Chapter 1: A Tea In The Storm [Prologue]
In the neighborhood of Glenmere's End, a veil of somber clouds enshrouded the moon, stealing away its luminous presence. The heavens growled with thunderous fervor, foretelling the imminent arrival of an impending storm. Frantically, the denizens scurried homeward, seeking solace from the impending deluge. Those caught unaware or lingering tardily sought refuge in the Shelter Homes, peculiar edifices reminiscent of dome-shaped sanctuaries, offering respite through rented chambers. Meanwhile, the shops within the vicinity had shuttered their doors, succumbing to the wrath of nature, save for one peculiar establishment.
In the quaint emporium known as The Heanders, an ethereal glow emanated from the flickering light, casting a warm and inviting ambiance. Soft lamplight spilled from a handful of meticulously crafted lanterns, casting delicate patterns on the mahogany walls. The air was thick with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, blending harmoniously with the soft melodies emanating from a vintage gramophone. The decor exuded elegance, with plush velvet chairs, intricately carved wooden tables, and a gleaming brass counter. It was a sanctuary of refined indulgence in an era steeped in tradition.
The shopkeeper, an elderly man well into his sixties, bore unmistakable signs of the passage of time, his crown adorned with wisps of silvery gray. His countenance was etched with lines, testament to a life immersed in weariness, yet they seemed to fade away as he methodically brewed his cherished Oolong Tea, its tantalizing fragrance wafting through the air, embracing the senses with a comforting allure.
"Ah..." a husky voice sighed in appreciation as the tea reached its culmination of perfection.
The shopkeeper, eyes closed in reverie, savored the delicate flavors that danced upon his palate, an exquisite blend of bitterness and sweetness harmoniously intertwined. The elixir was his truest pleasure, a catalyst for a respite from the world's turmoil. With each sip from an immaculate white porcelain cup, the cares of existence momentarily ceased their relentless assault.
Gazing out the window, the old man observed the rain, as it cascaded with an unhindered zeal. The storm, with all its tempestuous might, held no power over his tranquil sanctuary. It was as if the torrential downpour had awakened memories of a bygone era, transporting him to the depths of his past.
His breaths grew heavy as he beheld the lantern beside him, a treasured gift from his granddaughter. Its ornate frame, adorned with intricate filigree and delicate stained glass, exuded a quintessential Victorian elegance.
Amidst the tempestuous chaos outside the shop, a torrential downpour accompanied by thundering calamity, the interior exuded an air of tranquility. However, this serenity was marred by an unwelcome crack that had appeared upon the delicate lantern, upon which the old man had been peacefully basking. His countenance transformed into one of astonishment as he regarded the imperfection with a puzzled expression.
"Ominous..." he murmured, his trembling hand reaching for the eyepiece, which he hastily positioned upon his left eye. With a mix of trepidation and unquenchable curiosity, he leaned forward, his old bones protesting the effort, as he made a determined stride towards the lantern.
His gaze remained locked upon the enigmatic crack, a potent blend of awe and bewilderment etched upon his weathered countenance.
Finding the mystery behind the crack became a new adventure for the old man and it seemed as if everything would be fine by doing that, but…
The sudden sound of approaching footsteps sliced through the air, electrifying his senses and causing him to startle, involuntarily recoiling from his position.
Tap, tap, tap.
The rhythmic cadence of the footsteps resounded within the confines of the shop, blending with the melodic patter of the drizzling rain. As the door creaked open slowly, the sound reverberated, filling the space with an eerie echo. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, briefly illuminating the darkness outside, which had swallowed all previous sources of light. In that momentary flash, a haunting silhouette materialized, standing ominously in the doorway, its form concealed by the feeble glow of the lantern, unable to penetrate the surrounding gloom.
A resonant, masculine voice reached the old man, cutting through the air like a sonorous melody. "Pray tell, good sir, is it not past the hour of closure?"
The old man, momentarily released from the grip of the haunting silhouette, shook off the enchantment and composed himself. "Nay, good sir, fear not. The establishment is still open for your pleasure. I implore you to find solace within and make yourself at ease."
"Ahh, I am most relieved to hear such news," responded the voice.
The young man strode forward, his first task being to close the door behind him with a gentle yet purposeful hand. Meanwhile, the old man, his voice carrying a subtle tone, called out a name with a sense of authority, "Horris."
"Yes, sir?" responded a diligent voice, as a young man in his twenties promptly emerged from the room situated to the left of the main area, having heeded the old man's summons.
The tea shop helper, Horris, donned a meticulously tailored attire befitting the Victorian era. Clad in a crisp white shirt adorned with a high collar and a black bowtie, his waistcoat and trousers boasted a tasteful pinstripe pattern. Completing the ensemble were polished leather shoes and a neatly tied apron, signaling his commitment to diligent service.
"Kindle the lanterns, my good lad," the old man commanded, his voice carrying a husky timbre. "We are honored by the presence of a distinguished gentleman."
Horris cast a cautious glance toward the enigmatic silhouette, straining his eyes in an attempt to discern its features. The dim light made his task all the more challenging, causing a furrow of concentration to crease his forehead.
"But sir, it is a tempestuous storm," Horris ventured, a touch of concern lacing his words. "Should we not be closing the shop?"
"Nonsense, my boy," the old man replied, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. "Merely a downpour, nothing more. There is no cause for alarm."
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Upon hearing his reassurance, Horris acquiesced and set about his duty, carefully tending to the lanterns he had extinguished moments ago. Positioned on each corner and two in the middle, these delicate sources of light began to radiate with renewed brilliance, casting a warm and inviting glow throughout the shop.
In the newfound brilliance of the lantern light, the silhouette unveiled its true colors, revealing the features of a young man who bore the countenance of a scholar. At the tender age of twenty-one, his visage exuded an air of youthful intensity and intellectual curiosity.
His face, framed by dark, tousled hair that hinted at a mind perpetually engaged in deep contemplation, possessed sharp, intelligent eyes that glimmered with a combination of wisdom and mischief. His brows, finely arched, accentuated the intensity of his gaze, while a well-defined jawline spoke of determination and resolve.
Clad in a tailored attire befitting his scholarly pursuits, he wore a distinguished waistcoat adorned with intricate patterns that hinted at his affinity for arcane knowledge. A pendant, bearing an emblem of a devil, dangled subtly from his neck, whispering of his allegiance to forbidden secrets.
Adorned at his waist, the young scholar possessed a meticulously crafted pocket watch, its golden chain cascading down like a vestige of time. The shadow cast by his wide-brimmed hat concealed much of his face, imbuing him with an air of enigma and intrigue. In his hand, he clutched a stylish cane, intricately embellished with an array of ornate patterns, further accentuating his refined and cultured disposition.
Tap. Tap.
The source of the enigmatic footsteps became clear as the young man's walking stick struck the ground, resonating with each measured step. A refined accessory, the walking stick revealed itself as a companion to aid his movements rather than a conduit of the arcane.
As he approached, the young man gracefully slid a chair forward and settled himself comfortably. The old man, assuming the role of host, inquired with genuine interest, "Gentlemen, what would you like to savor this fine evening?"
"I believe a cup of tea would be most suitable," the old man asked with a hint of sophistication.
"Indeed, the usual for me," the lad continued, adjusting his hat slightly before removing it and placing it by his side.
"Ah, the Red tea, if memory serves me right," the old man chuckled, a twinkle in his eye.
"Indeed, good sir, your memory remains as sharp as ever," the young lad replied, a hint of amusement lacing his words.
"Haha, no need for flattery," the old man chuckled, reaching for a red pouch nestled among the meticulously arranged collection. With practiced hands, he deftly untied the delicate threads that concealed the contents within, revealing a vibrant array of red powders nestled within the folds.
Next, he retrieved a small teaspoon, its handle intricately adorned, and delicately measured out a spoonful of the fine powder. The red essence was carefully poured into a small kettle resting atop a petite stove, its flame fueled by the sacred Phoenix Dactylifera sticks.
As the mixture brewed, its fragrance wafting through the air, the old man's hands moved with an elegant grace. He gently poured the tea into a cup, held steady by Horris, retrieved from the cupboard. The cup itself was a work of art, adorned in regal red hues with golden lines tracing along its edges, exuding an air of opulence.
The tea arrived, steaming and fragrant, its wisps of vapor swirling upward. Grateful for the warmth it provided in contrast to the chill outside, the room was further comforted by the crackling fireplace that radiated its cozy glow.
"How was your day's toil, young sir? Did your senior bestow upon you his customary scolding?" the old man inquired, reclining in his chair and taking another sip of his Oolong tea, inviting a leisurely conversation.
"Haha, indeed. It is a challenging path we amateur scholars tread," the lad sighed, leaning forward to partake of the beverage.
"If you were in my employ, I would sing your praises daily, for you are a fine young lad," the old man chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Your words are most gracious, sir, but permit me to confess that I harbor curses for my senior, who torments me ceaselessly," the lad replied candidly, a touch of resentment lingering in his voice.
"If fate were to claim him this very night, not a single tear would be shed," the young man remarked as his words laced with a hint of dark humor.
"Haha, may the Devil Worshipers heed your wish," the old man chuckled, amused by the young man's fanciful notion.
"Devil Worshipers?" the young man asked, genuine astonishment in his voice.
"Haha, do not pretend innocence, my dear lad. There is scarcely a child who has not heard tales of their existence," the old man replied, a hint of mystery lingering in his words.
"I apologize, sir, but I was genuinely taken aback," the young man replied, his confusion palpable.
"Of course, I understand. The heinous cult of which you speak, the one that commits acts of murder and mayhem against their adversaries," the young man stated calmly, as if to clarify his understanding.
"Haha, indeed, they are quite infamous. But fear not, they are but an exaggerated group. They pose no real threat," the old man reassured, attempting to dispel any concerns.
"By your words, good sir, you risk drawing their attention upon this very establishment. I implore you, refrain from such discussions," the young man requested, his tone laced with a touch of apprehension.
The old man fell silent, his gaze shifting towards Horris as they exchanged knowing glances. Sensing the tension, Horris spoke up, attempting to allay any fears.
"Fret not, for no one dares to cross paths with Sir Magnus," Horris assured, his voice filled with conviction.
Upon hearing this, the young man rose abruptly from his seat, his eyes quivering with disbelief.
"You... You are Magnus Everhart!?" the young lad exclaimed, astonishment washing over him as he stood up.
"The former right-hand man of the Great Wizard Darius Storm?" the young lad exclaimed, awe evident in his voice. "The very one who played a crucial role, fifty years ago, in thwarting the nefarious cultists? It's truly you?"
"Haha, quite the wealth of information you possess. Indeed, that would be me," Magnus chuckled, reveling in the praise bestowed upon him.
"I see..." the young lad uttered, his words trailing off. Deep in thought, he settled back into his seat, sipping the tea slowly and steadily. At intervals, he would mutter, "I see..." as he contemplated the revelations.
After about five minutes, having finished his cup of tea, the young man rose from his seat.
"What is the total amount I owe on the tab?" he inquired.
"Eh? It has barely been half a month since you opened the tab. Are you willing to settle it all today?" Magnus queried.
"Haha, don't you want me to?" the young lad replied with a mischievous grin.
"Of course, I would be delighted to accept," Magnus affirmed. He turned to Horris, signaling the tab settlement, and Horris quickly spoke up, "That will be 56 cents, good sir. Including today's bill, it will be 60 cents."
"I see," the scholar nodded in agreement, placing 60 cents on the table to settle his account in full. Once done, he retrieved his hat and walking stick from the nearby corner and began to make his way towards the exit.
"Haha, leaving in haste, have I inadvertently offended you?" Magnus inquired.
"Oh, not at all. I am simply in a hurry for my work, and now that the storm has subsided, I thought it best to take my leave," the young lad replied with a laugh.
"Ah, I hope your journey is not too far," Magnus mused.
"I can't help but feel that we won't be crossing paths again," the old man continued, a hint of melancholy in his voice.
The young lad paused, taking a step or two forward, gently twirling a gold coin in the air before stowing it away in his pocket.
"Fear not, dear sir, we shall meet again soon," the young lad assured him. "Rest assured, I have a feeling you will remain in good health."
"May the devil be with you," he declared, and as those words left his lips, a resounding thunderclap echoed through the room. The young lad swiftly donned his hat, disappearing into the darkness as the lightning dissipated, leaving behind an air of mystery and intrigue.