This is Boull-1877. Here, the Celtic nations are always in a primitive state of development. Meanwhile, the Great Powers grow, breed, and build new technology all around them.
Ah, the wilds of Newfoundland and Labrador... Little inspires more. Alas, for a certain boy detective from the Celtic Lands, little ever inspires him. If he isn't somewhere out here now, he's about to be.
At sea, merchant ships make their way across open water. A few sometimes travel through the Old Celtic Straits. A few, even, have been shipwrecked in the Old Celtic Straits. The strait between Newfoundland and Labrador can sometimes be just as treacherous. In some decades, the ashore terrain becomes a refuge for Celtic nomads.
Across the land, trains run, locomotives blowing steam as they do so. Hence, a great nation has a colony here. They're not white, and they're only sometimes friends to the Celts. The transportation trust runs this railroad. They hate tariffs.
Aboard the trains' freight cars, there are freeloaders. Some are Celts; some aren't. Most of them are used to being bigoted by the Great Powers. Others are just nobles fallen from grace. Boull seems to have a lot of those, these days...
Among some bales of hay aboard such a freight car, a bulldog lies. His dog tag is shiny brass, and has the word GLADSTONE engraved on it. He's either dead, or has had an infusion of asphodel and wormwood inoculated into him by a VERY inventive freeloader.
Now, the train goes over a multiple-arched bridge. Far below it, a lake rests. Or rather, it's a fjord. Even so, many eels and pikes frequent the waters below.
Far uphill from the railroad, there's a house. From the railroad, none can see it. The woman who lives here is a sorceress. She's sewn up a dome all around her space. The dome is made of protective magic. Otherwise, her home is surrounded by taiga.
Thorny shrubs surround the estate, in borders. Otherwise, the fences are very high, and made of black steel. The fenceposts are topped by sharp-looking spires.
Here and there, a copperhead slithers. They're guardians of this estate. They all work alone...but are all very loyal to the lady of the estate.
There are water features. Like the fjord, they're full of shad, eels, burbots, walleyes, saugers, bullheads, and pikes. There's also a sturgeon in one of them. There's a snapping turtle in another.
On this estate, the towers stand tall. The spires are tall, very narrow, and appear very sharp at their tops.
Roses infest the gardens. Holly shrubs keep them contained...although hardly do a perfect job of it. Juniper infests the ground. Here and there, there are berry shrubs. Tall softwood trees stand like cones wherever there's enough space for them to.
On shrub and tree limbs, stick insects and mantises linger. They all look like peasants that've never seen the shine of gold...let alone the fat of meat.
Inside, the corridors are very long. The vaults are ribbed. The corridors are decked with black-and-white paintings of politicians. Most of them are no-majs, and others aren't. They're all male.
At the ends of the corridors, there are bare walls. They weren't bare...until recently. Someone's been here. And they've taken a few paintings with them.
Throughout the home, a Scottish fold is on patrol. She protects the home from mice...and a few other pests. One of her eyes is blue, and the other is green; such is the DNA of the Scottish fold. She's little more than a Scottish migrant who the hostess has taken pity on. Even so, she's advanced herself quite promptly, since the approval of her lease.
Tonight, a full moon rises over the Newfoundland and Labrador wild. Out there, the wolves get to howling. Night has arrived. And everyone's soul is at high-tide...including those whose hosts aren't known for their souls.
This Finnish sorceress does have a soul. It's tube-shaped, though. Its walls are stiff, but its depths are unfathomable.
Her hair is ginger, and often animated. She can control her hair. Her hair is also one of the few charms she's capable of. With it, and her other fine assets, she's lured plenty a man to a good time. Most of these, alas, only end the same way: her putting a memory charm on them, and banishing them back to their ordinary lives. As a consequence, their ordinary wives end up dumping them, once they detect the trace of another woman all over them.
Tonight, what Lady Loivamaa wears is topaz-blue, and revealing. Tonight, she meets with a client. And tonight, she gets to be the master, rather than the servant. And for her, that's a HUGE relief.
Into a grate, a Yule log conjures itself. One charm later, and it's set itself ablaze. It burns brightly...and warmly.
The coffee table is of mahogany. Here, there are crystal glasses. One fills itself...with white wine. Ordinarily, Lady Loivamaa prefers burgundy wine. But at this time of year, she's willing to call an occasional Yule truce. Plus, she can't deny that champagne is valuable, in the no-maj world, for a reason.
She's settled down in the center of her favorite sofa. It, too, is topaz-blue. Her lips are burgundy, in the absence of her precious burgundy wine. But even if her wine was burgundy, her lips would probably be, too.
Her gaze falls on the clock. Her client's late. Even so, she holds the palm of one of her hands up. With the other, she takes her white wine glass, and takes a swig.
As she holds her palm open, a tiny portal of dusk magic overs over it. At the same time, the Yule log burns brighter, with green fire.
Through the portal, a Celtic boy falls. Via a stint in the Dusk Dimension, he's now a thousandth his normal size. He's a Celtic migrant...of the Welsh nation. Alas, he's no rugby player...although he could probably make it as a back, if not a forward. Or rather, he could've. Right now, he's not playing rugby for anyone. It's just as well; he'd rather be a detective, after all.
Meet Siridean Ogg. He's a Welsh Sherlock Holmes. He's still very young, and the Finns now rule his homeland. They also rule Newfoundland and Labrador. He can't say that he's pleased to be back in their captivity. He should be relieved to know, though, that his new feminine captor is no ally of the Finnish state.
As the portal vanishes and the Yule log's flames return to normal, little Siridean takes a while, to absorb his new situation. He hardens, a bit, as he acknowledges the beauty, and greatness, and magical magnificence, of his ginger Finn captor.
"I am Lady Loivamaa," she introduces herself, and flaps her hair. "I believe we've an appointment."
Siridean's used to having everything he prefers. Right now, he prefers to be banished back to where he was.
"I don't need a doctor," he tells her. "I'm fine."
"I'm not a doctor," she tells him. "I'm a sorceress. My portents tell me you're a detective...and that you're destined to become the best there is. That said, I could use a fine sleuth like you."
"Why not call upon a grownup? No one ever hires me."
She shrugs her bare shoulders. "Everyone's got to start somewhere. I did. I learned magic at a witches' academy. Now I'm one of Finnish wizardry's greatest sorceresses."
"I see. Can your trading partners verify that, or is that a self-proclamation?"
She sets her white wine glass down. The Dusk Dimension has given wee Siridean a makeover; now, he only wears a pair of topaz-blue briefs. His captor likes them that way. As much as she still loves no-maj men...as good as she is, she needs some no-maj male youth sometimes. Siridean's perfect. In fact, boys like him make good natural vibrators, when horny witches squeeze them between their thighs.
"Some of my paintings are missing," she tells him. "I need for you to find them for me." She giggles. "I'd also ask you to return them, but..."
"You can do magic. Can't you use your omniscience to locate them, or something."
"As a sorceress, I have many gifts. Omniscience is not one of them. Give me an orphan who wants a pair of parents for Christmas, and I'm that child's witch. But memorizing the encyclopedia is not what I do."
"Okay. What about magical creatures? Perhaps one has an inhuman sense of smell you can invest in?"
"I'm not very patient. Taming magical creatures takes that. Most such magical creatures are known wizard-killers. I'd need more than what I have just to get started."
"And, I don't suppose you thought to put a tracking spell on your paintings, at any point when you first owned them?"
"I," she giggles again, "might or might not have overestimated my own capability to protect my estate, when I first colonized this place. Although, I did put tracking spells on some of the missing paintings. Sadly, it seems that those spells have since been counter-hexed...by the thieves, presumably."
"So... You're pretty sure that whoever stole from you was a rival magus?"
She shrugs. "I don't know about rival, but... I don't know any of these things. Otherwise, you wouldn't be in my hand, right now."
"I get that." He looks around. "As much as I don't particularly mind the view...why was shrinking me in order?"
She shrugs. "Would you have come, if I'd summoned you any other way?"
"You know... For a sorceress, you sure seem to have a lot of strings to hold you down."
She shrugs. "What can I say? I'm a sorceress, not a goddess. But then, I don't need to tell you. My portents tell me you're a nihilist."
"O great; portents can keep track of me! Where do I ever fail?!"
"O, calm down, little Siridean. I don't recall you being half this paranoid when your parents used to tell you that Jehovah is so omniscient, he can eavesdrop on you while you're masturbating in your bed."
He studies her. "For a sorceress who's not omniscient, you sure seem to know a lot about my youth."
"I don't know about your youth. I can't see everything...but I can tell where someone's been in life, based on how they present themselves."
"I'm sure one day I'll understand what that means. It just won't be today."
She flaps her hair, and adjusts her top. Siridean gets a GREAT view of the latter, as it happens...
"I expect you to take my case, of course. So far, you've been my best resort. On one hand, I'd go to the ends of the earth to find another. On the other, I'd hate to make a job harder than it is. Plus," she adjusts her top again, "I can tell that my crush on you is mutual...to some extent."
"Fine." He looks around at her fingers. "I'm pretty sure you'd crush me like a bug, if I said no?"
She giggles. "I don't like to boast, but..." She arches her brows. "Do I really have to, in this instance?"
"Very well. Take me to the wall where your favorite painting was hanging, and I'll get started."
"O, but Siridean, I just brought you here." She grins, and stuffs him between her two huge boobs. "First, we're going to have some fun. It's been WAY too long since I've had a no-maj man in this house."
To Lady Loivamaa, her claim feels that way. In reality, though, it's been more like three weeks. Even so, time crawls when you're miserable. And it has for the fair ginger Finnish sorceress. Tonight, though, she's going to have some fun with a certain Celtic boy. And he has no choice to enjoy it. Otherwise, she just might feed him to her cat...or worse, one of her copperheads.