Of Things Better Left Unspoken

In the beginning KOTYS spoke the first Law: “Let there be a speck of dust in the Emptiness! Let there be schism in the Void, that there be Light and there be Darkness”, and it was so.
It was IAMA that compelled the Fabric, out of jealousy and spite, so that the edges of the world would forever be engulfed in twilight, and it was so. ~excerpt from Book of Laws: Genesis 1-4.

Crow couldn’t help but frown at the parchment held in front of him by none other than the Red Baron himself. A man known for his short temper and vicious ire. He seemed nothing more than a rancid amalgamation of blubber and flesh, visibly touched by the sickening influence of Addle. Though to question him or his motives would be a folly so terrible very few had attempted and lived shortly thereafter, let alone survive to tell the tale. His assignment was to begin like all the others - shrouded in the blackness of night, a testament to man’s greed, and his overwhelming fear of the unknown. Had he ever enjoyed these little errands? Who could say? Yet orders of such gravity could not be ignored, not even by the most impious of men. Men such as John Willian Crow…

The human mind is akin to the fragile wings of a feeble swallow. “So easily broken by the will of lesser men”, thought Crow, as the misshapen contorted body of what he could only guess was a woman about thirty winters in age, half naked, howling profanities, clawed at the rusted cage that held her prisoner so high above the muddied ground. It was a common sight in the Outskirts - the work of men, much like himself, in service to the Voivode, ever so willing to dispense “justice” wherever and however they could for just the slightest glint of gold. He looked away, there was no need to trouble himself with the suffering of others.

Most in the Outskirts would be drawn to this rickety inn, drowning in cheap ale. The Bit, as it was known, offered among other things, a highly priced and sought-after commodity. It was rumored that the owner and barkeep, a man by the name of Sebastian Shaw, was the sole purveyor of such services in the commune. Crow could only guess at the ties the man held with distinct individuals in the local hierarchy, the wheels that were greased over time with both coin and flesh to allow him sole monopoly over such lucrative business. “Many a secret had been spilled over a flagon of wine or in a lover’s embrace. Clever…”, thought Crow, although he knew of better ways to make men talk.

Each evening he would visit Shaw’s house of ill repute with the sole purpose of easing everyone’s eyes at his sight, much like one would lure a dove with bread crumbs just before snapping its frail neck. Each night he would study the groups of men gathering at the shadowy tables: rowdy sailors, local peasants, or the odd guard. He would then study the girls that approached the tables, and at the back he would catch a glimpse of Shaw with a glint in his eye, a grin at the base of his cheek, almost always in the company of this one particular woman. “She is their matron, their keeper of secrets.” He concluded then that she was to be his gateway into the stygian underbelly of the commune – the solution to the Red Baron’s need for answers.

It was on crowded evenings, no doubt at Shaw’s behest, that the matron herself would complement the inn’s offerings and it was during these evenings that Crow would play the part of a patient fisherman angling for that big catch. He would wait for one of the girls to approach, he would lure her to one of the empty divans where he would wait for hours on end catching whispers and hushed whimpers permeating from the surrounding guestrooms. “Patience and rewards will follow.”, thought Crow as one crowded evening he caught a glimpse of her cautiously approaching his table, instinctively fearing that which does not seem or look familiar. He had been eagerly awaiting this very moment and began to slurp his porridge with renewed gluttony all the while watching with the corner of his eyes as she drew nearer.

“Care for a wee bit o’ fun?” She rasped bluntly, her voice was uneven with suspicion as she sat next to him. Crow glanced at her as if he had just noticed her approach and immediately coated his expression with a greedy drunken grin.

“Depends how much?” He asked while grabbing her by the thigh.

“What’s a bit o’ coin among friends?” She chirped, not realizing that she had sprung his trap.

“We’re friends now, eh? Well, that settles it then.” He grinned eagerly, and began entertaining her with his drunken act, lurching up the stairs, luring his prey with small acts of clumsiness. The doors creaked behind her and as she began to unbutton her bodice, Crow crept up and with a predatory precision he plunged the needles deep in her neck, catching her as she fell. Afterall, he was eager to begin his work.

Her vision slowly inched ever closer to the warm flicker yonder. It felt like an eternity, her eyes lurching, she struggled to grasp her surroundings to no avail. The shadows crept in the corner of her vision, twisting above and beneath, clawing at the candle’s sputter. There were questions her mind shrieked in anguish and the lack of answers made her thoughts all the more treacherous, all the more maddening.

“Awake at last.” She had heard that voice once before, it sounded familiar yet muddled—an unnatural tone about it.

She writhed under the constraint of an indiscernible heaviness, gasping for a breath that escaped her inexplicably. The shadows wavered, shaping the grizzly silhouette of a ghoul that seemed to bellow a frightful emptiness, a kind of dread she had yet to understand. Its eyes were gaping maws of soul rending anguish that dangled vividly on its wretched, gaunt visage. It wormed its way closer, feeding on her helpless desperation, it expelled a terrifying presence that overwhelmed her altogether. There was no resistance left in her, only terrified submission.

“In a day’s time…” It rasped, a voice so bizarre it chilled her to the bone. “The thirst will find you…” it leaned in closer now, so close she could breathe its putrid flesh as the shadows encircled her, devouring her last hint of warmth.

“Seek me out where the dead sway so fickle in the wind lest you join them in their eternal slumber…” The voice sounded distant somehow and as she felt herself slip slowly out of consciousness the shadows gave way to a hideous travesty - a weave of indiscernible pain, a cacophony of hopeless fear entwined with a deafening silence.

She awoke midst a sea of lurching corpses squirming in the wind—their braying long ago snuffed out by the tyranny of a thick rope. They dangled spasmodically from the ancient branches of a great oak which seemed indifferent at the weight it so callously supported. She quickly realized the futility of her efforts and peered beneath the tree’s balding crown at a small campfire - its flame devouring the blackness that was gradually engulfing the surrounding scenery. She felt compelled to approach the fire, the thirst growing all the more urgent.

The moons shone a bright reddish hue making for a grim backdrop as the wind rustled the leaves above, causing the ropes to groan under the stress. He had lured her beneath the Hanged Man’s Tree—an unhallowed place, feared by children and grown men alike. The thirst became unbearable, the visions too dark, and so she had stumbled and swayed, seeking aimlessly to quench the unquenchable. Crow leapt from the darkness, startling her, and before she could properly resist, he clamped down a manacle, chaining her to the profane tree.

“At long last, the thirst has struck you—compelled you to meet me here.” That voice, once more, seemed familiar, yet its nature was less ghoulish than she recalled, and at the edge of the moonlight the silhouette of the strange man she had seen the other night betrayed a striking resemblance in features with the ghoul from her nightmare. She knew then that it had been no fantasy at all, but malign inspiration of a mind befuddled by demonic possession.

Like a crazed dog she tugged and pulled while Crow watched patiently from the shadow’s edge. His contempt grew as she rasped and clawed at thin air—reaching for an ever-escaping freedom.

“You will submit knowing I alone can cure the curse that plagues you.”

And so, the truth became unmistakable. She was to be a plaything not unlike she had been before, yet now with an added grave distinction. This new master was to own her life, her soul, and the freedom she once yearned for not so long ago became even more obscure, even more elusive.

“What is it you want of me?” She sank to her knees, crushed by sorrow and the scorching weight of that damnable thirst. “Leave me be…” She whimpered as Crow stepped closer.

“I will tell you a tale, little Roach.” He began. “My early attempts at reading this crude game yielded results of the more unpleasant nature. Yet I quickly learned that to play the game properly, one must cheat with every occasion.” His last words revealed a somewhat menacing thoughtfulness. “The game of life is never fair, and pity rarely instills the proper attitude with your kind.” He leaned in closer and with the slightest snap of a hand he caught her by the throat. “You’re mine. Make no mistake, whether you last the night depends solely on you proving useful to me.” His tone was frightening yet unmoved. She jerked away, trying desperately to escape his clutches, but the struggle morphed in a dizzying vertigo and her stomach lurched in response, expelling a greenish bile while her jaws locked tight in an agonizing cramp.

“The flesh is seldom tame when exposed to thaumaturgy.” He smiled a devilish grin, content with the agony he had inflicted on her.

“My tale ends with a scholar, a sawbones—Charles Andronicus Curwen. You will tell me everything you know of his whereabouts.”

She staggered to her feet, wailing in agony, as the thirst gnawed at her ceaselessly, leaving little room to breathe let alone think.

“I know him…” She gasped and struggled to unlock her jaw muscles. “A degenerate!”

Her thigh muscles buckled in a searing throb, forcing her back in the muck and bile.

“It burns!” She wailed. “Please!” Her mouth locked once more as her body writhed with each agonizing throb. “He and Shaw quarreled on account of how much he owed us. I haven’t seen him since!”

Bile gushed through her nostrils and gritted teeth while tears streamed across the only cheek yet covered by the squalor. Crow had heard enough. He realized that Shaw held the information he lacked but the prospects of the inevitable encounter with his target betrayed a kind of uneasiness since, in that regard, he needed to remain a shadow and avoid alerting the prey to his schemes. A need presented itself then, as private letters, diaries, or ledgers would reveal more on the subject and an inside agent, could acquire those on his behalf. He loomed over her quivering body, and injected the toxin, thus deciding on a suitable candidate for the task at hand.

At dawn’s early light, when the morning dew is coolest to the touch, the crowing roosters dispelled dreams and nightmares far and wide. She awoke on a bed of bloodied straws, topped by rags reeking of many ointments. The smell was poignant, bitter-sweet; a blend of Juniper and Nettle that she herself had applied frequently, often to soothe shallow cuts or the odd sting. The room she found herself in was modest; various ropes and chains held from long rusted nails poked the whitewashed adobe walls. There were blossoms and herbs hung out to dry, while above them, near the wooden beams, a band of multicolored signs and motifs encompassed the room all around. This was no ordinary hovel as folk seldom adorned their walls with ancient script and occult imagery.

Ilena made a keen effort to stand up, jerking at her muscles to obey but it was as if a strange paralysis had taken hold of her whole body. It was then that she noticed the blood-soaked rags thrown hastily on the wooden slab nearby and the human bones piled in the brazier by the door, crackling beneath a shallow fire. Light fled from the sky, blotting out the doorway and the narrow windows to the sides, replaced by an unnatural night followed by a cold autumn breeze that stirred the acacia trees in the distance. She then felt a sharp twinge at her belly as if a handful of needles had pierced a wide area of her skin and peering down at the source, she noticed that a strange symbol had been carved all around her gut and later was meticulously dressed in ointments that dulled the pain. She howled in horror at the sight, crying and wailing, all to free herself from this never-ending nightmare, but her hollering fell deafly in the night leaving her with nothing more than the streams on her cheeks.

A pair of greenish eyes glared at her from the entrance, biting the blackness with a kind of menacing gaze that made her skin crawl at the sight. A wolf like hiss accompanied them forward while a ghostly calling beckoned from the edges of her mind. She scarcely understood the ominous whispers at first, but later, as if conjured by some devilish utterance the words revealed an urgency entwined with a sickening dread.

“I felt your curse. You are marked...” It hissed with indignation. “It befouls and devours!” The voice flared with madness. “Be gone! Flee this place and return whence you came!”

As if possessed by an unnatural strength she willed herself up, no longer afflicted by that weird paralysis and without a second thought, she jumped through the doorway to be soaked in the bright rays of a Sun, that it seemed, had never left the morning sky. Looking back, the gaze of a black wolf followed her every move with interest and mistrust. She took a few steps backward, stumbled and fell, scraping her palms in the gravel, but she cared not and quickly scrambled to her feet fleeing towards the pass that would take her out of Witch’s Cove.

Charles Andronicus Curwen was a name that interested him greatly, yet scant lips, if any, would utter the name out loud. Not out of fear, no, but out of ignorance, of that Crow was certain. He had described him as a scholar and a sawbones to the thrall woman, and much like with most things related to the craft, he had not been altogether sincere. Curwen was a man of many talents and though a sawbones he had been, Crow failed to mention a far greater underling truth—that Curwen had pledged fealty to the Kaldr. It’s this truth the Red Baron had imparted on that faithful night beneath the musty chambers of their conspiratorial mansion. Scribbled on a piece of old parchment, which they so hastily burned after memorizing its contents, was the name that Crow obsessed over during his constant struggles with insomnia while aboard the Lusitania merchant vessel. He pondered the nature of Curwen’s long trek along Voivode’s Road and his foray through the Outskirts, consumed with the minute details he had learned from that damnable scroll. Thinking about it more, it was not what he had read that was most crucial, rather what held a higher importance were the omitted facts, as they underlined the implications of it all.

Crow trotted up the muddied main road of the Outskirts, past the wooden cloister with its singular bell tower and cascading shadow, past the tannery at the junction that spewed a rancid sweet miasma, and then past the moldy wooden stalls that made up the lower bazaar. It was there that he noticed a large rowdy throng pouring toward the square, yelling profanities at some unknown victim, all the while chanting strange, almost songlike utterances; and like most blood frenzied crowds, one could feel the tension floating in midair, the anxiety reaching an almost nauseating crescendo. “Some poor sod is about to meet his Gods.” Crow hastened his stride as he held nothing but contempt for the proceedings about to follow. At last he stepped through the doorway of that place he called home for many a sleepless night, and as always, an all too familiar scent of urine and cheap wine greeted him as he creaked the door shut. The Bit was as charming as he remembered, with its bright crimson drapes overflowing above its unwashed windows, wholes patched by an unsteady or drunken hand. Crow couldn’t help but recoil at the evening hubbub of rowdy sailors raising bubbling tankards at the lascivious undulations of girls half their age, as it distracted him from his singular purpose. He sat in the opposite corner, choosing one of the empty divans, seeking shelter from the noise behind the large cerise curtains and lavish pillows—one of the few things he enjoyed about the place.

“What’ll you have?” Her voice was dull with fright as her eyes darted anxiously from one corner to the next, no doubt searching for Shaw’s gaze.

“Aqua vitae, in a clean mug.” He felt the need to emphasize the last part with a slight grimace, still his monotone voice betrayed no glint of emotion.

There were bruises about her left cheek, bulging out in a blackened mess, while her lower jaw hung low and bloated. Ilena’s movements were restless, blundering from one table to the next, her right-hand fumbling with a motif embroidered scarf that obscured the marks he had left upon her not so long ago. She rushed back with the drink, ignoring the groping and the snide quips thrown at her by patrons as she passed by, slowly fading into a viscous, never-ending haze, that gurgled out of the many hookah pipes.

“Your drink…” As she stooped over to reach for the table, Crow grabbed her by the arm pulling her closer.

“You’re being watched this very moment.” His tone was calm and impassive, yet his eyes seemed transfixed on something beyond her silhouette. “Do yourself a favor and play the part if those bruises are to be your only keepsake.” He hissed that last part, with the slightest hint of a threat in his voice.

She lay next to him trying her best to look the part of a willing and seductive harlot despite the pain in her lower gut where the scars had yet to mend.

“Do you have it?” He leaned in closer, all the while grinning as if she had offered herself to spend the night, and as she nodded, a strand of hair covered her ruined cheek making him grin with delight. “Then what are we waiting for?” He said out loud, but just before leaving the comfort of the pillows he downed the swill she had brought him with a brash gulp, an obvious ruse meant for prying eyes.

As Crow entered that all too familiar guestroom, he had a slight déjà vu of the night they had first stepped on those creaky battens, her back turned, still oblivious to the looming peril. The candles flickered in the draft as the door squeaked shut, though this time she was facing Crow, one eye buried underneath that blackened mess while the other twitched spasmodically in a frightened stare. She took a step back losing her footing, but mid-fall she used the nearby table as leverage to thrust her back against the wall. Crow crept forward through the shifting blackness, his stride seemed demonic almost, as the circling shadows bridged the void between them. She produced a parchment from her apron and with a gasp, her gaze paralyzed in a terrified stare that avoided Crow’s silhouette altogether. He snatched the paper from her pale slender fingers and examined its contents with an eagerness akin to that of a predator facing a long-awaited prey. He recognized the seal used to bind the paper as that of the local governor: John Alexander of house Kuza. The letter mentioning Shaw by name, while Curwen's appeared four paragraphs in.

“May I leave?” Her tone was faint, reduced to a mere gutted whisper.

Crow frowned, partly annoyed by her impudence, but mostly by this new revelation, since it seemed to obfuscate matters greatly. There was a new piece on the board now and the boyar was the greatest and most dangerous of them all. He glanced back at her with distaste and reconsidered her wretched plea. Deep below the substrata of her subconscious lied a hint of hope, an inconvenience if she was to be the obedient pawn he desired. “She must be taught a lesson”, he thought while unbuckling his trousers.

As the sun surrendered in its battle with the ever-present void, Crow’s shadow slithered through the doorway of that cottage beneath Witch’s Hill; the place that etched his mind with a profound sense of weariness last he stepped upon its blackened mire. Silence permeated about these surroundings, with its gnarled shrubs and trees akin to the specters of ancients long departed, as gusts of wind disturbed the stillness, rustling the willows in a forsaken lament.

Crow rolled the minced haka leaves in an old piece of parchment, using his tongue and lips to seal it shut. He hadn’t smoked the stuff in quite a while, but now was as good a time as any. He used the pail by the door to light the roll-up, frowning at the human bones crackling beneath the dull fire. He knew that this was no ordinary hut, rather this was the serpentine lair of the Outskirts Baba.

He stepped carefully beneath the trapdoor, using his free hand to grab on to the rickety ladder that descended deep below the stygian underbelly. He eagerly inhaled the smoke from the haka and used the resulting glimmer to guide his way through the burrow, attentive to the slightest undertone. There were distant sounds of water currents running beneath his feet, and as he trotted through the muck and squalor, it seemed like the underground rivers were bursting through the ground - most likely the cause of a natural aquifer.

A glimmer of light pierced through the blackness, prompting Crow to don the mask he had prepared for the occasion. He breathed in the poignant smell of the spices tucked away in its leathery beak, creeping ever closer to the opening, all the while hugging the damp walls as he pursued that singular hoary sliver amidst the gloom.

Coming upon an opening in the crag, he peered from the shadow’s cover, falling short on the brazen image of a nude young woman, her dark hair spilling over her dainty bare flesh, as she waived her slender arms and fingers above in a feverish invocation. Before her, a weeping willow sprawled her immensely gnarled branches, devouring the starlit sky and the gullies beyond with its ample crown. The tree seemed to have been partly uprooted and, over the ages, made to yield its roots in such a manner as to form a natural altar above a gleaming creek. There were blackened candles about this wooden dais that illumed the feeble shape of a younger woman, roughly sixteen winters in age, while her long silky golden hair seeped through the roots that served as an altar, soaking in the waters flowing below. She seemed lifeless from a distance though her bare bosom heaved with breath and her bare limbs twitched spasmodically despite being bound to the crooked roots with thick ropes.

Crow reached for the leathery pouch that he always wore strapped to his right thigh and fumbled with its contents one by one, in the end pulling a tiny corked crystal vial. He studied it cautiously, using the faint moonlit glow to discern the small handwritten words he had penned on its label. Next, he grabbed the single needle syringe that was strapped to his left vambrace and proceeded to inject himself with the colorless serum. At this point the older woman sank her pale arms and stepped closer to the weird shrine, flashing a steel gem-crusted dagger. Her melody began thusly:

Oh Bendis
Great Bendis
Tonight we beg of thee
Tonight we spill blood for thee
Beneath your Silver Eye
Grant us power
Oh Bendis
Great Bendis
Tonight I spill blood for thee
Tonight I drink with thee

“I’ve always wondered what she’s like, Bendis." Crow stepped mockingly into the moonlight revealing his slender shape to the dark-haired woman, startling her in the process.

“Deceiver!” She hissed. “Fiend! How dare you disturb our sacred rite?!” She took a few steps back and spat at him while brandishing the silvery dagger.

“Calm yourself, sister. I’ve but questions to ask.” He stepped forward, baring his empty hands to appease her wrath.

“Questions, he says!” She hissed back at him. “You defiled the shrine with your wicked curse, vampyr! The rite demands untainted blood!” She circled about, her shapely features fading in the shadows beneath the willow tree.

“That was not our bargain, witch.” Crow crept closer to the wooden dais. “You were meant to nurse the woman I brought back to health, not sacrifice her blood to your pagan goddess.” His tone was abrupt and unnatural from behind the beak of his mask.

“Unwitting fool, forevermore will your thrall be denied Her grace!” Her voice seemed all the more distant, yet somehow echoing from the gloom encircling the meadow. “I carved the stigma upon her flesh, and thus her pleas will forever be rejected by the Sisterhood…”

“I care not what happens to her or her supplications.” He interjected abruptly. “I believe you were acquainted with a friend of mine.” His tone became jarringly honeyed as he touched the supple belly of the unconscious girl, guiding his finger up her luscious bosom and stopping short on her quaking lips. “I’m referring to a scholar – Charles Andronicus Curwen.”

“A degenerate and a blasphemer.” She scoffed.

“So I heard, though his carnal predilections are of no concern to me.” He dismissed her. “But that last detail of your description does interests me, yet I fail to grasp the significance behind it.” He tenderly caressed the girl’s flaxen hair, but his eyes followed a slight shimmer beyond the shadows, though the mask concealed his gaze.

“The Church speaks falsehoods and blasphemes with every utterance of their treacherous litanies.” A small glint of her dagger flashed in the twilight. “Venomous are their priests. Ill begotten is their knowledge, and your friend Curwen was no different.” Her voice hissed ever closer. “Bendis ordained their demise—his demise…” Her tone became a whispery echo. “And now she demands your blood, vampyr…”

Without further warning she lunged from the gloom with a devilish shriek, her dainty pale skin illumed by the moonlit sky a mere moment before flinging a handful of shimmering dust, aimed squarely at Crow's eyes. Her ambush caught him by surprise, yet the grime she had thrown managed little but hit the glass goggles of Crow's mask, and as he scrambled to sidestep her murderous assault, he ironically created the opportunity she yearned for. A quick slash of the jewel-crusted dagger caught his exposed right hand, and Crow fell backwards into the muck, dazed and bewildered by her ferocious quickness.

An indefatigable purpose drove her descent into this frothing madness, and even though her pale violet eyes were yet a raging storm, her lascivious body wavered to deliver the decisive blow, deciding instead to wait. Following a moment of silence as the two stared at each other, Crow began to feel increasingly uneasy, succumbing to a wretched dizziness that warped his vision inch by inch into a macabre version of reality.

Before him stood bent and crooked the perverted body of a hag, old and withered, with her skin hanging where just a moment ago the exact opposite was true. She wheezed as she lurched towards him, brandishing in her elongated, bony fingers a misshapen silvery dagger. From here on, the venom took hold of Crow’s body, inducing a paralysis he himself had inflicted oh so many times, and as the hag hunched down, for just a moment, it seemed like gazing into an echo. Strangely enough, as she drew up to deliver the final blow, a look of revelation wrinkled her face, ultimately understanding she was the one that had been outplayed.

In the blink of an eye, Crow grabbed the gem-crusted dagger with his left hand, all the while catching her coal dark hair with his right. He hugged her nice and snug in a fatal embrace as she squirmed to escape, gurgling the crimson blood that gushed through the gaping hole in her gullet. They stood there for a while, and as her limbs twitched spasmodically, Crow whispered softly to himself:

“May your pagan goddess have pity on your soul…”

Crow pushed the lifeless body aside, disturbed by the whole ordeal, but above all disgusted with his failure to wrest more of the information he lacked. Despite his failing strength, wisdom and knowledge had won him the struggle, and punished the culprit guilty of Curwen’s untimely demise.

Crow glanced one final time at the wooden dais beneath the weeping willow, lurching closer to the bonds that kept the flaxen-haired girl bound to its twisted roots. He hacked at the bindings with the dagger and the ropes weakened against the steel blade with each subsequent cut. He took off his bloodied coat, and akin to a caring father he covered the girl’s quaking frame—a marginal act of kindness in a sea of unrelenting savagery.