Lord of the Mysteries: Catalyst of Shadows

A faint wind swept through the alley, carrying with it the acrid tang of scorched blood and charred stone. The ground was cracked in places, blackened by flame and still warm. Bits of flesh clung to the brick walls like ribbons, dried and shriveled. A low mist crawled along the edges of the ruined space, tinged with the stink of decay.

Boots crunched over ash.

A group of figures emerged from the mist of the alley, clad in the distinct uniform of the Mandated Punishers. One of them knelt beside a blackened scorch mark where nothing but a few bits of twisted bone and sloughing meat remained.

"Two of them are completely burned through," he reported, his voice crisp. "Another's corpse was shredded, dissolved by something corrosive. But there's not much left to go by on nor to divine"

Behind him, a Deacon stepped forward and glanced around the ruined walls, tapping a gloved finger on the brim of his hat. "These weren't amateurs," he muttered. "The bodies either burned or corroded beyond usefulness and the blood patterns suggest coordinated attacks."

"There are remnants of frost over there," another clergyman added, pointing toward the far wall. "Crystallization deep, had to be a Zombie, I'd say."

"And more burn marks here," a third said, gesturing to a row of melted bricks and scorched slush. 

The Bishop, a tall figure in a formal black coat adorned with lightning, stepped forward, gazing over the scene in silence. His eyes swept the area, burned and corroded.

"A Hunter," he finally said. "Possibly a Reaper. The precision is too clean for a Pyromaniac."

A heavy silence followed. Then, quietly, the Deacon asked, "Could it be him?"

Another turned slightly. "The Drunken Reaper? He arrived yesterday on the same cruise that got delayed."

The Bishop's expression didn't change. "It's possible. He fits the profile."

"But no trace," the first clergy replied. "And no reliable witness. We'll need confirmation before we label him as involved."

"Especially with the higher-ups due to arrive tomorrow," the Bishop added. "We'll keep this under wraps for now. Quiet observations only."

As the group began to disperse to their tasks, one junior clergyman, voice low and laced with a tired sort of resignation, muttered, "Still… whoever did this cleaned up our backyard. Monsters or not."

The wind shifted again, cooler this time.

And at the far end of the alley, half-concealed in a crumbling shadow beneath a broken drainpipe, something flickered. The darkness there wavered, bent, then slid away, as if it had never been there at all.

…

Late morning sunlight bled through the thin curtains, casting long, drowsy stripes across the floorboards of their room. The air inside was heavy, the aftermath of a night full of blood, fire, and flesh still clinging faintly to the walls.

Halsey stirred and woke up.

She found herself slumped just beside the door, her back crooked against the wooden frame, arms curled limply at her sides. Sweat stuck her shirt to her skin, her breath tasted stale, and there was a faint metallic tang in her nose, the leftover scent of blood and mental backlash. Her head pounded with a dull throb, as though someone had taken a spike and driven it halfway into her skull, then left it there to hum.

She exhaled, slow and long.

"I'm alive..." she muttered, voice hoarse.

Shoving herself upright, she winced as the soreness in her joints finally caught up with her. Without even looking toward the main room, she called, "I'm good. The backlash is gone."

There was a long pause.

Then, from the other side of the door, the soft click of the lock turning echoed.

She nodded once, grabbed a towel, and dragged herself to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, Halsey stepped out again, steam trailing behind her like a soft veil. One towel was wrapped snugly around her body, clinging to the curves of her hips and chest, the fabric damp and faintly translucent near the edges. Another towel sat over her head, soaking up the last of the water from her hair as she rubbed it dry with idle, practiced movements.

She blinked once, eyes sharp despite the lingering exhaustion

Lars looked up.

He was seated by the window with his boots on the sill, a half-empty bottle of wine tucked under one arm, and his coat hanging off one shoulder like a lazy cape. His expression was relaxed, drunkenly so, and when their eyes met, he offered a half-lidded smirk.

"Well, if I'd known you'd walk out looking like that, I'd have gotten a second bottle."

Halsey didn't blink. She reached up and tightened the towel around herself just slightly. "I'd rather fight a Wraith again than hear another line like that."

Lars raised the bottle in mock salute, then winced slightly as he shifted his shoulder. "Fair."

Halsey moved past him toward her satchel, grabbing her change of clothes and returning briskly to her room. As she dressed, she called out through the door. "So? Nothing happened while I was… indisposed?"

"Besides your sleep-talking about devouring the moon and chewing on someone's spine?" Lars leaned his head back. "Nah. Quiet night. Nobody followed."

She rolled her eyes and stepped out again, now in her usual dark attire, fingers combing through her still-damp hair. "And your wounds?"

He lifted his arm, rolled the sleeve back. Smooth skin, slightly pink from residual burn, but intact. "Used the Cross. Just for a moment, I didn't push it. Drank through the nausea."

She gave him a sharp look, then sighed. "You know the backlash hits harder the lower the Sequence."

"I figured drinking half a bottle of Redgrove Wine was enough to balance it."

"Stupid," she muttered.

Then, Lars continued, more seriously. "We were lucky. Those mutants were reckless. All rage and instinct. If even one of them had been remotely clear-headed…"

Halsey finished his thought. "...We'd be dead."

"Exactly."

She leaned on the table, tapping her fingers slowly. "The coordination was crude and unfocused. The Wraith didn't even wait for the others to make space. That's not natural. They seemed rather in a hurry, driven by something"

"Driven by someone," Lars muttered.

Then he leaned forward slightly,in a low voice. "We need to deal with the characteristics, fast. The temporary seals you made… they're not going to hold forever."

She nodded grimly and reached into her satchel. Undoing a thin layer of banded flesh and skin. She pulled out the four characteristics.

One by one, they emerged, glistening and twitching faintly with a lingering aura:

Halsey laid the four Characteristics out carefully: a long, barbed Werewolf claw that twitched faintly as if still hunting; a shorter one, blackened with charred flesh and glistening venom; a rotting heart that pulsed weakly, its vein-like tendrils squirming at the base; and finally, a slick, unblinking eyeball that released a soft, ghostly moan the moment it met open air.

Lars leaned back instinctively. "Charming as ever."

Halsey didn't flinch. She stared at the items, her mind already moving. After a few seconds, she said, "We should consider turning them into an artifact. It might serve us better in that form than sealed in a box."

Lars raised an eyebrow. "You can do that?"

"No," she replied dryly. "But Madam Judgement can. Or someone under her."

She reached for the longer Werewolf claw, the one she had personally brought down, and set it apart from the others. "I can only send this one. The rest would raise questions."

Lars nodded in understanding, though his eyes lingered on the rotting heart with mild distaste.

Without wasting another word, Halsey pulled a slip of clean paper from her satchel, uncapped a pen, and began to write. Her handwriting was swift and neat, concise sentences outlining the encounter, the identity of the enemies, and the result. She made careful mention of hiring a third-party bodyguard and emphasized the lack of any traceable ties. She closed the message by formally requesting the Werewolf claw into an artifact, should the Major Arcana deem it appropriate.

Then, placing the folded letter atop the claw, she whispered the chant softly:

"The spirit that wanders about the unfounded,

An upper world creature that is friendly to humans,

A messenger that belongs solely to Judgement."

The air chilled.

A pale-blue shimmer bloomed in the center of the room. It pulsed once, slow and deliberate, before solidifying into a floating, crystalline jellyfish. Its transparent bell shimmered like frosted glass, casting ghostly glints across the floor. The tendrils drifted lazily, but there was a cold intelligence to their rhythm, like they were measuring the space, watching.

Halsey didn't move at first. Her posture stiffened. Despite having summoned Ongla more than once, the thing always made her skin crawl. It was a messenger, yes, but not harmless. Nothing that belonged to a Major Arcana ever was.

She stepped forward with measured care and placed the letter between its tendrils, followed by the claw wrapped in parchment.

The jellyfish pulsed and then vanished without a sound, leaving the air colder than before. Halsey exhaled slowly, her shoulders finally relaxing.

Halsey turned back to the remaining Characteristics, eyeing them thoughtfully. "My teacher might be able to help with these," she murmured. "He's more… lenient, in some ways."

Lars raised an eyebrow. "You trust he'll do it?"

"He's very, very knowledgeable," she replied, reaching into her coat for a slip of parchment. "It's possible he can handle them directly, or knows someone who can."

Then, stepping back, Halsey began to chant with deliberate tone:

"The Shadow that Wanders About the Unfounded,

The Friendly Cat who treasures Wisdom and Knowledge,

The Contracted Messenger Belonging Solely to the Archivist."

The room dimmed.

From beneath Lars's shadow, a shape stretched upward like a spill of oil in reverse. Slits of stark white light blinked open, two glowing eyes hovering in the dark.

The figure took the form of a cat, or something close. Its fur was pure shadow, edges flickering like candle smoke. The only clear features were its huge, luminous eyes, watching, blinking slowly… almost smugly.

"Geh?!"

Lars stumbled back half a step, hand twitching toward a weapon.

"Mr. Salem!" Halsey said cheerfully, straightening with genuine warmth.

The shadowy cat turned its head toward her, tail flicking lazily. Its voice came low and theatrical, with exaggerated syllables and just the right hint of drama.

"Haaalsey, my girl! You've grown so charmingly morbid." His tone shifted. "And my, what a mess you've made this time. Blood? Guts? Mmm, delightful."

She laughed softly, still formal in tone. "We had… complications. These came out of it." She gestured to the table, where the grotesque remains of the Characteristics lay. "They belong to the hunter behind you."

Salem twisted his head fully, almost unnaturally, toward Lars without turning his body. "Oh, yes. I noticed him while slithering in. Sharp footwork, firm flames... Needs work on the smell, though. Have you tried a cinnamon wash?"

Lars met the creature's gaze with a still, unreadable expression and narrowed eyes, completely still.

Salem's eyes narrowed with amusement. "And the Wraith! You know, the trick with them is to not let them start screaming. Always ruins the mood."

"We were a bit busy staying alive," Halsey muttered.

"Well, death does tend to interrupt a good plan," Salem quipped, batting one tendril against the parchment. "As for your dear mentor… he's been busier than usual lately. Very hush-hush. Very 'no questions asked.' But for you?" He winked, somehow. "You're his favorite. And his only student. He might even open his agenda."

He slurped up the three Characteristics with a sudden flick of shadow, tucking them into his form like a pocket.

Then, a pause.

"Anything else, m'lady of secrets and gore?"

"Just tell him it's from me," she said. "He'll know what to do."

"Always does." Salem turned, then abruptly looked to Lars again, a wide grin visible in the shifting dark of his face.

"Your friend's rather funny," he said cryptically. "Hope he stays that way."

Then, with a swirl of shadow and a shimmer of white light, Salem vanished. The room felt colder for a moment after he left.

Halsey exhaled slowly. "That's one mess sorted…"

A sharp rumble echoed from her stomach. She grimaced. "Now for the next disaster."

She turned toward Lars. "I'll go grab us something warm. Eggs. Bread. Maybe…"

Thud.

She blinked. Lars had keeled over, facedown on the floor, still clutching the wine bottle like a dead man hugging his regrets.

Halsey stared for a beat, then strode over and gave him a none-too-gentle kick with the toe of her boot.

No response.

"You absolute buffoon," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Can't hold your liquor for one night without collapsing like a sack of smoldering firewood."

She turned to the door, grabbing her coat with jerky irritation. "Unbelievable. Burn half a street down, wrestle a Zombie, then pass out like a drama queen."

Pausing only to glance at his sprawled form one last time, she scoffed. "You'll live. Hopefully."

And with that, she stepped out into the late-morning light, muttering curses under her breath

The streets of Eskelson Harbor still carried the weight of the prior day's unrest. Halsey moved briskly through the market quarter, her coat flaring lightly at the hem. Her headache had dulled to a distant throb, and now the more pressing pain came from her empty stomach.

She passed a baker's stall first, where a flat stone oven still smoked faintly, the scent of buttered rolls curling into the air like a homely spell. A short, red-cheeked woman worked behind the counter, sleeves rolled to the elbows, slicing through a golden loaf with a serrated knife that looked older than the stall itself.

"Three rolls," Halsey said, tapping the edge of the counter.

The woman looked up, appraising her with a quick glance. "Fresh out the oven, love. Still hot enough to burn your fingers, if you're not careful."

"I'll risk it."

A smile tugged at the woman's lips as she wrapped the rolls in brown paper. "Brave one, aren't you? Not many strollin' about so casually today. You from out of town?"

"Passing through," Halsey replied smoothly, handing over a crinkled 5 soli note.

The woman accepted it, nodding. "One and a half. Change's three and a half." She tucked three crisp notes and a halfpence coin into Halsey's gloved palm. "Careful, now. Things've been strange lately. Watch the alleys."

"I'll keep to the brighter streets," Halsey said with a faint smile, tucking the rolls under her arm.

"They won't help if you don't know what's watching," the woman added, but with a touch of warmth beneath the warning.

Halsey gave a nod in thanks and turned without lingering. The butcher's stall was next, glass display already lined with cured meats, catching the light like lacquered ribbon.

"Half a pound of smoked ham."

"Four pence."

She paid in exact change, a five-penny coin, sliding it across the counter as she accepted the paper-wrapped meat.

Finally, she stopped at a roadside grocer, where she bought two eggs, a bit of goat cheese, and a flask of cider for eight pence total. She packed everything into her satchel with brisk efficiency.

As she walked back through the quieter paths toward the hotel, her eyes scanned the rooftops and alley corners. She didn't spot anyone following, but after the night they'd had, paranoia was simply good sense.

Back at the building, she stepped up to their door and gave three knocks followed by one.

The door opened without delay.

Lars stood inside, shirt half-buttoned, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked like hell. His skin was slightly pale, with clenched jaws. A bottle of clear water, not wine, sat beside him on the table, half-empty.

Halsey stepped in immediately, eyeing him. "What happened?" she asked, sharply. "You look like you just walked through a firepit."

Lars didn't answer right away. His gaze was distant. Then it snapped to her with quiet intensity.

"That messenger you summoned," he said flatly. "The… shadow-cat thing."

Halsey blinked once. Then her brow furrowed. "Mr. Salem?"

Lars stared at her like she'd just asked whether arsenic made a good seasoning. "Is that what you call it?"

"Of course. He has a name," she said, closing the door with her boot. "And manners. Usually."

Lars ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling through his nose. "I've fought things that turn men inside out. I've hunted mutants that laugh while bleeding out. But that thing, he appeared right next to me. I didn't hear, didn't sense, didn't smell a damn thing until he almost brushed on my neck."

Halsey snorted. "He's theatrical."

Lars gave her a look. "He was watching me the whole time. I tried to blink, and the air felt like it got thicker. Like something was waiting for me to flinch."

She set the food on the table, rolling her eyes. "Mr. Salem is perfectly harmless… mostly. He's just dramatic. And he likes to have fun."

"That thing isn't a 'he,' it's a problem. You summoned a messenger and suddenly, a shadow demon appeared."

Halsey tossed him a bread roll. "You're exaggerating."

Lars caught it but didn't take a bite. "It smiled at me."

"Well, of course it did," she replied, pouring cider into two cups. "You're not bad company and you were holding bloody trophies. You should take it as a compliment."

Lars didn't laugh. He kept staring at the table for a few seconds, then finally took the cup she handed him.

"You need better friends," he muttered.

Halsey shrugged, sitting across from him. "You get used to them."