Bram, the Lucky Charm, adjusted his tufted ears in anticipation. They always seemed to twitch whenever he was onto something exciting. Today, it was not just any ordinary adventure but a quest to locate the secret lair of Kirara, the beguiling yet dangerous Nixbob villain.
He steadied his fluffy tail, eyes narrowing to slits. "One... two... three!" He announced in a hushed tone, just loud enough for his own ears. He knew that locating Kirara would be no small feat, but he felt up to the task. Bram was ready!
"Here I come!"
The salon was his first stop. Bram skidded to a halt on the polished wood floor, eyeing each tabletop meticulously. His mother was arranging fresh roses next to flickering candles. She looked prettier without the bruises and the unhappy smile.
"Bram! What on earth are you up to?" she inquired, an eyebrow arching upwards.
"Shhh, Mum," Bram whispered, casting a conspiratorial glance around the room. "I'm on a super secret mission to find Kirara. She's tricked me once again."
He scampered over, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "We are playing hide and seek. Have you seen her anywhere?"
His mother chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling like his. "No, love. But why don't you check the store? Just remember, don't touch anything."
Bram nodded, understanding the weight of the mission settling onto his small shoulders. His little body seemed to tighten with a sense of gravity as he rolled toward the door to the store. He extended a cautious hand to open it.
The door creaked open, and Bram's eyes darted across the room, first scanning behind the counter, then to the empty chair, and finally, somewhat desperately, up towards the ceiling.
Nothing. No Kirara.
He sighed, momentarily deflated, but then shook his little body. This wasn't the end. Kirara had eluded him, but the game was far from over. Bram's fluffy tail wagged involuntarily, and his eyes regained their mischievous glimmer.
The hunt was still on. To the kitchen!
Bram's little hands barely made a sound as he rolled to the kitchen door, its frame adorned with the various scents of spices and cooked meals. With a soft push, he nudged the door open just enough to peek inside.
Adamastor, the tall man with flowing white hair, was in the middle of something! Something that puzzled Bram's young eyes. The vampire was delicately holding a cup close to his lips. A clear, transparent liquid trickled from the cup into a glass, filling it halfway. The atmosphere in the room seemed to shift, filling with an air of quiet intensity that Bram couldn't quite comprehend. A shiver skated down his spine.
He had learned that some things grown-ups did were better left unquestioned. So, as quietly as he had entered, Bram turned away, a furrow forming on his tiny brow as he momentarily forgot his quest to find Kirara.
Just then, Adamastor emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray topped with a jug of orange juice and a cup.
"Perdita, could you please take this to Nord? I believe she's in her studies," he said, extending the tray toward his mother.
"Of course, Mr. Adamastor. I'll see to it right away," Perdita replied, her voice tinged with respectful deference as she accepted the tray.
Bram watched the exchange from his secret hideout below a table. His tiny heart pounded in his chest. Was Nord in any kind of danger? His youthful imagination started to weave intricate scenarios, each more troubling than the last.
Should he say something? Or should he, like so many times before, hold his tongue and not meddle in the affairs of grown-ups? Yet the weight of the moment held him captive, filling his small frame with a newfound sense of urgency.
The dilemma gripped him, pulling him in two different directions. Finally, his instincts took over. He will not let any bad man hurt Nord like he let his daddy hurt mummy! Bram knew he had to say something to someone. Or he had to do it himself! The hunt for Kirara would have to wait. There were more pressing matters at hand. He will save Nord! She’s nice and smells good.
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Nord leaned back in her chair, her fingers stiff and tingling from the hours of intricate penmanship. Her fingers hovered over the parchment, quill in hand, as she meticulously etched the flowing letters. "You are hereby invited to the grand opening of the Morningstar..."
Each invitation tested patience and precision, a battle against ink blots and typos. The words had blurred into indistinguishable shapes after the umpteenth card, and her shoulder ached from the repetitive motion. Around two hundred invites sat in neat stacks on her desk, each one a monument to her perseverance. Yet, the work was far from done.
Just when the monotony began to eat at her, a soft knock at the door interrupted the silence. "Come in," she called out, setting down her quill with a grateful sigh.
"Apologies for the interruption, Miss Morningstar. We've prepared a little snack for you," Perdita said, placing the tray carefully on an uncluttered corner of Nord's desk.
"Oh, thank you! I could really use a break," Nord exclaimed, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the orange juice.
"Would you mind if I do the same for Mr. Berith? He's been holed up in the barn since early morning," Perdita inquired.
Nord paused mid-pour. "Why are you asking me?"
"I wasn't certain if—"
"What's he doing in the barn in the first place?" Nord cut her off, finishing her pour and taking a sip of the orange juice.
Perdita hesitated for a moment. "I believe he's practising the violin. He mentioned something about not wanting to disturb anyone."
"Why is he always so weird?" Nord laughed softly, setting down her glass. "That's utterly silly. I'd love to hear him play. Take him something to eat, and tell him to practice here. The barn is filled with nothing but junk and dust."
Perdita nodded. "Yes, Miss," she said, already turning to leave.
As the door closed behind Perdita, Nord took another sip of her orange juice, savouring the brief respite.
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"Think Adamastor was too generous with the salt this time," she mumbled.
The weight of the unfinished invitations called to her from the desk, but the interruption had been welcome.
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Bram's little heart pounded in his chest like a drum as he saw his mother, Perdita, exit Nord's study, the tray conspicuously absent. Something wasn't right; he could feel it in his bones. Summoning his courage and chasing away fear and uncertainty before it gripped him. He had to do something—fast.
He tiptoed to the study door, which was slightly ajar, and he peered through the gap, his eyes widening in horror. Nord had a glass in hand, the liquid flowing down swiftly as she drained it. But, the jug remained almost full. It wasn't too late!
She reached for another glassful, and that's when Bram's instincts took over. With a burst of energy, he rushed towards Nord, his small hands flailing in the air as he knocked the jug from her hands.
Orange liquid splattered across the room, spraying Nord, drenching the invitations on her desk, and creating a puddle on the floor.
Frozen in her chair, Nord's eyes flickered between the mess on her desk and the tiny creature before her. "What?" she finally whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief.
Perdita, called by the echo of broken glass colliding with the floor, burst into the room, her eyes filled with concern and indignation. "Bram! What on Atua were you thinking?" She grabbed her son's wrist, lifting him off the floor.
Tears welled in Bram's eyes, and his voice quivered as he tried to explain. "The bad man put something in her drink. I didn't want her to get hurt. She's nice! Last time, I didn't do anything, and Daddy hurt you!"
Perdita sighed deeply, her grip loosening. "By Atua, Bram. Apologize. Now."
Bram sniffled, his gaze meeting Nord's. "I'm sorry, Miss Nord."
For a moment, Nord remained silent, still processing the whirlwind of events that had just transpired. Then, rising from her chair, she uttered a quiet, "Please excuse me" before exiting the study, her steps measured but swift.
The room fell into a tense silence, filled only by the dripping of orange juice from the desk. The pile of drenched invitations lay forgotten, but the weight of the moment remained, hanging in the air like a heavy mist. Bram looked up at his mother, his eyes a blend of regret and concern. Perdita sighed once more, her eyes softening as she looked at her son.
In his small, innocent way, Bram had made a choice, crossing boundaries he didn't fully understand. But he had acted, guided by an instinct to protect, and in that moment, despite the mess and the questions yet unanswered, Perdita felt a sense of uneasy pride even if her son was wrong.
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Nord didn't realize how quickly she'd made her way to the barn until the music enveloped her, notes so pure and unblemished they seemed to cleanse the air. She peeked around the doorframe, watching as Baal lost himself in the melody, his eyes half-closed and a soft smile gracing his lips. The moment the music ceased, his smile faded like the last strains of the tune. A part of Nord wondered what happy thoughts danced through his mind as he played.
As she turned to leave, a strange blend of embarrassment and irrationality colouring her thoughts, he spoke. "Morningstar?"
Summoning what little courage she had left, she turned back to him. "Hi there."
"What's wrong?" Baal asked as he began to place the violin back in its case.
"Nothing, really," Nord stumbled over her words. "Perdita mentioned you were practising out here. I was just wondering why you chose this dusty, old place. Also, you haven't eaten anything, and—"
"Why are you soaked?" he interrupted.
"It was an accident. I— It ruined two whole days of work!" Nord's voice cracked, and she found herself sinking to the ground, leaning against the doorframe, her eyes filled with frustrated tears.
Baal stepped closer, his hands gently patting her on the neck. "Hey, hey, don't cry, Nord."
"I'm so tired, Baal. I don't know what I'm doing or what I should be doing. Every effort feels pointless. I have to destroy the Hollow, but I don't even know what it is. And then there's all this petty drama that feels like something out of a third-rate novel. I'm exhausted!"
She broke down completely, her voice hitching between sobs.
Wrapping his arms around her, Baal let her cry into his shoulder, seemingly unbothered by the sticky residue of orange juice that clung to her clothes. "One problem at a time, okay?"
"I'm so tired," she repeated, softer this time.
As her tears subsided to soft sniffles, Baal spoke. "I might have a solution for the invitations."
"You do?"
"Actually, you do. If you allow me, I can show you," he said, nodding toward the buttons on her blouse.
"Are you taking advantage of me?" she asked, her voice a blend of suspicion and jest, "Now?"
"Purely instructional, I assure you," he replied with a roguish grin. Carefully untying the black ribbon and undoing the first couple of buttons, he revealed the tattoo of a crow on the left side of her chest. "This is the Key of Plague. It can send the invites for you," he whispered, his voice tender, his fingers barely hovering over her skin.
"I don't want to send a plague. I just want to send invites."
He chuckled softly. "The name's misleading. The key can disseminate any message you want, like invitations or a plague if you feel like it, quickly and without the labour of handwriting each one."
For the first time since she'd burst into the barn, Nord felt a glimmer of hope. "Really? Well, then... could you teach me how to use it?"
Baal stood up, brushing dust off his trousers with a few pats of his hand. He extended his arm toward Nord, his eyes locking onto hers as he helped her to her feet. "Remember how you fine-tuned that violin?"
Nord nodded, attempting to clean her sticky, juice-soaked clothes. The effort was futile, but it made her feel a bit more grounded. "Yeah."
"It's like that, but instead, you're tuning the magic that resides in your skin," Baal said, his words tinged with a subtle urgency.
"You mean the tattoo?"
"Exactly. The tattoo is a key. It serves a singular purpose. Focus on it, unlock it with the right words."
Nord cocked an eyebrow, teasing, "Hocus pocus, send the crows, send inventatus?"
A smile flickered across Baal's face. "I'm seeing a pattern here." He moved behind her, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders.
"Repeat after me: 'As he clothed himself with cursing like as with his garment.'"
Nord echoed the phrase, her voice a mix of concentration and curiosity. "As he clothed himself with cursing like as with his garment."
Baal leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. "So let it come into his bowels like water."
"So let it come into his bowels like water," she said, her eyes rolling back until they were pure white.
"And like oil into his bones," Baal whispered, barely audible.
"And like oil into his bones," Nord continued on her own, "So it is decreed, for my words are carved into my being—Baal Berith!"
The energy between them was palpable. "Remember, it's like the violin. You reach into the chaos and pull forth what you need."
Taking a deep breath, Nord embraced Atua Ma in the air, exhaling slowly as if willing her intent into existence. Baal's hand tightened briefly on her shoulder.
Nord crouched low. Her fingers splayed against the trembling ground as if she were touching the pulse of the world itself. The tension was palpable, like an electric charge in the air before a storm. The earth beneath her fingers seemed to heave a sigh before it cracked open.
A murder of crows, their feathers so dark they absorbed light, burst forth from the ground as if summoned from another realm. Their eyes, a piercing molten gold, seemed to hold the secrets of ages.
For a moment, they circled around Nord and Baal, filling the air with a cacophony of caws that sounded like an otherworldly hymn. They were the tempest, and the pair stood in the eye of this dark hurricane, momentarily untouched and united.
As quickly as they had erupted into being, the crows scattered, flying off into unknown directions as if carrying pieces of Nord's soul along with her unspoken wishes.
As the last feather settled to the ground, Nord turned to Baal. Her eyes were still in a trance, but her smile was vivid and alive. "I want to hear you play. I miss it."
Baal felt a lump in his throat, unable to speak for a second. He could feel tears in his eyes, the kind of tears that come from an emotion too intense for words. "I miss you too."
"But I'm here."
"I miss 'us.'"
"Do it like you did the first time. I'm easily impressed by cute demons," she teased, but as she looked around at the ground, now covered in dark feathers, her eyes turned serious again. "Did it work?"
"Yes, it worked."
She looked back up at him. "What's wrong?"
"What?"
"You're crying."
Baal touched his cheek and was surprised to find it wet. "Ah, so I am," he murmured.
[https://i.postimg.cc/VNXYY9sb/The-Key-of-Plague.png]
> To be used for executing all the experiments and operations of ruin, destruction, and death. And when it is made in full perfection, it serves also to send good word stained in blood.
> 'As he clothed himself with cursing like as with a garment, so let it come into his bowels like water, and like oil into his bones. So it is decreed, for my words are carved into my being—Baal Berith!’