The Drake of Craumont

The Manor stirs in the stifled hours between midnight and sunrise— and I wake with it. I wake to dim moonlight creeping through the gap in the curtains, to an elm clock's thunderous tick tock in the still air.

Cousin in the lobby, the curtains rasp warmly, Tea is prepared.

I spare a glance at the clock— four hours since I went to bed, two hours until dawn. My eyes are still crusty, my back aches, and I know I'll have bags under my eyes for days after this.

"Bah," I mutter, voice hoarse, and reach for the jug of water on my bedside table. "This had better be about the hideout."

---

It was, as it turns out, about the hideout, and I’m tired enough that three “out”s in short order are enough to make me chuckle. That earns me a few odd looks as we follow Lizzie out of the Manor and into Craumont proper, but I don’t really care to explain myself. Four hours is not enough time, not with how little magic I can burn.

At least we start waking up properly as we make it into the Wildflower District, thanks to Benny’s snacks and some flasks of cold-steeped tea they’d set ahead. Verity, surprisingly, seems the least awake.

"Honestly, I'm still trying to figure out how bigotry figures into this," Verity grumbles, and that's an odd thing to see from her. Furrowed brow, low muttering, and none of the blinding smiles or obnoxious puns. "It's irrational and I can't see if it relates, if it's a tool, or if Bitgarm really just dislikes advanced Magebloods. Or other advanced Magebloods, the line’s a bit blurry."

It’s impressive, really, how she manages to do this with her eyes half-open— and occasionally closed, stretching in distracting ways as she yawns, walking in lockstep with me all the while. Honestly, it’d probably be better if she wasn’t so focused on the motives at the moment, but I’d be a fool to try and stop her.

“You just said it’s irrational,” I drawl, letting my tailtip click-clack as we emerge from an alley. “Not sure it matters at this point, either.”

“But it— aaah— it definitely matters,” Verity insists, blinking away the grogginess of another yawn. Her lips twist into a scowl. “I just... ugh! I hate when people are all secretive like this, there’s always big flaws they’re trying to ignore if they’re hiding.”

“Um!” Lena cuts in, only to yawn, because the damned things are contagious. “For what it’s, ah... no. The Restoration doesn’t tolerate bigotry.” She shakes her head, ears twitching beneath her muffler cap. “H-he’s been lying about a lot, but I don’t think he lied about that. He couldn’t have been.”

I doubt anyone misses the waver in her voice.

“I’ve known the man for five years, dear,” Lizzie says gently, guiding us from another alley onto a main road. “He’s a coward, I always knew that, but most of his lies were by omission. Verity is right, I fear; there’s more to this than we see.”

“But if it’s just a tool, what’s he compromising his beliefs for?” Verity muses. “He must think it’s... well, it must seem important. Then, hm...”

Lena shuffles closer to me, and I change my path to meet her in the middle. Our hands brush, but don’t connect.

Verity keeps going for a bit, circling a subject, tracing the edges of the unknown but never quite finding its shape. Lena and I convince her to stop, though, once it sounds like she’s gone a bit mad trying to solve it. Four hours of sleep is evidently not enough for her.

She does one of her blinding grins at us, though. “Blegh,” she enunciates, clicking her talons against the scales of her forearms. “Yeah, we should talk that one over later. Thanks, I was trying to run at full capacity when I’m at, what, a tenth? Less than that?”

Lena gets a pat on the head, and then Verity reaches over to brush my shoulder. Lizzie snickers, and we lapse into a moment of quiet.

Our shadows flicker into being, stretched and grasping things that reach down the cobbled street. The last stars wink out in the brightening sky, and a faint warmth presses into my back. Craumont’s heart stirs, sluggish but alive in a whiff of baking bread and the murmur of distant carts.

And there on that breeze, familiar voices, too distant to hear beyond the suggestion of words. There’s Winston, that’s Ruby, I think that might be Harriet, and there’s a rather loud fourth voice that I can only identify as grumpy. We turn a corner, and sound is joined with sight: guards everywhere, a handful of constables, and the three people I’d expected, all gathered in front of an utterly unremarkable house of brick and stone. The paintings of flowers along its walls are in need of touch-ups, yes, but nothing about the place says Dongbaek’s hideout to me, assuming that’s what the place is.

Hah, what was I expecting, some dingy basement under a shady bar?

I shake my head, dragging my wandering mind back to relevant topics. There’s a familiar older person with the group, too, with a suggestion of white hair, hawkish features, and a general aura of irritation.

It doesn’t take long for me to connect the fourth voice to that face, either. They’re grousing about the early hour to a completely unaffected Ruby, whose attention is directed toward her own notebook.

“Pretty sure I should know them,” I say quietly, gesturing to the increasingly irate person. The memories come back as we approach, sharpening from suggestions to distinct moments. “No, I know them. They’re the artificer that made the puzzle box.”

Lizzie glances back at us, one eyebrow arched. “And they’re one of very few Mages in Craumont. Not a skilled combatant by any means, but they are our foremost expert on enchantments.”

And I understand almost nothing about them, frankly, and my pride rises up just to remind me of the wound it took when I lost to their enchanted front door. I drive that out through a slap of scales against stone, one that draws a bemused look from Verity but nothing more.

Lena’s ears perk up, and the woman herself follows with turquoise eyes gleaming. “Oh! You mentioned them a few days ago, Ivy. I read up on enchantments against Archetypes once you told me about that, they seem so fascinating. Do you, um, do you think I could ask them some questions?”

I raise an eyebrow, looking between Lena and... their name had the word Black in it, I think? I look between them, gesturing as the artificer rounds their irritability on Winston. Winston, though, responds in low and even tones, his focus solely on the house in front of him. Goddess, he must be exhausted by now. At least I got some rest, forced as it might have been.

Lena flushes, mumbling concessions under her breath.

“Maybe tomorrow, Lena? Or in a few days, when we’ve hopefully wrapped this up, actually. Goddess, we’re going to have to root out a whole organization, aren’t we? Blegh.” Verity’s expression sours the longer she talks, ending in a rather tired-looking scowl.

“Mir Ulrich Blackwood is,” Lizzie starts, and Gods there’s their name, “not in the finest of moods, no. But they’d set about disenchanting the front door when I left, so I can only hope they’ve finished by now. Poor Winston looks exhausted. Come, dears, let’s hurry our way over before anyone keels over, hm?”

With that, we pick up the pace, and it takes us a little over a minute to clear the distance. There’s a moment of quiet as the groups meet, one where all eyes twist our way— and some of the guards flinch, taking in some mixture of my scales and Verity’s own changes. Bah.

“...and Ivy finally arrives,” Ulrich grouses, purple eyes gleaming. “I hope you enjoyed your nap while we were hard at work, Drakeblood.”

I snort, driving an ember of rage down my tail until it’s curled tightly around my boot. They wouldn’t know about my cracked soul, nor do I really care to argue when Dongbaek’s house is right there, waiting for us. “I did, thank you.”

Lena’s giggle helps, too.

Grumbling, Ulrich gestures to the door of the house. “After that mess of an enchanted entryway, I’ll need double pay and a day’s rest. No standards, and our Lord Craumont here mangled it by trying to disarm the warding scheme at the same time.”

Winston's sigh stretches into a yawn, and it takes less than a heartbeat to drink in the exhaustion that's seeped into his bones, the shadowed bags under tired eyes. A hand runs through his hair, and the other threads into Harriet's waiting grasp. "You’ll get it, Mir Blackwood. In my defense, I was assuming the two would be more separate. It was a mess already when we got here— speaking of, Detective, this last one looks to be what tangled everything to begin with, and it looks fresher than the rest.”

Ruby nods, scribbling away in her notebook. "Possible it was added recently. It could be in response to the pursuit earlier or the capture last week... hm. Lord Craumont, I will require assistance building the timeline.”

The tip of my tail clicks against the cobbled street, bleeding out my rising impatience. Why are we here, when our answers are inside? Do they need something from me again, from us, even?

“Hopefully last night,” Verity muses, then shakes her head. “Bleh, wait. Hopefully he did it last week, because that’d mean he doesn’t suspect we’ve figured out the Delveway—”

A growl takes the moment and strangles it, flooding the air with low and rhythmic noise. All eyes swing to me, dragged by the rumble in my chest and held when I sweep my own gaze across the group. I roll my tongue across my lips, tugging at my magic until the point flattens out into something more conveniently human.

“Let’s get on with it.” My tail uncurls, and I clear the distance to the front door in five easy strides. “No point in speculating yet. Anything on the door that needs clearing, still?”

I count the silence that follows in heartbeats, tapping out a half-remembered rhythm with the tip of my tail.

Ulrich breaks the quiet with a laugh, low and hoarse. “Ha! Good, no point in waiting around, is there. I’m no warding expert, but I know there’s an isolated system still latched to the door.”

“Mir Blackwood is correct,” Winston confirms, and I hear a rustle of cloth. “Latched, but the alarm is disabled. I just need to disconnect a tether to the physical lock so I can open the door without forcing it.”

I turn my head to properly take in the people behind me. There’s Winston and Harriet, bemused but quiet; Verity is further back with Lena, explaining something about wards while Lizzie watches on, and Ruby is behind them, staring at me with deep brown eyes.

Turning back, I inspect the door. Unimpressive painted wood, probably a softwood rather than an expensive hardwood. Brass doorknob and a wooden frame anchored to what’s probably normal brick. Nothing about the walls speaks of life and magic to me, and the barest headache-inducing glance into the abstract confirms Winston’s evaluation.

Well, nothing for it, then. I walk up the steps, twist my hips, and drive my boot directly into the gap between the doorknob and the frame.

Wood splinters and cracks, metal groans, and I savor the thud-ping-crrrack of the door slamming open, crashing into the wall, and tearing itself off its hinges.

“It was softwood, then,” I mutter, dropping my boot back down. I spare a glance behind me, drinking in the wide eyes of my audience and the grin on Verity’s face. Lizzie is snickering, of course, and Lena’s hiding a smile behind her mouth. Turning back around, I flicker through sight of the abstract— there’s clockwork, certainly, wards spidering their way up the walls and through the floorboards, but nothing that’ll trigger in the main hall.

Clearing my throat, I point the way in with my tail. “Can’t see any dangerous wards in the main hall. Come on.”

Verity trills, and her heartbeat moves closer. “I can manage a shield or two if we want to take out any traps?”

“Ah, Verity—”

“Paladin Greyfeather—”

“I’d rather you not—”

“Point taken,” Verity says loudly, her smooth two-toned voice cutting through the noise.

Ulrich snorts, and I hear the click of their boots as they walk off in the other direction. “Brute strength solves the problem, for once. Well, I want nothing to do with this investigation— Lord Craumont, I’ll see you tomorrow for my pay, and no earlier. I’ll need rest and tea after this nonsense.”

---

We had lifted the veil; with the wards inside broken, it is time to peel back the flesh.

Dongbaek’s residence at the rectory was just that— a residence, a place he slept, but it takes only moments to tell me that this is where he lived. It is home as most common folk would have it, where the carpets wear at the edges and the tables bear the marks of living. The walls are a soft blue I might even call pleasant, in another place and time, and my eye is drawn ever backward by the simple carpet leading from the door to the far end of the hallway.

There’s a tea set in the living room with four partially-filled cups scattered about. A home and a life, hidden behind a lie. How dare he.

My claws flex, and I don’t fight the creep of scales up my arms and neck. I let my cracked soul ache in tune with that rising fury, then let it out as a long, cathartic hiss. My tail curls itself around my boot, held tight so it doesn’t thrash its way through the wall. We need this place standing, I remind myself, even if it would be incredibly satisfying to rip it apart.

I’ll save any punching for the man himself, so for now I indulge myself by calculating how little force it would take to break his nose. It’s a nice thought, really.

Shaking my head, I turn my focus back on the world and step further into the house. Boots crunch over splintered wood and the remains of a doorknob, my eyes sweep endlessly for more threats.

All I find is a purple tapestry up on the wall, depicting the Restoration and his followers making medicine. And, no, that looks like the book of prayers Lena keeps in her room at the Manor, doesn’t it? Bah, I’ll leave the speculation to Ruby. There’s threats to search for, still, and if there’s nothing obvious to my eyes... I spare a glance to Winston, who’s wandered a bit further down the hallway. Blue light flickers at the tips of his fingers as he reaches out into the air, touching things I can’t see. Picking away at the more concerning wards, probably.

More boots crunch against the splinters, and several heartbeats join me in the house. Lena’s is easy to recognize, and it’s good that she ends up next to me. She’s... hm.

“Doing alright?” I murmur, eyes trained on the living room again.

“Are you?” she counters, her ears peeking into the corner of my sight. “Um, you had to use your abstract sense again, and...”

I raise an eyebrow and tap my tail against her heels. "Been through worse. Don't dodge the question."

Ears flattening, Lena looks away. A hand shoots up to toy with her hair, and I watch as her teeth worry at her lip. “I don’t... I don’t know, how I feel. And you’re dodging it too. Um, can we, can we talk later and not now?”

I watch her for a long moment, letting my tail curl around her boots. She’s not wrong. “I—”

Winston’s jaw-cracking yawn drags our conversation to a halt. “Elluvial,” he groans, running a hand between his horns, “I believe I got them all on this floor. Detective, I’d prefer if you stayed close to myself, Elizabeth, Verity, or Ivy, but you are clear to enter and investigate.”

“Yes,” Ruby declares from the doorway, picking her way through the mess. “This is a good strategy. Paladin Greyfeather, I require your assistance.”

Verity, stifling her own yawn, hurries over to Ruby. “Please, call me Verity. We’re colleagues right now, after all! Or friends, if you’d like.”

Ruby nods, brow furrowing. “I will consider it.”

Clapping her hands together, Verity flashes a blinding smile at the detective. “I’ll take it! So, which way first?”

After a moment to think, Ruby points past me. “The living area. Ivy and Miss Harkness will investigate the kitchen. Lord Craumont and Dame Tousavon...” She trails off strangely, regarding Winston first before turning all the way around to look at Lizzie.

“Oh, don’t look at me, detective,” Lizzie’s voice calls from outside, “I’ll stay out here with Harriet and nurse my headache, hm?”

“Lord Craumont,” Ruby resumes, turning back to Winston. “According to protocol I may not issue you orders, but I am permitted to make requests. I am requesting you remain centrally located to minimize response times.”

Winston inclines his head, leaning against the wall. “Request accepted, detective. What wards I’ve found have all been alarms, but some of them would be quite grating for those of us with enhanced hearing.”

With that, I slip away from the living room, taking care to uncurl my tail so Lena can follow me.

The quiet that follows isn’t a pleasant one. It is the quiet of momentary humor and lasting anger twisted together, of ill-fit pieces resting and forced to align; of tired, tired people seeking answers for senseless acts. We explore the kitchen as that quiet hangs over us, watching and waiting.

It’s a smaller space, something I’d call cozy any other day, with an Ice box, a broad heating plate, and a sink all linked by well-worn counters. There’s a scratched dining table in the middle of the room surrounded by mismatched chairs, and a few cabinets that rest firmly closed. It tickles at some odd part of my mind, a faint half-memory of something.

Not that I can figure out what, just yet.

What I do find, though, is several secret compartments— a false back for a cabinet, a false bottom for a drawer, a loose floorboard that’s got a damned hinge.

And they’re all empty, save for scraps of paper and lint.

Verity and Ruby fare about the same, which worsens things. Had Dongbaek truly managed to take everything? Has he hidden it all?

At least, I think, both halves speak to the truth of the man: Paranoia, and secrecy. And, as Ruby puts it, both are likely compulsive and habitual.

So we keep looking.

“We found wax!” Verity declares from the author room, practically crooning. “Big supply of it under some floorboards, all carved out for... ech, I’m terrible with runes. I think this is flash spells and sounds, like the ones we dealt with last night!”

“Indeed,” Ruby follows up. “Residue on the base of the compartment indicates there were more of these present.”

Gods, finally, something.

On my end, I open another cabinet and discover Dongbaek’s pantry. Jugs and boxes and bags of things, with a cluster of jars as the centerpiece. These are the sort of jars I’d have in mine, with wires and hinges so the jars can’t lose their lids.

The jars are filled with somethings I didn't quite know the name of. Nuts and mixed something-berries, a shiny candy-like thing broken into bits, and Gods I don't know what's in that other jar. Lots of things jumbled together, few of them familiar.

They are, however, snacks in Dongbaek's pantry. So I take them out, line them up on the counter, and crack the lids.

Something tingles in my memory. I close the lid again, then open it, reaching for whatever unhelpful part of my mind decided to remember without informing me. Open and closed, turning it over in my memory as I watch the hinge. Another part of my mind informs me that the berries are bog-berries, the red and bitter variety that turns into an excellent jam.

I turn the thoughts over again. Why would this place be familiar? I’d never been here, and given this was the Wildflower District, my only involvement was helping fund the reconstruction.

I’d seen a kitchen like this before. Not this one, obviously, but close enough to...

Ah.

“Bah,” I growl, stalking over to the corner of the kitchen. My boot taps against the floor, once, twice, thrice, and on the third I finally hear the echo I’m looking for. “Everything’s secret compartments with him. Everything.”

Not that I’m going to put effort into finding the catch. I drive a boot right through the damned floor. Wood bows, cracks, and snaps in a heartbeat, giving way for my boot to sink past floor level and into the basement— right in the same place where Ulrich’s basement hatch was, in their house.

Gods is it nice to do that twice in a day.

Less nice is Lena’s startled shriek, and the thump-thump of shoes storming their way toward me.

Clearing my throat and carefully rounding out my tongue again, I call out to everyone. “Found the basement!”

---

Secrecy and paranoia, as Ruby had called it. Fear, as Verity speculated upon. Cowardice, Lizzie declared.

We had seen it all up above: secret compartments, hidden weapons, a tangle of wards and enchantments armoring the house. Here, we see it echoed and amplified; a room torn apart as if by storm winds. Shredded parchment everywhere, wax splattered across everything, tables cluttered with shattered glass, and an entire damned containment circle painted on the floor.

And there, finally, with three shattered black glass knives inside of it, edges sharp enough to cut the World open, is that Gods-damned puzzle box.

They are an answer far too late for their question.