WiP: Witness Marks

WiP: Witness Marks

Public execution in TOG, a witnessing, a clash of ideals and morals - prompt

obs: in lieu of a context, i suppose i am free to take the liberty of taking inspiration from the rp for the context of the execution, given that it works out as a mutual point of interest of the characters depicted whilst being a scene that will never actually be witnessed by them since they’ll be doing something else at the time of the execution anyway. this way i won’t be stealing a scene away from the rp but don’t need to make up an entire context - C

Children would always find a way to witness the parts of the world adults claimed to be improper for their eyes. A son staying up too late and overhearing the business of his parents, slinking back down to his room and making it a gravesite for the memory. “It’s part of being a child. It’s part of staying a child.” For undisturbed memories which you could relive endlessly and violations of the taboos of the society of men did indeed come most frequently in youth. It was a reality most common for a boy to watch grownups warily through cracks on the roofing or slits on the windows, observing the chasms of impropriety hidden from impressionable eyes during most hours. “More than actually growing, it’s collecting secrets that’s the biggest part of becoming an adult.” A child perhaps is like a lockbox of adult secrets until they themselves became the adults whose secrets they bore. 

It was a matter of perspective if the hidden worlds of children and adults collided or were of mutual exclusivity, if one witnessing the other was a trait of self-determination or a sign of transition. Caspar Kain would say children are defined in opposition to adults, that to adhere to the rules of adults was to be integrated, perhaps even consumed, that it was exclusively a child’s place to witness the affairs of their elders in spite of custom. Notkin, on the other hand, always in opposition to Khan, intentionally or not, found intruding on the world of adults to be the sobering experience that matured a child into one, a slow corruption, though childhood wasn’t a virtue in itself. 

Khan perched on the steady arm of the statue adorning his family home’s courtyard, feeling the docile breeze of a low altitude, wistfully wishing for the bite of whistling winds, such as those that ran by the Polyhedron’s peak. Indifference touched the surface of his skin from within as he watched laborers toil in the construction of a stage, preparing for a spectacle with no encore, the closing of the curtains of a life. Thinking of it so poetically left Caspar cynical, wondering how one could sanitize an execution into an affair of entertainment. It was mere necessity that tied ropes around men’s necks, it was pragmatism that pulled the trigger. Any satisfaction gained from such business was entirely up to the mind of the beholder or executioner. 

The workers spared by the theater director worked much more efficiently and animatedly than the men of the watch, chatting amicably as they hammered nails onto what may as well be a coffin, following the familiar motions of stage maintenance and construction. The Inquisitor’s men simply supervised silently, looking like carrion birds in their expectant stillness. Caspar wondered if the Polyhedron was built in such mundane circumstances by such menial labor. 

The morning hours were soon to end, bringing the town closer to the moment of Artemy Burakh’s fated demise. The apathy with which people passed by the makeshift site spoke to the widespread sentiment about the man himself and life in general in recent times, although whichever conclusion he was pondering was cut short by uneven footsteps at his blind spot, strides languidly coming to a halt at the base of the statue. Caspar looked down to see Notkin crack his fingers before heaving himself up the pedestal, sitting with his bad leg dangling. Only when he settled comfortably did he look up at Khan, tired eyes still bearing some levity, though it was clearly insincere. “Mornin’.”

Caspar’s breathing stuttered a bit, caught between the casual greeting and the visible signs of injury on the other boy. “...Lovely day for an execution, don’t you think?” His tone of voice was flat, not dignifying the event with the weight one would expect. Notkin’s eyebrow twitched, but he was otherwise silent, seeming exhausted beyond what should be reasonable for someone not bedridden. “You look like you had a brush with death yourself.”

“Astute observation there, Khan.” The boy sighed, posture relaxing not in comfort but a resigned concession, like an animal going limp in the grip of a predator. “How about you don’t  comment on things you know nothing about?” With his eyes closed and fists unclenched, the lines of his body and face seemed soft, maybe even refined. Caspar wondered for a bit where the delicate grace came from before realization struck him with the memory of his reflection, a foggy mirror in the hallway of a home he only recently returned to. This was fragility, like hollow china, a person drained of what had once made them greater than whole. He knew those slightly curled fingers, shaking almost imperceptibly; he was familiar with slightly parted lips and lidded eyes; all signs of dulled senses and blunted intentions he saw in himself ever since losing his everything were present in this boy sitting just below him.

Khan flexed his fingers, knowing the circulation would never return to them the same way. “I know better than you think.” Notkin seemed to almost willfully ignore him, but the fugue of mourning was dispersed momentarily by a real flicker of emotion in his eyes, widened in reaction.

“The Dogheads…” Notkin spoke with not a drop of old grudges in his tone, pausing the syllables as if dragging them back, as if the effort would somehow stop them from leaving. They both knew better than to expect to keep anything they ever loved at this point.

Khan crossed his legs and leaned forward a bit to maintain eye contact, feeling somewhat relieved to have someone else’s problems to concern himself with. “Then the Souls didn’t fare any better, did they.” There was no point in phrasing it as a question. “My condolences, Notkin.” Caspar hoped the honesty shone through, though he felt shame for the real strain in his voice.

His rival’s expression pinched, a complicated cocktail of reactions fighting over predominance. “...I’m sorry about your Dogheads. I bet they put up a good fight.” Caspar considered almost hysterically how they seemed to be adding to each other’s grief but paradoxically comforting the other.

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there.” ‘I was with you’ went unspoken, but it weighed like a mantle soaked in blood. 

Notkin’s eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lower lip, looking like a child that had yet to ever process a new emotion. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t regret it.” Caspar himself wasn’t sure if he meant that, but he would fight for it to be true. “I’m ashamed, perhaps even humiliated, but I don’t regret it.” He’d wondered what it said about him, late at night, lying on his soft bedding and imagining the best of his wards in rough cots, at worst on their deathbed. It was painful to come to terms with how readily he would say he’d let it happen again, not out of a sense of predetermination, but merely due to the logical conclusion that he would still choose to have consulted with Notkin while his domain was violently ravaged. He considered it may be cowardice to so easily accept powerlessness in this situation. 

The other boy let go of his lip, now red and torn at points, withdrawing a pathetic few raisins from his pocket and practically inhaling them. Notkin swallowed with his eyes tightly shut, and perhaps Khan was jumping to conclusions when he imagined that the boy’s throat must be ravaged, thirst and sickness worsening the condition of where he’d likely shouted until he could no longer summon his voice, one boy crying for dozens of his silenced friends. 

Caspar was broken out of his reverie by movement on the square before the Cathedral, a small crowd slowly expanding while officials of differing ranks and authorities bustled lifelessly, exchanging papers and curt orders. Aglaya Lilich stood on the improvised stage, murmuring lowly with Daniil Dankovsky, both of them pensive but focused. It was a matter of time before the event started, and his companion seemed to draw the same conclusion. Neither of the boys looked at each other as they spoke, too busy surveying the spectacle to come. “Out of all the things anyone with the Inquisitor’s power could be doing while we all die at the hands of this fucking plague, they’re wasting resources to kill a person instead.”

Khan wondered if Notkin was reaching an emotional breaking point or if this topic of discussion seemed to him like a worn debate, perhaps even a source of comfort. It said much about their situation that gossiping about an execution was a refreshing break from the circumstances of their lives. “It’s about morale. Besides, the man is partially responsible for the death toll, given his responsibility and how he butchered it.” 

Notkin looked at him over his shoulder, an askance expression that somehow didn’t convey the weight of a debate about a man’s life. “Killing him won’t solve anything.” The way he looked at Khan conveyed all the old arguments he’d ever given before, though now there was an edge of desperation, as if he wanted to revive his convictions for the sake of his sanity. “Burakh may be incompetent at the worst times, but his attitude and failures don’t mean he deserves death.”

“His few virtues don’t mean he deserves life either.” Caspar’s apathy was genuine, though a part of him did find Notkin to be within reason to protest. “The man was careless and volatile, his intervention did very little to assist those in need.”

His rival glared up at him, and the restlessness of his posture pointed to a coiled urge to move, maybe tug on Khan’s leg, if only to let out some of that bottled energy, childish though the gesture was. “He saved your life! You’d-” Notkin interrupted himself, clearing his throat with a grimace and pinched eyes. “You’d be dead twice over if it weren’t for him.”

The gentle breeze had stopped a while ago, leaving the district in a miasma, as if the world itself held bated breath. “He was only doing his due diligence.” The open air almost paradoxically muffled their conversation, the only real witness of it the sky and perhaps the statue upon which they perched. Two birds on a wire, two boys of very different feathers. “If anyone did more for me than they ought to, it was only you.” His eyes shifted away from Notkin, wandering the faceless crowd, up the buttresses of the Cathedral, catching on crows and doves roosting on the eaves. The sky was clear in the most unfortunate way, completely smeared with a homogenous steel gray.

Caspar could feel Notkin’s eyes still on him, perhaps even more intently than before. “...What does that even mean?”

“Whatever you make of it.” He shifted sideways, lying cradled by the statue’s arm, still following the horizon with his gaze. “Burakh’s death, deserved or not, will serve a purpose. Isn’t that more than can be said for his pathetic attempts in life?” 

The cruelty of the statement seemed to quell something stirring behind Notkin’s eyes. “Nobody gets to decide who lives and who dies, much less for their own purposes.” 

Khan shrugged, spotting a group of Saburov’s watchmen escorting the governor and a hunched figure he was all too familiar with. “It’s what happens. Those in power will manage it as they see fit, and the pawns fall accordingly. The Inquisitor, Saburov, Fat Vlad…” Caspar tilted his head slightly to indicate the oncoming procession.

“And you.” The boy’s response was flat as he stood up, biting back a groan, leaning on the body of the statue for leverage. Caspar didn’t think Notkin had any real affection for Artemy Burakh, but the way he pursed his lips revealed a vulnerable sympathy that some would call naive. He himself wasn’t sure if that was the case or not, despite disagreeing inherently. “You’re neither a judge nor an arbiter, life and death aren’t tools for you to wield so callously.”

“Neither are you, so you can’t decide what I can or cannot do.” He looked at Notkin’s clenched jaw out of the corner of his eye, seeing something similar to a powerless frustration one might feel upon seeing a bull be led to the slaughter, which seemed an apt metaphor. “I don’t know about the Inquisitor, but I don’t expect everyone to agree with my choices. In the end, I sleep better at night knowing my actions are lessening the violent and insidious disorder that runs amok.”

Notkin met his eyes evenly, crossing his arms. “I’m happy for you. At least you can sleep at all, knowing the consequences of your actions.” There wasn’t much to tell apart sincerity from irony, it was as if Notkin himself spoke without knowing how he felt.

As Burakh was led onto the stage, Aglaya and Saburov met eyes with a respectful nod, some satisfied solemnity straightening their postures before the governor raised a hand to dismiss his men and allow the Inquisitor’s peons to take their place. The gathering onlookers spoke in hushed whispers, roiling like the currents of the river in a steady rumble, and though nothing could be heard above the lilting comments, a charged exchange seemed to take place between Dankovsky and Burakh in the periphery of the Inquisitor and governor’s succinct conversation. Khan couldn’t help but shift to sit properly facing the event, sneaking a glance at Notkin. He couldn’t describe what exactly passed between their gazes as their eyes met, but it had a drop of kinship otherwise unknown previously.

“Think we’ll ever be in that position?” Khan couldn’t help but ask, looking intently at Dankovsky’s affronted expression, the tension in the man’s frame like a coiled serpent readying a strike. 

Notkin huffed, gesturing between the actors onstage. “Which one? I doubt either of us would be an Inquisitor. Seems I'm the likeliest candidate for cadaver. Thinking about executing me, are you?” Burakh looked solemn, nodding along and murmuring interspersed comments to Dankovsky, though his deadened eyes scanned the crowd, a man looking back at the people he swore to protect, now apathetically watching him be sentenced to capital punishment at the hands of the Capital dandy. The irony was scornfully delightful, though only a cold dread remained when Artemy’s eyes met Khan’s for a moment.

Caspar looked sideways at his rival, feeling a levity foreign to the ongoing context.”If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be here.” To think casual death threats during an execution would be the most relaxed he felt in such a long time. 

With a final nod, Saburov stood back with his hands behind his back, looking the picture of a dutiful governor, though the sallow skin and creased clothes told of what town he was governor of. The Inquisitor stood taller, chin raised and chest puffed, projecting her voice between the tall walls of the Cathedral and Crucible. “Artemy Burakh, by order of the Governor and with the acquiescence of the Inquisitor, you have been sentenced to death by execution. Your crimes of violence, malpractice and neglect speak for themselves. Have you anything to say for yourself, knowing it will not change your fate?”

Having little interest in the event itself, Caspar slid down from where he sat and leaned on the statue beside Notkin, scrutinizing his companion’s pensive expression. He mildly kept track of Burakh’s response, listening to the deep rumble of the man’s disused voice. “I didn’t commit those crimes, so I have no excuses to give for acts I don’t claim. As for my failings as a healer, I admit I did not accomplish the miraculous, but neither did any of my colleagues. My only hope is that this will change after I’m gone.” The man turned to Dankovsky, melancholic regret clashing with bitterness in his expression. The Bachelor was impassive but for a sharpness in his eyes, venomous and unforgiving. 

Notkin’s breathing quickened ever so slightly, chest rising and falling with a few stutters, minor grimaces passing over his visage in moments of pain. Caspar wondered what wounds would be painted on him underneath his shirt, how painful it must’ve been to walk to this place just to witness the tail end of a tragedy. Aglaya hummed shortly before cutting the silence. “I’m sure your colleagues appreciate the hope. One of them deigned to request a direct role in your death, however, so perhaps your conscience shouldn’t be so clear. Daniil Dankovsky, at your discretion.”

The Bachelor stepped forward, putting himself side by side with Burakh before quickly turning and pointing a revolver at his head point blank. His lips moved, though no words could be heard above the murmurs of the crowd. Burakh fell to his knees, facing Dankovsky with clear eyes and parted lips. The anticipation made it clear the executioner was seconds away from pulling the trigger, and Caspar felt Notkin’s fingers twitch next to his hand, touching him like static electricity. Khan felt the need to keep his eyes straight ahead, unblinking, observing the execution with full clarity, so he could very clearly distinguish the next words formed soundlessly by Dankovsky’s lips. “Vade in pace.”

The gunshot didn’t startle him as much as Notkin jerking his head aside in anticipation, and he was keenly aware of the head that fell onto his shoulder, the shaking of his rival’s lips with each unsteady intake of air, the fingers clenched in his from an overlooked movement. Silence finally settled upon the street once the body fell with a dull knock on the tainted stage. Caspar wondered why he felt as if the blood splashed on his face from this distance, an impossible sensation, though he reached with his free hand to wipe his cheek, looking down and seeing his fingers clean as they were before. If his body was clean, then that meant it was his soul that was tainted. He exhaled, feeling as though he’d let go of his last memory of Artemy Burakh, a man he had no lost love for. 

Caspar felt the time pass, in his mind and at his fingertips, holding his pocketwatch and feeling the ticks. In the courtyard of the Crucible he could allow himself to relax, letting the surroundings fade away and simply processing the events of the past while. They sat close together for long enough that the stage was almost completely disassembled by the time Notkin moved again, though it was only to unfold his bad leg from where it was bent in his crouch, letting it lie parallel to Caspar’s own outstretched leg. He was completely still as he paid attention to Notkin, picking at all the reasons he could imagine for the boy to shut down so easily, especially in his presence. Exhaustion, pain, shock, fear, anger, sadness. All the terrible feelings in the world didn’t explain why he’d allow himself the vulnerability to be in such a state with Khan, but he realized that pondering it any more would only serve to stick needles in his own heart as if the source of the bleeding wasn’t the whole.

“Khan… What’s real?” He felt Notkin lift his head, hooking his chin on Caspar’s shoulder to regard him tiredly. “What do we have left?”

Caspar gazed at him sideways, expecting brokenness and being met with resolve. This wasn’t a question coming from a place of despair, but a tangible gathering of thoughts. Khan had refused to consider his losses as irreversible, yet here was Notkin facing the abyss with wit and determination. “...You shouldn’t be asking me this. I was never taken with reality, was I.” Either he’d lost circulation in his fingers and was getting phantom sensations or Notkin tightened his hold, and it was impossible to tell which possibility was more real. “You tell me.”

His companion licked his lips, hooking the fingers of his free hand with his thumb and cracking the joints. “...Do you think you could get your Dogheads back?” Caspar felt his breath catch before he could consciously react, a sting behind his eyes giving little warning before he felt a warm tear intersect the phantom bloodstain on his cheek. Notkin reached out to wipe it away with gentleness Caspar hadn’t felt in a lifetime, and the action was entirely self-defeating, prompting him to weep more, feeling a bone-deep shame for how the touch finally seemed to remove the stain of death from his face. “Then we’re reduced to equals again. I have you, you have me, nobody has us. Not even Burakh is here anymore, nothing ties us together.”

“No longer bound, are we.” Caspar felt more unmoored by this than when he had willingly left his place in the Kain estate. No love was lost, but the finality of Artemy’s death brought into question every other loss sustained thus far, leaving little room for doubt as to the conclusion. There was nothing left of the futures they had built themselves. “What will you do now?”

His rival sighed, lifting their joined hands in accident, as if he’d forgotten they were held, and something in the gesture gave him pause. He brought Caspar’s hand to his chest, covering it with his own, looking down at them in thought. “Wait for it to stop, I suppose. Same as always.” The rhythm of his heart was faster than Khan’s, and to him it felt as if it were restrained by the ribcage, an irrational sort of thought, and Caspar wondered what it would feel like to hold that gentle but steadfast heart. It took him a moment to realize he already was, in a way. 

Caspar didn’t know what else was left of his dreams, so all he could bring himself to say was “I’ll wait with you. Always.”

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Changeling I]

Survival was about reaching the next moment of breath before exhaling once more. It came naturally to most creatures from birth, but some hiccuped and sobbed their breaths away, losing tempo with the song of life. 

Clara couldn’t say she had such issues. She’d been living off of the spirit of every inhale she could draw, surrounded by suffocating expectations and smothering specters. Drawing first breath at a time of catastrophe had at least lent her an evenness of stride and a propensity for compartmentalization, as the Bachelor would call it. The splitting of hairs into manageable tasks. 

The streets echoed her footsteps with little regard to the silence of the mourning, curtains drawn and doors locked. No longer they avoided the plague, now they hid away from the shadow of reality. She wondered if some still saw her as an avatar of misfortune; in a moment of doubt she could almost convince herself of the same. The difference was that she did not have the luxury of hiding from herself.

The Changeling was, for the first time since birth, which wasn’t much considering her awakening two weeks prior, untethered. Saburov had disowned her the moment Katerina fell limp to the embrace of cold darkness; Commander Block was long gone despite promises whispered in desperate circumstances. Clara was alone and defeated. A saint with no miracles, a thief with no spoils, leader of dead sinners in humble procession, cradled in wood. 

She supposed the entirety of the town could be considered humble, now. Multiply her covenant tenfold with a people who’d disowned her. Humbled by circumstance.

Anna and Alexander remained. Was it cruel to mourn their survival just as she did the rest of her caste? The two she could see held the least fondness for her, rotting away in their expansive quarters just as the others did in boxes under the cold ground. Clara chuckled to nobody, defeated. Her fingers felt cold and numb, and she doubted the sensation would ever come back to her digits. 

Divine punishment to the harbinger angel, fallen from her perch.

Still, her lungs drew breath, in direct defiance to it all.

Clara had to find a single living house willing to take her in. The rest could wait for another breath in suspense.

Abandoned: "The Rule of Threes" - [Changeling PoV]

Heads up, this is a very old work that I wrote on a whim. It does touch on the implied romantic feelings between underage character, which I would not consider an issue At All, but I thought I might mention it. I don't really care much for this piece of writing, I wrote it on the side as I was making my own longfic, but maybe someone would enjoy it.

Clara had come to learn, in all her short time in the Town on Gorkhon, that there were few concepts so prevalent as what she came to dub the “Law of Threes”; if there was something or someone of note, it would always come in triads and trinities. Three families, with their three Mistresses, three members, three brothers, or some other trio (she almost convinced herself that her prior adoption by the Saburovs was a desperate attempt at bringing a third person to their family, a fruitless effort at cosmic legitimacy); the town was split in three parts, three neighborhoods to house the families and their nuclei of supporters, with distinctly different atmospheres and layouts, planned by three architects, although one of them died a long time ago, supposedly at the hands of the Stamatins, if Saburov was to be believed; even innocuous things like the three blonde women that each lived in a very different part of town seemed distinctly mystical to Clara (she almost came to think of them as the Dames to rival the Mistresses, distinctly less powerful yet somehow notable in presence; Eva seemed a tad frightened by the concept, while Yulia found her observations amusing, and Anna thought Clara insane, which was rich coming from her.)

One could imagine this was a product of a particularly cooperative drive amidst the townsfolk in the past and that these structures, coincidental or not, would soon go out of function. And yet. Three future Mistresses, three community leaders amongst the younger crowd with three very different approaches to power. The Kin had three leaders, although Burakh was sure to upset that balance, the Kains were still mourning a third of their patriarchs, the Olgimskys had three members with wildly opposing values. It came to her attention that she was a third of a whole herself, alongside the Bachelor and the Haruspex. So, she concluded it was part of the Town's nature, a Law upheld above all else. All things, when on the Gorkhon, will come in threes. 

Armed with this knowledge unknown or unacknowledged by most, Clara resolved to do as she did best: use it to cause mischief and further her goals. She wanted to have fun. 

Clara almost kept her conclusions to herself, but she wasn't surprised when one day Capella approached the bench she napped on with unhurried footsteps. The Changeling's nap had been somewhat fruitless, visions misting over her rest and leaving her drained, but it did leave her with a premonition of a visit by another clairvoyant. Clara lifted her feet for Capella to sit but lowered them again, putting her ragged boots over her lap. Capella seemed unconcerned about the dirt smudging her skirt. “You're restless.”

“And whose fault is that?” Clara spoke lightly, yawn breaking any tension in the phrase. “I’ve made a rather interesting discovery about the nature of society in the town, quite groundbreaking in theory. I can almost feel myself becoming the Bachelor with how scientific my research is.”

Capella raised an eyebrow elegantly, smiling indulgently down at Clara with her ginger hair fluttering in the wind. Clara almost felt ashamed about how much of an urchin she looked like in comparison to Victoria. “Do go on. I felt something stirring around here, I'm not surprised it was your mind.” Mistresses were quite nosy, weren't they? “I suppose so, although if you find it bothersome you might see fit to ask me not to meddle, Clara.” 

“You contradict yourself by reading my thoughts, Capella dearest. Did your mother not teach you any manners?” Capella's eyes widened for a moment, probably due to the callousness with which Clara spoke of her dear mother. Sometimes she forgot how her directness seemed to others: offensive, provocative, disrespectful. She'd never met Victoria Sr., she felt like she was more a legend than a person, to be spoken of with no need for much delicacy. Capella shook her head and hummed. 

“You're right, that was disrespectful of my part. I'll abstain from looking into your thoughts when I can, although I'm not a paragon of control yet. Sometimes things just appear to me.” Clara knew it to be true, their abilities were unwieldy at the best of times. “Tell me, then, what have you discovered?” 

Clara clicked her tongue and sat up, practically perching on the other girl's lap with one arm around her shoulders, other hand gesturing as she spoke. “I haven't been here for too long, but I've made note of a peculiar phenomenon. See, everything around here is organized in threes.”

Capella's eyes widened slightly. “So you've noticed too. I could swear everybody knows and just doesn't speak of it, but when I asked my brother, he seemed confused!” She reached to grasp Clara's hand, unknowingly short-circuiting the smaller girl's brain. “Oh, how exciting! Maybe Maria knows, and this is just a Mistress thing. You should ask Katerina, seeing as she was the first third Mistress. Maybe it has something to do with her.” 

Clara chuckled. “I doubt it's related to that, maybe we only noticed because we're both observant.” Capella hummed in doubt. “But if every Mistress is observant, I guess your point still stands, White Mistress Olgimskaya Junior.” Her laugh sounded like a small silver bell, clear and pleasant, the exact opposite of the Cathedral's oppressive strike at that moment. 

“It's been lovely, Clara, but I must go. I'm quite busy today. If you ever wish to chat or have tea, you're always welcome at the Lump.” Capella gently pushed Clara's legs from her lap and daintily extracted herself from the arm that held her. She smiled at the Changeling as she turned away, and Clara was left somewhat forlorn. 

If locals could sometimes notice the Law, Clara decided she was fit to ask her own compatriots if they noticed it too, starting with the Haruspex. She followed him into his lair one day, carrying a stack of finely plucked twyre on her arms, scarf over her nose after her third sneeze. Offering to help him was a sacrifice necessary to gain his trust, even if the odor of the weeds was overwhelming. 

As the man set down a messenger bag on the table and removed his, in her opinion, absolutely hideous smock, he spoke. “Now, what do you want? I'm familiar enough with your behavior to know you're not helping me out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I'll have you know I'm very kind! I'm a saint, a healer, kindness is in my nature, just as it is in yours.” She dropped the twyre unceremoniously and sat on a nearby crate, heels rhythmically tapping the wood. “But it is true my intentions aren't the purest. See, I've made an observation and I'd like to know what you think of it.” He looked over his shoulder at her with a raised brow, hands still sorting the contents of his bag. “It's come to my attention that the town has a recurring motif of threes. Three Mistresses, three families, three healers, three sections. Have you noticed?”

His movements stilled for a moment, and he seemed to process the information before speaking slowly. “I mean, sure, I've noticed, but it doesn't mean anything. It's at most a coincidence, I'd say.” She scoffed. He lacked any sort of creativity, honestly. Did the world not dazzle him with its intricate mysteries? He was of such a simple mind. “Besides, it's always been this way, but it's such a tenuous and vague concept. I had three close friends, there are three layers to the body, it feels more like a pattern we assign to things with no bigger implications.” 

“Fair enough.” She slid down her perch and dusted her skirt, ignoring how he frowned at the torn garment. “I must be going, then. This has been enlightening, Haruspex.” She heard him mutter his own name dejectedly. Clara waved and began ascending up the staircase, brought to a halt by a blond boy at the top.

Sticky adjusted the weight of a backpack on his shoulder, looking her up and down before casually speaking. “The kids know about the three thing. Not in a mystical supernatural sort of way, more of a game made out of an observation.” She hummed, tilting her head to prompt him to continue. “There's this tradition, I guess you could call it, where kids and teenagers noticed that once you get to the point of liking people, the first is almost always one of three.”

“Wait, what? As in, when kids get their first love, it's always the same?” That was compelling. Color her piqued. “Who?”

“Not love, necessarily? It's more of a crush, an attraction. I think you could guess who, even if the list sometimes changes, but it's pretty much always Khan, Capella or Notkin.” It made sense, they were the oldest of the current children, the leaders of many impressionable kids, attractive visually and personally, in theory. 

Sticky seemed to grow nervous as Clara thought about it, fidgeting in place. She looked at him intensely, smile in place that clearly conveyed she wanted him to elaborate on something; he was smart enough to catch on and scoffed. “Why do you need to know mine? It's not relevant.” The Changeling leaned forward, noting how she was taller than him, but he would probably outgrow her soon enough. What a silly giddiness she felt as she thought that her life would go on after her first weeks of awareness; what a gift to be alive. “...It was Capella! God, stop looking at me like that!” He stomped down the stairs, huffing when greeted by Artemy. 

He'd lied, of course. It would be embarrassing for a boy as headstrong and rationally minded as him to admit his true feelings, especially since they were probably still in place, even if dimmed under the light of maturity. Capella makes sense as an easy object of anyone's affections; she was pretty and kind, trusting, patient, graceful and radiant, her manners were impeccable but her mind was sharp, and as a Mistress, she had an air of mysticism and excitement about her; Capella was very clearly a superior choice to anyone who thought it through rationally. 

Sticky knew that, and he also knew it would be somewhat shameful to admit he liked Notkin better despite it, but it was clear as day to Clara, a thread she could pull on until his feelings unraveled before her very eyes. It was adorable to witness Sticky in such a way after all his efforts at being taken seriously and acting mature. A whisper in her own voice told her she was biased, but she paid it no mind as she exited the dark abandoned factory to be greeted by sunlight. 

She sighed into the clear air, humming to herself as she thought of how this little investigation was progressing. Locals could notice these things, many of them with a variety of opinions or observations pertaining to it; the Law was known and observed, even indulged in by the younger crowd, yet one question remained: do the subjects of speculation notice the phenomenon pertaining to them? She'd have to ask the three involved, get a good sample of responses to understand this further. Scientific research was beginning to become fun and exciting. 

Capella was easy to reach, even without attempting to contact her mystically or some such, especially given the open invitation she’d given. Clara found herself in the Lump on a golden afternoon, crisp wind filtering into Capella's room and fluttering her curtains. Clara caught a stray piece of paper flying towards her as she entered, sheet music from where the other girl was playing the piano elegantly, hair caressed by the breeze and voice humming along with the ivory keys. The Changeling placed the sheet back where it belonged and promptly spoke, careless of the soothing song her voice cut. “Were you aware of how a third or so of the younger population has at one point been enamored with you?”

Victoria smiled. “Perhaps. Of course, it's not my business, per se, but I am well aware of the fact. It's become tradition at this point. It's amusing, if anything.” As expected of one as well informed as her. Clara thought of her next question with no intention of speaking it aloud. “Ah, but you must be wondering if the rule applies to me as well. I've pondered it myself, but I just can't seem to convince myself I truly find myself attracted to either of them. I think it has to do with how I perceive girls and boys differently, although I can understand how Notkin and Caspar can be seen as attractive in a distant, clinical way.”

“So then who was your first?” Clara asked, sitting on the window sill, scarf fluttering. “If you can come to that conclusion it must've been prompted by someone.”

Capella stopped playing the piano, closing the lid gently and looking at her companion. Clara felt pierced by her light eyes. “Grace, a long time ago. More recently, Maria. Although I urge you not to tell Khan about it, I'm not sure he'd take the information well.” She crossed her legs and sighed. “Regardless, I have no intention of following through on any designs. I have responsibilities above my own whims, and I have enough love to spare without a paramour in the mix.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, skin pink. “Although circumstances might change. The future is uncertain.” 

Clara felt her ears ringing with unspoken potential in the quiet room. She laughed to distract from her fluttering heart, shameful and imprecise. “If even the future White Mistress can't discern the future, God bless the poor souls of the world outside.”

The Changeling stayed a while to opine on Capella's songs, some original, some even having accompanying lyrics. She left the Lump with her hands warm and her voice humming new songs. Next mark: Khan. 

The Polyhedron loomed, as it always did, and Clara almost had second thoughts about climbing the hundreds of stairs until a Doghead standing watch spoke up. “Scared?” Maera spoke with amusement more than mockery, but Clara still bristled slightly. 

“Of course not! I just wonder how cold it must be so high up. I intend to find out.” her legs carried her up, her ascent slow and contemplative. Kids played on the platforms all along the structure, making up realities of their own make; someday they'd be put down onto the ground for the last time, and then it'd grow ever more difficult to make their dreams come to reality. Clara imagined Khan would resent the powerlessness of adulthood in the future, but perhaps the gains would make up for the losses. 

At the top of the Tower stood Khan, profile backlit by the coming sunset, posture regal and distant; Clara thought she wasn't imagining the small group of kids huddled nearby was whispering while watching him. She had her answer, but it'd be nice to get it from his mouth, so she stood next to him, head tilted to look into his eyes from her lower vantage point. He was short, but she was shorter; it was somewhat irritating. “You have admirers.” She simply stated. 

Caspar Kain sighed, eyes drifting to her with coldness. His hand retreated from his pocket and he idly swung a stopwatch as he spoke, tone even. “I'm well aware. Why do you care?”

“It's common for it to be one of you three. Do you know why that is?” She was curious what his observations would be, being that he was someone who liked knowing and dissecting things. “Are there rules to it?”

He turned to her, and consequently to where the group was watching him; Clara heard snickering and running footsteps behind her. “It's likely due to our notoriety, children often grow attached to figures of authority. Besides that, us three are very different, so we have what could crudely be called broad appeal. It helps that we're all… genetically fortunate.” He coughed into his fist, averting his eyes momentarily before composing himself. “It's nothing mystical or magical, if that's why you're interested. People like sorting things into groups of three, it has to do with social psychology and analytical tendencies, nothing about it is supernatural.” He seemed peeved by the idea, and the way he said it pointed to this being a relatively old argument of his. Clara imagined he and Capella disagreed quite a bit on such things. 

“You say that, yet you live in a Tower that Cannot Be. You lack imagination, Khan, sorry to say.” She was not sorry in the least, and by his raised eyebrow she knew he could tell. “But I concede that it may not be anything especially magical beyond the quirks of the Town.”

Khan pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing, moving to sit on a chair nearby. Clara perched herself on the arm of his seat, clearly too close for comfort, but she only gestured for him to go on. He hesitated for a second before relenting. “You asked about rules, but I wager you mean tendencies. Rules are enforced while tendencies are followed naturally; in which case there are some observable tendencies. Almost always it's one of us three, very frequently it'll be the one who's closest to the person, say, one of my Dogheads for me or a Soul-and-a-Half for Notkin, it's common for it to not last long, those sorts of things. Really, it's all quite pedestrian.” he spoke with an air of indifference, which would fool anyone who wasn't paying attention to the amount of thought he clearly put into this. He looked at her with irritation. “Stop looking at me like that, you're just like Capella and Maria.”

She raised her eyebrows in faux surprise, smiling lightly. “And if everyone's aware of it, are there any enforced rules?” 

He glared at her and spoke with a tone of voice too serious for the subject at hand. “Only one that you need to be aware of, in my opinion. Don't tell Notkin.” There was a story behind that for sure; Clara grew giddy at the thought of uncovering it. 

“Ah, so he's clueless. To what extent? If we suppose even you three went through it once, does he not know of his own inclinations? Does he not know he's involved?” She paused, laying her chin on his shoulder and speaking impishly. “Or does he not know he was yours?”

Clara retreated as he stiffened, standing up and stretching as the final rays of light shed their last warmth over them. She looked over her shoulder and snickered at his flushed cheeks and scandalized expression; Khan avoided her gaze and retreated into the safety of his domain, waving a hand at her in dismissal. He hadn't denied her claim, though. Only one more person to visit. 

Night falling was usually indicative that one should avoid the Warehouse district, clutch their own coin purse and be on their way home. Seeing as Clara had neither good sense, a coin purse, or a home, she strutted right into the lantern-lit alleys in the direction of the home of the Soul-and-a-Halves. The door was skewed open, so she knocked lightly and entered, greeted by the sounds of critters and the chatter of children; the cacophony would be disconcerting if she didn't find it endearing, and she whistled as she approached the back of the warehouse, turning the corner to see Notkin holding Jester with one hand and a potato in the other. 

“Now what might be going on in here?” Clara asked, voice colored with amusement as the boy separated his arms farther apart, much to the apparent dismay of his Half, who yowled and flailed uselessly, pitifully caught by the scruff. Notkin glared at the cat before very aggressively taking a bite of the potato, crunch audible even in the loud warehouse. The potato was raw. Jester stilled and Notkin let him go, the cat's tail dragging on the floor as it wandered away disappointedly. 

The boy sat down on a crate, chewing through his sentence. “What brings you here so late?” He took another bite of the root, which made Clara laugh. “Don't laugh, this is my hard-earned meal! Jester, the little imp, tried to take away what's rightfully mine.”

Clara nodded sagely, gloved hand covering her amused smile as she spoke. “Of course, the raw potato of kings! A luxury compared to what I've had to eat to stay alive before.” Their eyes met with the solidarity of street urchins, shared experience and struggle. “But that's not what I'm here for.”

Notkin gestured for her to sit before him and go on, sitting himself down behind a crude desk. “You always come around at weird times, ya know? Makes one suspicious.”

“Whatever could you mean?” He rolled his eyes at her. “It's not my fault most times are weird around this town, there's always something interesting going on.”

Notkin huffed, tossing the uneaten half of the potato to her. “Tell that to the Bachelor, he seems to think this place is boring.” He took out a knife and a crude lump of wood, seemingly to resume a whittling project of some sort. The silence was indicative of how she should be filling it.

“Khan or Capella?” If she ought not tell him, perhaps she need only ask.

Notkin chewed in thought before speaking. “Capella's kinder, Khan's smarter. She's nice, he's cool. She takes too long to make decisions but he doesn't think too far ahead. They're both pretty.” The boy kept mumbling before tilting his head. Clara bit down on the potato and almost choked when he said, with an air of finality. “Why not both?”

Clara could see the issue. “Fair enough.” When her friend only clicked his tongue impatiently, she offered “Personally, I'd choose Capella.” with a shrug. 

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Capella I]

There was a tenuous line between strength and callousness when considering how to move on from a crisis. Capella didn’t think either suited her image, but a certain amount of versatility was inherent to the endeavor of a Mistress. She bit her nail to assuage the current of dread running down her pith, black ichor and bile pooling where one might expect a clear spring. The White Mistress was a beacon of hope, she ought to be the first to take a step forward from the abyss they’d found themselves fighting against.

Her hands trembled on the piano keys, phantom soot staining the ivory.

It didn’t matter that her brother’s broken body lay in a pit somewhere, in retaliation for lost love between a people and the illusion of progress her family had provided. No longer did her father’s inaction limit her, now with her rightful title claimed. It hardly should bring her breaths to a halt to see him sitting like a statue, stillness even her mother’s grave lacked. Vladislav Olgimsky Senior looked more dead than his wife or son.

Capella didn’t know what bothered her most; his brokenness or the façade he postured. If she were a more vitriolic person, she might find it the devil’s luck for him to be the one still alive out of her other cherished family. At least her brother meant well, regardless of success. Maybe if she held onto resentment, she could find herself less afraid. 

Still, the sunlight through the curtains caressed her cheek like her mother once had, smoothing away all the jagged edges. She needed to be strong, kind and unwavering. She vaguely recalled Katerina’s fall. The trials of a White Mistress ought not mix with the darkness.

Capella wondered what, if anything, she could do to reignite hope in a desolate people. No amount of soothing words or soft piano notes could chase away heartache, she knew that personally.

Her brother’s study was empty. Her mother’s garden was overgrown. Where to start? Where to end?

Concept art sketch thing for a Pathologic Dinosaur au that I am working on.

I had the idea to turn Executors into the Quetzalcoatlus bc… why not?

[The Quetzalcoatlus was about the size of a giraffe and was indeed able to fly, which is pretty cool]

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Bachelor I]

In the end, it was all for naught. Even the blood on his hands had served no purpose, making him feel like a misbehaving child after a tantrum, the room in shambles and nothing to be done. The Polyhedron was gone, and with it, hope.

Bachelor of Medicine Daniil Dankovsky flicked his wrist, distractedly penning down facts and data, if only to busy himself in the worthless lifetime awaiting him for eternity and onward. The few remaining orderlies bustled around the theater as he scribbled furiously onstage, shedding their ridiculous costumes to reveal faceless peons in a rigged war. What did it matter, anyway, they might as well wear bird masks for the rest of their puny lives, at least then they would distinguish themselves from the rabble.

The ink pooled at the tip of his pen, so he traced familiar lines with a hollow automatism. “Kain, G - dead (Sand Pest) day 10 of the Outbreak. Kain, V - dead (Sand Pest) day 10 of the Outbreak. Kaina, M - dead (Sand Pest) day 8 of the Outbreak. Olgimsky Jr, V - dead (Sand Pest) day 7 of the Outbreak. Yan, E —” The pressure of the pen’s tip on the parchment ruptured the fiber, his fingers noticeably sore and stiff.

An orderly still in uniform peeked over his shoulder at his work, voice muffled by the thick embrace of the mantle. “Miss Yan? I believe she died-”

The Bachelor got up, the legs of his chair scraping awfully against the stage, fists clenched around the pen in his grip. It seemed a betrayal that it didn’t snap in half. This trivial work could wait. He was bone-tired.

Who was he kidding? Wait for what? The inevitability of a death he had fought against and lost? A list of names once used by people long-gone, chronicling menial details. Names, dates, circumstances. Change any of these things and the truth would remain, glimmering in wet ink. Dead. Death had won.

Daniil Dankovsky left the hospital, perhaps never to be seen again.