not like we’re obliged to go to this thing anyway, right?”
Bill sighed deeply as he thought about his own mandatory obligation to Halloween fun last year. The rain had turned the world outside into a blur of gray, the droplets racing down the window like ghosts fleeing an exorcism. “You’re right. But how do we even approach them?”
The new students from the Kecksies District had largely kept to themselves, their hollow eyes haunted by the horrors of the Mirror Earth crisis that had ripped them from their familiar world and thrown them into this unfamiliar, uncaring one.
“Just be cool about it, yeah?” Willy’s response was swift, his words appearing in a comforting blue. “We can tell them it’s all for charity or something. Maybe even throw in some candy corn to sweeten the deal. They’ve got to be desperate for a bit of fun in all this mess, right?”
The conversation grew as other friends chimed in, their avatars and user names popping up like a ghostly chorus in the groupchat. A few of them Bill recognized–Gwen Barry, Irene Dawson, Jeffery and Ethel Maher, Thomas Lutz, Midori Sayuko along with her identical sisters– Oyuki and Mai . Even Alex Thompson, seemed to put his sabotage revenge plans on hold, offered up a new idea. “Why don’t we tell them it’s a special VIP event? That we’re giving them the chance to be the first to experience something that they’ll remember fondly for years to come?”
“VIP?” Bill typed back skeptically. “They’re probably never heard of that here. And we can’t just hand them over to whatever freak show Tod’s cooked up!”
Willy’s reply was quick. “Okay, okay. How about we say it’s a cultural exchange? They get to experience over Halloween, we get to learn about theirs. Maybe throw in some educational value?”
Bill couldn’t help but snicker. “Yeah, sure. And what exactly are we going to learn from a bunch of scared refugee kids who probably heard about the 2005 Mass Causality Events in the Outer Root Reaches? They’re probably going to think we’re going to sacrifice them Harvest Home-Style to the Old Gods?”
Willy’s response was swift and firm. “Look, we can’t just ignore them. They’re really scared and alone right now. If this party is going to be messed up, then we should at least give them a safe, fun alternative. And if not, then we can always bail and take them somewhere else. We can handle it. Besides, we’ve got Alex and even Jasper Cullis on our side now. They got brains and guts, they’ll think of something.”
Alex’s icon popped up on their chat, his armored Sith avatar looking unusually thoughtful. “Guys, I’ve got another idea. What if we turn this into something positive? Like, we offer to show them around, be their tour guides through our version of the holiday. Maybe even throw in some ghost stories from their own culture and make it a real exchange, you know?”
Bill stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the screen. “I don’t know, man. That still feels like we’re using them to ease our conscience about going to this overblown High Born party. What if it’s dangerous?”
Willy’s response was immediate. “If it’s dangerous, we can just stick together. We don’t have to go into Tod’s house if there’s an outdoor venue. And if anything weird does happen, we can just get them out of there. Maybe even take them trick-or-treating around the various shops. For Kvasir’s sakes, they’re just innocent kids, Bill! They’ve already been through enough adult-spawned hell as it is.”
Alex nodded in agreement. “And we might just be their first friends here. They really need this. Plus, it’ll be cool to learn about their various traditions, right?”
The others murmured in digital assent, the idea of being heroes in the eyes of the Kecksies kids too tantalizing to resist. They had all heard the whispers about the Terran kids’ ghost stories, the kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up and your eyes dark around the rooms, searching the corners for shadows that didn’t quite belong.
It was the kind of thrill they had been craving since they had first heard various news reports about the Mirror Earth crisis, a chance to be part of something real and frightening.
They quickly sighed out, the excitement of the plan buzzing in their veins like a potent elixir. As Bill turned in, the rain had turned into a misty drizzle, the kind that clung to your skin like a damp velvet cloak. He didn’t even notice an old burlap sack in the nearby wynd, shifting slightly as if something within it was trying to get free.
Mmpratt99 deviantart (talk) 00:51, 21 March 2025 (UTC)
This work is now on main wiki for review
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