Dread dogged him, so close Crispin could feel it snapping at his heels. It was the type of terror that runs a man down with fury and glee, knowing its prey won't escape it. Almost as if living, fear mocked Crispin. Hiding in the mists, a swelling sense of unease plucked at his sense of direction. Misdirection—this awful sensation—it felt as if Crispin's heart might just burst. Was this his doom? No, he saw it now, through the heavy fog that had seemed to chase him through tight alleys and back streets all the way to the city's outer limits. His last words were a howl; incomprehension cursed the cow that ended him.
Sudden weight, like a vice gripping him, caused Crispin to scream at the suffocating force. The force drove the breath from his lungs. No, it was worse. It was as if his very soul were evacuating his body, caught on hooks that pulled it on and on and on, not through darkness but rather indescribableness, a rejection of sense and his senses.
And then there was silence—not perfect, just a subtle pause in all the excitement. Hands held defensively out like claws, ready to rake at any assailant, Crispin took in the mists that seemed to collect about him. His heartbeat had somehow absented itself, as if it were shy and apologetic of the noise it would normally bring forth. Crispin breathed out, his breath visible though it wasn't cold. Focus shifting as he regained his bearings, his eyes flicked up and settled upon the dim light of the kiosk he now found himself standing before.
Cutting his way through the thick fog, Crispin felt almost drawn, like a moth to the light. Reaching the desk proper, he found it seemingly unattended and so began to take in its interior. At first glance, it seemed tidy and well-kept, but as Crispin peered closer, he saw the lie. Its disorder could be most charitably described as homey or well-lived-in. This, in turn, informed the young man that whoever worked this station clearly did not have much of a life.
He could see a precarious pile of books that seemed about to topple. In one upper corner of the booth, he also spied a ghastly oversized stuffed buzzard or vulture. Crispin had never been all that clear on the difference between the two and hardly cared. Peering back at him, the foul thing's eyes felt unnatural, almost aware. Unnerved by the stuffed bird, Crispin shifted his gaze away.
Letting himself lean against the rich ivory-inlaid counter of the kiosk, Crispin began trying to untangle his thoughts. *Am I drunk? No, currently not*, he thought, unable to find the sweet notes of wine nor the sour bile that so often followed its indulgence on his tongue. He remembered bits and pieces—lights, sounds, and voices—some primal directive that had told him to run, but beyond that, not much.
Clearly, he was lost. He’d been somewhere near the edge of the city proper, past its canals—at the very least, so he must have crossed the grand bridge that connected its many tiny islands to the mainland. But why had he been running? Crispin tried to force his thoughts closer to that seemingly blank spot, yet it was far too hot, as if it were a burning brand; his mind snapped away from the thought.
He realized now he was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. His hands on the counter shook. The ghost of terror laid its long, misjointed arm over his shoulder and whispered in some arcane tongue that he was doing something he ought not. It seemed that fear had followed him to this liminal moment. On instinct, Crispin moved his hand to his chest, as if to comfort his own beating heart, yet he couldn't find a pulse.
Nothing—not even the slightest murmur, it was still, silent. Crispin felt his lips stretch in a smile. Things must not be that bad after all. He knew his heart; it was honest. It always told him the truth. Crispin regained some modicum of composure, at least enough to reach a hand forward for the silver bell upon the desk, only to freeze.
Suddenly, the ghostly apparition of a young woman stood behind the desk. Her eyes were haunting; in many ways, she felt like a cousin to the fear that had so recently been breathing down his neck. As far as he could tell, she was human, yet something in him screamed, denying it. As the moment stretched, Crispin realized that scream was not some silent thing inside his head, but instead something that had rolled past his teeth, bursting wide open the portcullis of his mouth so as to stride out in a gallant charge against the previous oppressive quiet.
He couldn't stop it, so committed were his lungs to this auditory cavalry charge. Crispin simply let it happen as he was silently scoriated by the kiosk attendant's regard. The attendant in question, with her ghostly eyes, quickly tucked her displeasure away behind a mask of professional courtesy. Taking a seat, she quickly swept away non-existent dust from her desk and began to speak. "Name, nature, and relevant claims."
Her deadpan tones carried an unearthly quality to them. It was as if she spoke in another language. Oh, Crispin could understand her, but it was more by way of violence. Each word she spoke tore into him, cutting through flesh and bone to his brain, and pulverizing that soft thing until comprehension was obtained. "Sir, no need to be distressed. Just step up to my desk, and I'll have everything sorted for you in but a moment, I swear." Again she spoke, her words rocking through Crispin no softer than before. He staggered back a step, shaken to his core.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
"Sir, if you would kindly step up to my desk and give me your name, circumstances, and if any greater or lesser power has a claim on your soul, I would be more than happy to assist you." This time, the woman's words truly possessed force. Crispin found himself pushed back by them, tumbling across the shockingly smooth stone floor, his limbs tangled and repelling in all directions from his still-addled brain.
Panting from his place on the floor, Crispin thought he saw the flicker of a smile grace her face. Though not cruel, it felt, given the circumstances, in poor taste. Whether it was due to no longer being the target of her words or simply the space now between them, her next words were far easier to bear than what had preceded them. "Winnie, be a dear and help the man up. He's clearly having a rough time."
Eyes tracking to the recipient of her words, Crispin began to scramble back as what he'd taken to be taxidermy began to move. Taking wing from its perch, the bird cleared the booth. Its wingspan was absurd. Lending somehow both grace and not, it—no, he, realized Crispin—began to hobble across the ground towards himself at an alarming rate.
Curling into a tight ball, Crispin shut his eyes, hoping against hope that when he opened them, he would find himself in some dirty, squalid alleyway, covered in his own sick. But no—he could hear the scrape of the bird's long talons on the smooth stone. Crispin couldn't blame his current predicament on the effects of some strange imported powder or smoke.
Upon reaching him, the bird looked up at Crispin. His eyes were not unkind; they carried a summit of grandfatherly mischief that couldn't be denied—an intelligence unburdened by age but instead enhanced. The bird, now moving, seemed almost human and far too wise. "Well, well," said the bird. "Don't keep her ladyship, the clerk archivist, waiting. Up, up, boy, get up. You have legs for walking still."
The congenial cajoling of the old buzzard triggered the habit of courtesy and manners that had been beaten into him as a child, and so Crispin found himself standing and being led back to the booth by the dusty old coot. Standing once more before the desk, Crispin now took in the form and countenance of its attendant in full. Crisp, clean, and professional, he guessed her age to be not too distant from his own. To Crispin's eye, the young woman was one of those quill-scribbling sorts that always tended to look down their nose at him, as if they could clearly see that he wasn't serious folk. It wasn't untrue, honestly.
Still, no need to be so blunt about it. Taking a slow series of calming breaths, Crispin lined up his numerous questions and prepared to voice them but was cut off as the woman spoke. "Hello and welcome, sir. I am Miss Remoulade Marmalade, who doesn't murder the poor," she said, "and this fine gentleman beside you is Win-Gaytt, who whispers all your dirty secrets. May I assume this is your first time here? Clearly, you have questions, and we will answer them all in due time. But first, sir, I must know your name, circumstances, and whether or not there are any current or prior claims on your soul."
A talking bird was one thing, thought Crispin. He'd seen this parrot once that seemed to know every possible foul word, but this talk of souls—now that was ghoulish, to be sure. "Quick, quick, tell me your tale," said Remoulade, evidently unaware or unconcerned by Crispin's growing discomfort. "I'll get you squared away, and then you can be on to whatever god or demon you prefer, if that's your inclination."
"What? I'm... a demon? But I'm not... God?" Spluttering at her last offhand comment, Crispin began to consider which way to run, only to reconsider as he quickly glanced back at the bird—near half his height standing and easily double it in wingspan. "Well, yes, sir," Remoulade replied. "A place for your soul to rest. It seems only fitting. Now, sir, please, your name or affiliation, if you would."
"Stop, stop, stop," said Crispin, at the end of his rope. "Listen here, Remoulade, or whatever your name is, I'm not signing up for whatever you're selling. Just point me back to the main street, and I'll be out of your hair." There was a shift in Remoulade's expression—something cold and hard flashed over her features just for a moment, and then it was gone, once more covered by her professional facade. "Sir, I understand this can be difficult for your sort, but I would suggest you mind your tone." "My sort?" replied Crispin, though unsure what she meant, still he felt the sting and intent behind her words.
"Mistress," cut in the buzzard Crispin now knew as Win-Gaytt. Chastised, the clerk adjusted her tone as she continued. "Sir, I suppose this is your first time—first time, yes, dying." "Well, yes," "I suppose... wait, no, I am certainly not dead. How would I be talking to you, then?" replied Crispin, feeling his forehead throb. Remoulade considered him a moment and then spoke. "Ah, I see. You're one of those." "Those?" "Yes, stupid." At this, Crispin clearly heard a weary sigh escape the bird.
"Anyways, sir," continued Remoulade, as if she had not just insulted Crispin to his face. "If you could just confirm," "that this is your name," she said, as she slammed a heavy book down onto the desk and, opening it, pointed to a writhing line of text. Slowly, the letters began to swim into focus—some he knew from the smattering of half-learned languages he'd picked up from less-than-reputable dockside establishments he'd patronized in his free time.
As the words coalesced into something he could read, finally, one thing settled into place—a name, a name. "Sir," prompted Remoulade, waiting for him to speak the word, to acknowledge that thing that floated on the page as his. "Is this your name?" she asked again. As Crispin stared at that one singular word, his eyes tracing over each letter that somehow came together to form a name, his eyes burned. It screamed at him—at the man—that he acknowledge it, that he let it pass his lips, that he confirm and take ownership of it. But no.
Looking up from the parchment into Remoulade's eyes, Crispin spoke. "My name? Yes, is that... this your name?" said the clerk, tapping the page, her polite smile strained. Finally, struggling through the lancing pains that seemed to shoot from the page directly into Crispin's core, he spoke a simple word. He said, "No."