Catherine surveyed the unfamiliar series of objects placed in a neat line along the hastily set-up workbench, dismayed by her general lack of knowledge on what exactly to do. Both Halle and Shane were on either side of her, and Gallows slept peacefully behind them on the grass woven beds beyond the stairs. The bench had a wide hole in the center, positioned above the licking orange tongues of flame emanating from the fire, allowing the warming waves of heat to permeate through a small wire mesh, stretched across the circle.
A medium-sized ceramic cup was placed upon the mesh and heated well, the design on the pottery one of the traditional Baskar culture. Uncertainly, Catherine raised a small vial filled with a light blue liquid and poured it in, mixing it with the water already inside and providing a suitable base. Watered down well, the amount of ambrosia in the cup increased moderately.
"This will provide an appropriate foundation to the antidote." Shane explained as Catherine began to stir the mixture quietly. "Ambrosia has neither an acidic nor an alkaline structure, so it draws equally and will not interfere with the other ingredients. Also, the healing qualities of the ambrosia should help him to heal any injuries, in case you find him hurt." The smell of the ambrosia filled the room, whole, nourishing and invigorating in the air. Shane momentarily turned in Gallows's direction, hearing his older brother groan weakly upstairs. Even in a gaseous form, the elixir still seemed to have a slight rousing effect on the wounded Baskar.
Catherine placed the empty vial back on the table and picked up another one, this tiny flask far smaller and hardly containing any more than a few drops of clear liquid. Halle guessed what she was thinking, taking the liberty to speak. "Take extra special care when handling that chemical, dearie. That is curare, and it is practically a deadly poison." Catherine slowly lowered the bottle back onto the table as she heard this, opening her mouth to say something, but being sharply cut off by Halle continuing. "Curare is a paralyzer that freezes the muscles, and in larger doses, the heart and lungs too. It can kill, but when used in the right amount, it's a very good tranquilizer."
She tapped her wooden cane on the ground, thinking steadily. "This antidote will put the lycanthrope through an intense amount of pain, a sudden and vicious withdrawal that will nearly be as bad as one receding from a drug addiction." Catherine closed her eyes as Halle talked, her fingers pressing down lightly on the tabletop. "The tranquilizer should stop him from hurting himself during the process. You only add one drop, though. Only one drop will do."
Reluctantly, Catherine held the vial over the ceramic cup and forced her hands to stop shaking just long enough to measure out one clear shining drop of curare, the fluid falling into the concoction and seeping away on impact. No outward reaction in the liquid was made by the addition, it still simmered without interruption. Curare, a poison. They were going to give him poison…
Shane passed her three leaves from the Arnica plant, thick and full of chlorophyllic juice. The rest of the rare herb had been potted courtesy of Halle, sitting serenely on the windowsill, blue petals of the flowering plant standing out like expensive velvet in the sun. The soil was damp, somebody had recently watered it, the rest of it's dark green foliage having beads of crystal-like water softly down. Catherine let go of the severed leaves, watching them dissolve nearly instantly, fizzling away. The smell in the air changed, gaining a biting quality, a powerful smell of herbs.
The woman didn't speak, just allowing the other Baskar and the colonies elder to tell her what to do. She felt like she was only an automaton doing a required task, and a sad presence in her mind made it hard to pay any attention to the other people's words. Maybe it was the mention of a withdrawal, she had never even considered anything like that. Catherine had seen things like that before, even though her father had tried his hardest to shield her from the knowledge, drugs and Little Twister went hand in hand. But, even so, the thought of Clive screaming out his agony in the midst of chemical recession just hurt. Not only a mental, but a physical hurt.
She finally looked down to her work and realised that she had been doing something even as she thought, now grinding up a hard, yet slightly brittle substance that was a dull grey in color with a mortar and pestle, pulverizing it into a fine powder. "What is this?" She asked, stopping for a few seconds to shake the tension out of her wrist.
"It's a weak compound that mostly has traces of silver and simpler materials, grind it up well and add it to the antidote. I'm going to go and find that sample of mandrake my idiot grandson has misplaced… Shane, make sure she does everything right for me, lad?" The youth nodded and Halle hobbled out of the house, heading for the colonies storeroom. Gallows groaned again for seemingly no reason whatsoever, rolling off the bed and landing on the floor. He did not get up again, and fell right back into his sleep. Shane moved to go and fix up that problem, but Catherine meekly held him back, murmuring quietly about needing to talk to him about something.
"I… forgot to mention part of my dream to you this morning," She said nervously, "It had been bothering me a little, even more so than what I have already told you, Shane." The woman set the tools down onto the table and watched what looked like a thick blue soup simmer in the cup, every now and then, small piece of arnica herb poking up from the powerful-smelling broth. "After that first dream, I heard somebody talking in my mind, and the voice was somebody I knew very well. It was my own, telling me things I did not understand. I still don't comprehend the words, even now."
"I was thinking about that a little while ago." Shane admitted in a comforting tone. "I wonder, do you think you might have any Baskar blood in your ancestry, Catherine? How much do you know of your family tree? Because, what you have described to me sounds an awful lot like the visions of a far seer, and they are usually recurring in a family line…"
She shook her head. "I don't think so. Both sides of my family have been Eastern Highlanders for as far back as anyone can remember. No, I believe this is just my, well… It will sound cheesy when I say it… But I think I know what Clive is going through, and it is making me know mysterious things as well." She rubbed her wrists. "Last evening, my left wrist started to hurt and I didn't understand why, and I became short of breath for a while. He must have been hurt… that could be the only way…"
"An empathetic connection?" Shane guessed. "Tell me your dream, please." The woman took a small breath of the ambrosia mixed with the air, and began. It gave her more conviction to continue, and made it easier to remember the words. She could not help but to half-sing out the verse, it was made to be chanted and not spoken, though she was not very confident on her voice at all. Shane listened without interruption.
"When every hope is darkened,
And hate is pitted against hate
Where guilt and repentance are one
Past and present will mingle to create a conflicted unity
Look not to that which can be abhorred
Cling to your convictions
Hold onto the contents of your heart
For is a beast not also a man?
And is a man not also a beast?
The stray bird with his wings stained black
Will tear open inner wounds to find the way
To seek forgiveness from the wounded and hurt
When the hands of a child shall set him free."
"Yes." Catherine agreed, nodding after she was done. "And now, I remember this verse. It is almost like a poem without rhymes in the way it was spoken, but the voice, my voice, in the dream, it sounded all wrong, like I was talking from a very far away place, and I had been weeping. I hate these nightmares, I just want them to end. I want," She sniffed, "I want Kaitlyn and Clive back… I want to know… why… Ravendor is doing this… to me…" Slowly, she sunk to her knees, pressing her hands over her face and beginning to cry once more. Shane knelt down with her, and wondered what on Filgaia he could do to help.
He was stunned when Gallows was suddenly there and ready to help, gingerly taking Catherine by the shoulders and hauling her up to her feet, leading the poor woman up the stairs to where he had been previously lying down, knowing that she would need some time to be alone. Heading back to where Shane waited, he took the antidote off the fire so the liquid would not boil away, and then yawned, stretched his arms and hearing the vertebrae in his neck crack as he loosened the tension out of it. "I missed a lot, didn't I?" He said. "But I was listening as well, so I think I'm pretty much up-to-speed. Until Ginny and his assholiness return with the rest of the ingredients, and good ol' Granny hobbles back with mandrake too, we might as well relax, then, eh?"
Shane ignored him, meditating on the meaning of Catherine's newest dream. It sounded like a prediction, one that appeared to be sealed with a bleak outcome. Without much outward thought, the youth sat down on the floor, and set his hands into his lap, this next cryptic conundrum would be so much more difficult to crack.
xxx
As Clive stepped into the spacious area between a long sloping path on either side, beside a steeping mound of rocks that rose far above his height and coated the small clearing in a shadow, he became distinctly aware of the significance of this place without any viable source. It was a quarry that stood on top of a huge hill, but it was also much more than that. Crouching and gathering his bearings, Clive made a crude guess that this was where the bandits had stopped for the night, resolving to check out the area thoroughly for clues.
It had been a long time since he had departed from the Schrodinger camp, distant in his thoughts, just an unneeded part of a useless memory. The past was only the past, trivial and no match for the importance of the present. Clive's eyes were hard and strangely different, he no longer spoke to himself out loud, reserving the effort of speech for when he really needed it the most. All alone, where he had no other humans to interact with, it was becoming all too easy to forget how to remain one. Clive pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and placed three fingers onto the outline of a footprint, drawing a line along the side so he could measure properly. The owner of the footprint must have been small, unusually small, but the design of the shoe itself was for that of a fully grown adult male. Each footprint was spaced abnormally from each other, as if the person had a slight ambidexterity to his movements. It was quite curious.
… Not Kaitlyn and not Ravendor… Smells like a bandit…
He walked carefully beside the footprints so as not to distort them, following the tracks to see where they would lead. They could have been made at any time, seeing how it hardly ever rained and nothing was around to destroy evidence, Clive estimated that they could have been from anywhere to an hour, or even a week old. They smelt relatively new, so he settled on a compromise between the two, roughly guessing an age of about six or seven hours, made early this morning. Clive smiled, though it was more like a flashing of teeth and fang, satisfied. He was rapidly catching up.
… Bandit… I will kill you when I find you… I will rend you limb from limb… I will bleed you dry so the ground turns red… And allow your comrades to join you without any hesitation on my part… If you have hurt Kaitlyn… you will wish for death before I am done with you…
A small part of his old self came back, and he frowned.
No, I am not a murderer! I am not who you are making me out to be, I hate to see blood spilt, I do not want to hurt anybody… I just want this to end… I am Clive Winslett, not a monster! Not a demon!
But he knew he was lying, and it upset him greatly, squeezing one fist shut in repressed anger. He hardly ever got this angry, what was wrong with him? Clive smelt black smoke and paused at the remains of a used campfire, dirt and gravel thrown over the ashes to completely snuff out the fire. A tiny little tendril of the smoke remained, though, and it spiralled up slowly into the air. Some rocks were ringed around the soot and were most likely used as seats by the bandit team, one of them had the ricochet marks of a deflected bullet scraped across it's surface. The scent was that of alcohol and horribly cooked food, it was definitely them, alright.
Searching a little further around the small campsite, Clive stopped and knelt over a few intriguing marks on the ground, not too far away from where the campfire used to be. They were made up of a dried crimson fluid and smelt incredibly sweet and sickening, almost like blood, but not quite. It reminded Clive of when he and the Maxwell team had gone up against the prophets, after a victorious fight, the air had faintly reeked of this same smell as well. Bloodstains, markings of imitation blood, a forgery of something real. What was a spilt amount of panakeia doing in such a place?
He sat down in front of it, confused. Placing a hand on the ground nearby, his fingers touched the softness of something underneath them, and scooped up the object with a small amount of dirt and shook the dust away, leaving only the item left. It was a small feather, slightly matted with the dried panakeia substance and blood. Clive finally spoke, thinking out loud and taking the other feather he had acquired yesterday from Kestorael, pulling it from his pocket. He placed the two against each other, making a comparison. "This makes me feel uneasy… I know, this is similar. Too similar. Panakeia is imitation demon blood, and a bearer of the substance is a travesty of the demon race. It is not… correct…" He murmured, unnerved.
The smaller feather was unlike Kestorael's one, darker and strangely heavier than a proper feather should be. Getting an idea, Clive bit into his index finger with his fangs and drew a small amount of his own blood, still as black and as slick as sandcraft oil. The blood he had found and the blood trickling out of his own body were remarkably alike, except that his was thick, concentrated and oozed subliminal power, while the other was thin and diluted, a little degenerated and foul. Whoever owned this blood was not a very well person at all, Clive could easily see that. Vaguely, he wished that he was far away from here, this site was like a curse upon his mind.
Suddenly feeling a little dizzy for a reason he could not fathom, Clive leaned forward and gently hit the ground on his stomach, getting a horrible stab of pain in his chest. The panakeia smell was nearly poisonous to his body, the strange queasiness and pain taking him over for a short while. He gasped, biting down on his lip and trying to push himself back up, until he heard the most bizarre vibration coming up from the rocks underneath him, rhythmical and steady. Once, he had heard that intensely experienced trackers could detect motion from miles away by the vibrations in the ground, now he no longer doubted that myth. Pushing himself up after the dizziness had faded, Clive recognized the sound and awaited the arrival, hands on his knees and sitting down carefully, closing his eyes. He could hear hooves thundering not too far away, the sound now manifesting in the airwaves around him.
Hearing a whinny, Clive looked up, and was generally surprised. Hasufel had come to a stop a short distance away, the dark brown stallion pawing the ground and snorting. How in the world did his very own horse manage to come to him, even when Clive had not called? It was greatly welcomed, for he could use every bit of boosted speed possible. Reaching the mountains would be child's play on horseback.
The metal demon climbed to his feet and took a step forward, not too surprised when Hasufel decided to take another one back to even the distance apart. Before, during the time that seemed almost a million years ago, he had been puzzled over the stallion's eccentric behavior, but now, Clive knew the exact reason why and commended the animal for taking the best course of action. If he were Hasufel, he would have run from the foul demon too. However, Clive needed the ride and advanced forward again, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. "Please, Hasufel." He said soothingly. "I will not hurt you. I am your Master, remember? Don't run away…"
Clive was paralyzed with shock when he suddenly heard a voice, different from the ones most recently taking up residency inside his head. Stay away… You smell of death… Reek of blood… Carnivore and horse-killer… leave me be…
Was that… Hasufel's voice? No, Clive could hear no words being spoken, but he could somehow sense a train of thought directed at his spirit, and either the curse of something else translated the information into something he could understand. Self-consciously, he realized that his coat was stained with the blood of the Claiborne horses and sighed, submitting to the truth. "I did… I did kill them. Hasufel… I am sorry…"
… Here I am, apologizing to a horse… I am crazy…
"But…" Clive continued, pleading his case. "I need your speed to rescue my daughter. You have every right to hate me for what I have done, but you cannot deny me the chance I have been looking for to save her life. No innocent creature of the gods could do such a thing… Hasufel, please. I will only ask this one time, and then you will never have to take commands from me again. I promise."
… Your daughter is the human female with blonde hair…? Hasufel asked, his resolve wavering. He remembered her from the times when Clive had tried to teach her to ride horses, at the girl's personal request. The little laughing girl, who seemed so happy…
"Yes." The demon replied. "That is her."
… I will bear your body to the mountains and beyond, horse-killer, and then you will never come near me again… Not for your sake, I wish you the same fate bestowed upon my brothers and sisters, but for the sake of the little one…
"I know…" Clive whispered sadly to himself, walking over to the side of the mount, the animal now standing perfectly still. "So do I."
Hasufel was neither tacked nor bore any restraining equipment along his body, making it a little bit difficult for Clive to properly hoist himself up, and the way the horse moved about uncertainly made it even harder. Carefully winding his fingers and taking a fistful of mane, he swung himself onto Hasufel's back and noted how it was so much easier for him to fall off now without the aid of a saddle. He knew that most Baskars preferred to ride bareback most of the time, but Clive was certainly not a Baskar, or even a very good horseback rider. He wished that Gallows or somebody else was around to give him a few pointers.
Though he was a little ways off from the centre of the quarry, Clive could still smell the stains of blood upon the floor, a horrible mockery of real blood, hideously false, and with his finely-tuned senses, it just made him feel sick. Clive had read once that wolves could smell their quarry from over two whole miles away, and he definitely didn't disbelieve it now. Leaning forward a bit, he nudged Hasufel's side a little with the heel of his boot, talking softly and slowly so the animal could understand him. "Head for the mountains, Hasufel. Run as fast as you can, use all the speed you have left. Don't stop, we are running out of time." His last word was just a quick and direct command, emphasizing his order with a sharp and forceful kick "Go!"
xxx
Antonio found his boss with relative ease, following the flapping wings of Kestorael as the bird flitted from chamber to chamber, finally finding the one he was seeking and perching upon a rock near the source of the reservoir, cawing for attention. The small bandit stopped at the entrance of the room and leant over slightly, resting his hands on his knees and panting. He needed to work out more, he had been slacking off his training routine and now it was beginning to show. He swore to himself that he would not lose track of that stupid bird again.
Ravendor paused as he heard the noise of the bird and Antonio's entrance, about to put his shirt back on, but then forgot about it and addressed the two, absent-mindedly kicking a small stone into the water. "Did you need me for something, Antonio?" He smiled. "Could you return in a few minutes? I am almost finished…"
"I sorry, Boss," Antonio apologised, scratching the back of his head, "I saw bird come back here so I think I no let bird be lost again." He bowed, then looked up at the other man, blanching and realising what he should have noticed before. "Whu- Wha? You quit smoking? Boss, that bad! You know what happens when you no take medicine!" He was more than a little alarmed, and slowed down his wording, trying his best to speak fluently. "Why are you preparing for a fight?" Antonio asked with intense difficulty, "I thought we were just kidnapping-"
Kestorael cut him off by cawing loudly enough so that it echoed throughout the chamber. He then added a series of quieter noises in rapid succession that also sounded like a mimicry of speech. Ravendor seemed to look like he was listening intently. The raven finally finished and looked extremely smug, ruffling it's feathers self-importantly. "I see," The drifter said after a short while, "This is what I would have expected, and I do not mind it. I was looking forward to the chance, but Kestorael, I would have appreciated it if you had informed me sooner, though."
The wind sprite winced, and then cawed once more sadly in apology. Then, Ravendor redirected his attention back to Antonio. "We are kidnapping, but now the plan has changed. Kaitlyn is no more our hostage than she is our bait. I have ordered Kestorael to keep a good eye upon our soon-to-be arriving guest." He smiled in a disturbing manner, putting his shirt and jacket back on. "I have not spoken to him properly in almost ten whole years. It will be interesting to find out exactly what he has to say, and what delusions he harbors to stop me." He clenched his scarred fist and shot a look back at Antonio. "Do you remember before… when I… lost my temper?"
Antonio's blood froze. "Boss, no. Not that… not here with the chica and all, you'll bring down the tunnels and kill us all!"
He shook his head, talking softly and gently. "It is too late, my friend. It has already begun. Keep out of my way when the time comes and you may just live. I do not doubt that you are an extremely competent warrior, Antonio, but trust me. I can sense… that something is wrong." He let a tiny bit of uncertainty show. "Very wrong." Ravendor went quiet for a little while as an unexpected pain shot through his nervous system, feeling his panakeia degrade a notch more. The pain didn't bother him anymore, though. It only meant that when the time came, he would be even stronger for it.
The black-feathered raven fluttered over and perched on Antonio's shoulder, sharing the small bandit's anxiety. Antonio bit his lip nervously. "If something go wrong, is my duty to protect the chica, Si? I'll do it. Just…" He took a deep breath, then sighed. "Keep your sanity, Boss. 'Ro and Dario no know it, but I do. Is scary. Is no right. I go now, but be careful on who you believe. Some things aren't worth it."
Ravendor wiped a lock of wet hair away from his eyes, smirking. "Were anyone else to boss me around, I would take no hesitation in disciplining them thoroughly. But Antonio, you already are aware of precisely what I am, and so I heed your horribly distorted verbal advice. Just wait it out, it will all be over soon." He looked down the corridor the other two had emerged from, just a cold and dark tunnel with nothing inside. He frowned. "And keep a close watch on Romero as well, I do not trust him as much as I would like…"
The small man left with the bird still on his shoulder, trying to pry it's tiny sharp talons off his unprotected flesh. Ravendor waited until they were well out of the room and removed his ARM, snapping open the clip and looking at the neat bullets with an ambiguous frame of mind. He was confident, though reserved in his plan. I would hate to give you a fool's death, Clive… He thought with masked emotion, No… I will give you a messy death… I will rend the flesh from your bones… But not before, oh yes, not before I kill your daughter right in front of you!
He chuckled darkly to nothingness, wondering what would happen in the future. Airily, he removed five out of the six bullets residing in his clip and discarded them by tossing the pieces of metal into the water reservoir, certain of one thing. Ravendor knew that he was only going to need one bullet for this fight, and that was for Kaitlyn's execution. Clive's death… well… that would be more fun…
I could not save Kaitlyn, and I have come to accept that fact… But Mr. Winslett, let me ask… can you?
"Let us see the limit of your love… This time, I am no bawling teenager. I will pull the trigger, and you will die."