Post by Bixir on Jun 24, 2024 21:42:48 GMT
The air outside hissed, filled with the bitter dregs of older things. Here, even within the confines of the carriage, one could feel that influence with every third breath. It was a persistent grasp on one’s faculties, from physical fatigue to errant thoughts. Even those who lacked that mystery, like the chauffeur, could feel its eerie presence, however faintly. For Pages, and those destined for that profession, this experience followed them everywhere in the realm.
In Värgen, the sickly Wyrd was most strongly concentrated. The known maladies of its nature barred any mundane folk from staying in the town overlong. Every resident within its walls were, in one way or another, familiar with the arcane. Just so, every resident was also hardy enough to weather the harshest winter. Whether its latest student would be able to meet these expectations remained to be seen. Värgen itself also remained to be seen. Though the carriage’s curtains were drawn, this vehicle had been outfitted with secure plates to keep its passengers in the dark. It was protocol for all traveling to Värgen. The secrecy of the institution allowed the Pages to exist as they did.
Inside the carriage, Edwin nor the man sitting opposite him had much in the way of comfort. The seating, while luxurious at some point, had seen years of wear and tear. The carriage’s metal frame, compounded by the fitted plates, provided little warmth. The only light that they had was a scarce flame, ensconced in a pristine orb. The other man had lit it when they had begun this journey, and it burned still. The embers danced as if alive, sending flickering shadows across the compact room that had been their home for the past several days; perhaps longer (or shorter) if Edwin cared to track the time. Edwin’s companion had been mostly silent on this journey, such was his nature. Those that knew him, knew him for two things: one, that he was “The Viscount”, and two, that he was an Inquisitor of significant repute. His presence here, enigmatic as it was, meant something.
The Viscount stared ahead, not quite at Edwin directly, though nowhere else, either. He, like many of his trade, was layered in cloaks upon cloaks, heavy straps of cloth that dressed him like a mummy of black leather, imperceptible as anything but a shadow of a man. The visage of the Viscount was itself a quiet display: brimmed hat, thick mask, and even eyepatch covering any human facsimile that one may find kinship with. The Inquisitors had no need for such things, least of all him.
