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— 14 MAY, 1894 —
Horrid weather and horrid news. The Vampire of Palperroth, one and the same as good friend Aster Williams. Teddy. A liar as grand as he was a villain.
It tore Clover apart, shattered the sunlight in their mind into broken glass they were forced to stalk over with unsocked feet, dug dirty claws deep into their chest with reaching, crawling grasps at the broken heart residing there.
The Vampire of Palperroth. A weak man as frail as he was pale. A blood-spiller.
Clover staggered, haunted by his face on posters, his narrow and blank eyes staring down at them to witness the way they so quickly abandoned the friendship that had once existed. Friendship amounted to nothing when lives were taken.
Buildings loomed, blocking out the bright sun of Terra Florens. They were mocking them with his gaze. Mocking their naïvety and blindness, the stones were shadowed despite the sun and brought down a force of darkness enough to rival the abyss of sleep; Clover pleaded in silence to be spared this one agony, holding their arms over their head as a puny shield.
Cobblestone was turvy, their stomach topsy — footsteps cracked sunlight glass every inch they traveled — and Clover turned to vices in hopes of smothering the fire of betrayal.
— 14 MAY, 1894 —
— THE JABBERING RAVEN —
The public house was empty. It was hardly evening time, so it was the obvious case that no respectable individual with work to do would be around far from the town's real businesses just for a drink. But, currently, as a private detective, Clover Page-Bettencourt had little work to do, nor did they feel very respectable. They felt hollow. Like a strawberry grown with too much humidity and watering.
A drink, too thin for the occasion, nearly slipped their grasp whenever they dared take a sip. It did nothing. There was no sweetness to soothe nor fire to distract, only liquid being drunk and slithering down the throat of one mess of a person. Beneath the thundering pain of a migraine, they observed the front door opening, and pointedly ignored it.
As long as they could, at least.
The man who entered continued to stare at them, curious and thoughtful. Then he came closer. Then he asked their story. And they told him.
— 14 MAY, 1894 —
— THE JABBERING RAVEN —
Tears burned more than the alcohol did, building in gargantuan waves before crashing against their eyelashes and cascading down cheeks flushed with blood. A sorry tale they had told, of a friend and a Vampire and a strange house on Palmond Cliff. The detective had ended the speech with mumbled words crafted by misery and intoxication —
— “I AM CONFLICTED. THERE IS JUSTICE, AND THERE IS COMARADERIE. THERE IS LOVE. I DO NOT KNOW WHICH CAN STAY. …IF THERE WERE ANYONE WITH THE MAGIC TO CHANGE MEMORIES, I WOULD DO ANYTHING TO RECEIVE THEIR AID.” —
— Uriel, moved by the poor detective's story, leaned in and granted their wish. He, with that exact magic, pressed his hand to their forehead, and their memories and experiences slipped from their own mind into his.
— 17 MAY, 1894 —
Clover wondered what the peculiar man dubbed The Vampire of Palperroth had done to warrant his likeness on wanted posters all around the city. It was a frightening title on its own, it had to mean importance; but perhaps he was only wanted for numerous petty crimes. It was curious.
They were trying to find a place to stay, as sleeping in the brush was not very comfortable. The nights were cold and breezy, the wind full of salt and mystery. So, Clover walked down the road, reading signs pinned to doors or window panes. They were not sure what they were searching for. An extremely little amount of things made sense to them, and it unconsciously set them apart from all the other people that they could see. Some signs only had names, none making sense, and others had lists of details, or words entirely capitalized, likely to draw attention.
Nothing was working — at least, of what few things they had put to trial. So they kept walking.
— 18 MAY, 1894 —
Sleep had been made easier by residing on a different ground. They were not certain what it was, when the dirt turned thin and golden as it met the water, but it was far more comfortable than other nights spent on thorn and root.
The smell of salt was noxiously close. They ignored it, and lay at peace watching the stars from behind their eyelids, listening to the quiet ripple and purl of water against water. The majesty of this was theirs, to covet and enjoy.
— 18 MAY, 1894 —
Once peace was broken by hushed conspiracies, Clover dared peek their eye open to search the sky above them for the source. Alas, the stars were silent. Nearer, elsewhere, the noise continued, with words shared such as “detective”, “find”, “Vampire”, and “bounty”. Yes, the posters in town had mentioned a bounty for the Vampire, whatever that would mean.
For a few moments there was silence, and, unhurriedly, Clover closed their eyes again and found themself drifting through the sea of stars into sleep.
But the waters of the sky rushed and fell away as a strong vice closed around their upper arm, pulling with enough force to bring the rest of their body up as well. Sand fell from their hair and clothes as their eyelids flew open, seeing past the darkness and peering into many different faces, all rough and worn by time.
“It is! I told you it was!”
“Stop your blabbering and get them in the carriage!”
“Excuse me?” Clover tried to get a word in, understand who these people were and what they were doing. They did not know them, felt fear twist their stomach as hands began to tug and push. “What is happening?”
“You're going to help us find —”
“We're taking you —”
“We've got need of coin, you see —”
“A murderer is loose, and you can find him!”
Clover's mind spun as quickly as their gut did — they did not want to be caught up in the affairs of murderers. They tried to pull away, slip back into the seas of sand and star, but nothing gave.
Grunting, they spoke, “Release me, please. I do not know you!”
One fist made contact with the back of their head just before another pressed into their empty gut. The group was adamant in their resolve, fighting more intensely in return to whatever Clover managed to do. It was not sure when they had gotten away. They scrambled and tripped on the soft ground, unshimmering gold finding its way into shoes and under fingernails. That was when blades were drawn.
— 19 MAY, 1894 —
Agony, misery, despair. Fear, not panic, thrummed beneath every bruise and jumped with every rock of the carriage. Spikes of pain, not unlike needles, were focused in the balls of their feet. A thickness pooled between their skull and brain, viscous and bitter.
The wheels of the carriage leapt over mounds of sand and wood in difficulty, the horses forced too fast for anyone's good. The body Clover inhabited was jerked from side to side, hitting the sides of the vehicle or the booted legs of their captors. Thrashing involuntarily, Clover grunted in pain, the next lurch of the carriage a catastrophic one.
The whole of the carriage jumped, the wild neighing of horses and the crashing of wood sharp in their ears. The world was dark and starless for some time, until, at last, a dim green began to glow in the distance under their eyelids, washing away pain and fright to replace them with absolute nothing.