Post by The Mouth on Sept 4, 2014 17:41:50 GMT -8
March 1st, 1910
Wellington, WA
The Mouth glared at the Finn. It had been a blizzard for days and even a Vampire feels the cold. Worse, they have nothing to keep them warm like people do; small stones heated in fires were the best he could do and that was a damned poor way to stay warm. The Finn had his dog at least. That dog was the key to this whole operation.
The lightning crackled overhead, rain sheeting onto the snow. Everything smelled of cold, ozone, and wet wool. Below them the train rested, waiting for the rails to be clear; a long beast full of panicked men and women, anxious to get through the mountains to warmth and safety.
Of course they had clipped the telegraph lines days before, dropping trees onto the line was easy enough, everyone blamed the storm. Of course the storm had dropped some trees onto them as well, often enough. Blood was scarce, and but for the Finn he would have been dead several times over.
A month, a month he'd been in these mountains. And now it was time.
The Finn claimed to know every kind of snow imaginable. For a mortal the Finn was an okay sort, spoke limited English, but had been an excellent guide. The strange little man had been living in the Cascades for twenty years or so, having survived the fire and wanting to get away from the horrors he'd witnessed.
And the Finn said this was avalanche snow.
The thunder boomed again, The Mouth saw nothing different on the mountain side, not until the Finn screamed, "It comes, the mountain, she moves!" Below a small speck of a man looked up, the horror on his face apparent.
It was terrifying. Even above, anchored in, everything shook, roared, the world disappearing in a cloud of snow and rocks and noise.
The trains... Like the hand of God swept them off the track and down the cliff.
The Finn knew his snow, for damned sure, The Mouth considered. They raced off in Tobagans, faces delightfully covered; mortals screamed a lot less when the face was covered.
Even with the sleds others got to the disaster first. Cries, yells for assistance, bits of train sticking out of the snow. People digging through the snow to find survivors, friends, family. The Mouth sought something else: Cargo.
The Mouth had a gift for the gab, but no talent at hiding himself. So he wore masks and gave little performances in the bars, dance halls, and the like. It was a risk, but risks were his business. Like this one...
At one rousing reading of Teddy Roosevelt's latest speech - Last week had been the Lincoln/Douglas debates in which he took both sides - He was heckled by a drunk anarchist, or communist, or something. The Mortals were popping up with new ideologies faster than he could track and Seattle was a hot bed for extreme labor movements, and when the show was done he tracked the fellow down to repay the ill treatment in kind.
Turns out the mouthy little louse was a Commie, and he claimed, drunk as he was, that as soon as the guns and gold arrived he and his brothers would be running things soon enough. A few more chats, a little intimidation, and hints of a longer life revealed the train he was going to be meeting.
The name though... His ally in all this? Someone they called the Bishop, a scary man who had fought many revolutions against the bourgeoisie and had helped many peoples gain their freedom from the capitalist monsters. In repayment, the Mouth ate him.
This was two months ago.
When word reached Seattle that two trains, one of which had the cargo the man spoke of, were trapped in the mountains due to bad weather, well, the Mouth spied an opportunity. He found the best Moutntain Man he could get a hold of and made a new friend. Good thing the Finn was a nutter who didn't care what the man with him did as he paid well.
And gold doubloons paid well indeed.
They were at the trains now, dozens frantically digging in the snow. The Finn had his dog on the sled, and the mastiff went bounding through the snow, coming to an anonymous mound, then barked twice. "You sure this is it?" the Mouth drawled out. The Finn spat something back that was likely a rude curse, ending with, "Yes, you Russki Bastard." The Finn felt strongly about his dog, if not his communication skills.
The Mouth whips his small shovel off of his back and starts digging, snow flying in great fans behind him. Undead muscles do not tire, and the had branches on the sleds to provide supports for any tunneling he might have to do; tunneling is something The Mouth'd gotten good at these last few years.
After about thirty minutes he struck the side of the car, he'd gotten lucky in that the boxy structure was intact; much of the hillside was littered with the cars that had not weathered God's unyielding might nearly as well.
A pry bar, his favorite weapon these days, allowed him to break into the car easily enough. He was on a clock, he had to get the goods to the surface and get to camp by...
The shot was deafening in the car, and it was darker than pitch. The whole lit up with the muzzle flare, showing a pale, sweating man, in a fancy derby with his left arm in the wrong places.
Good thing the Mouth had waited to light that candle lantern.
The bullet buzzed past his ear and he dove to the right, so the man couldn't cover him as easily. 'Gun Thugs' thought the Mouth, 'They hired gun thugs.'
The gun thug fires again, randomly, but using the muzzle flash to correct his next shot. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang-thump! as bullet struck flesh. But the Gun Thug wasn't used to the dark like the Mouth was, and even with a bullet the pry bar came down with a sound of green sticks breaking.
The Mouth waited for any further sounds of movement, but all was still. His hands shaking he lights the candle lantern to see the interior of the car, turned cavernous and jumbled from the 150 foot fall from the track. The bullet in his gut hurts, but he can't afford to waste the vitae to heal the relatively minor wound.
A quick search of the gun thug reveals a plain and serviceable revolver and a Pinkerton badge. Expensive gun thug then. Hunger gnaws at the Mouth, and he gives and in drinks what is left in the now dead man. Does not matter, but the warmth is welcome.
Sated, he searches for the crates he is looking for. He discovers another well dress man, crushed under the crates, already turning cold. Another Pinkerton, both men from back East.
Curious. Why would anarchists or the Sabbat hire Pinkertons?
He finds the crates marked with the 'symbol of the revolution' a fist holding a hammer, two of them. Long, almost like coffins, and the Mouth's dread is palpable. This seems more and more like a set up, a bear trap, and he stuck his leg in it.
He drags the crates, whistles, and some scrabbling later the Finn is dropping a rope through the hole. They spend a precious hour hoisting the boxes up, grunting, swearing, all around them men desperately trying to save their fellow man.
Finally they have the boxes strapped to sleds. Everyone else is so busy trying to get their people that they are pulling the boxes back up the slopes when someone stops them. "Hey! We need those sleds for the living!"
Ominous indeed that at a distance these crates look like coffins. The Mouth and the Finn keep trudging, snow shoes whuffle-crunching through the snow. The shouting man goes back to more urgent things, like rescuing his mates and passengers.
They struggle to get the boxes back to camp; up hill in the snow is hard work, even with the warmth of the Pinkerton the Mouth could feel his limbs getting heavy with cold. But they did make camp, buried in a cave cut into the snow. The Finn grins at him, "Worth, what they say, a tip?"
"When these boxes are in Seattle, then we settle up and you get paid, my dear Finn," I drawl back. He thinks I have a terrible frost bit and vanity, but I do not concern myself with this. The Finn's Mastiff knows, he avoids me and only loyalty to his master keeps the dog from my throat.
A week later they are in more familiar digs. In twenty years the city has recovered remarkably, turning into a commerce hub and exploring new avenues of wealth creation. Some man named Boeing was boosting his 'aeroplanes' odd machines that flew through the air. Some were even talking about flying one to moon or even the stars like some Jules Verne story.
The Finn was paid, four of his 25 gold doubloons, three for the trip, an extra as a reminder of silence and faith. The Finn and his Mastiff wandered off chortling at their new fortune.
The Mouth would rush to where he hid the boxes, but matters at court keep him away. Rumors of a possible move from the Anarchs, perhaps the Sabbat even, are rife. The fear at court is palpable as there is no response from the the Primogen and the rumors swirl deeper and deeper.
The Marquis, when asked by the Sister, was sanguine. "I leave it to Moliere: ‘The trees which are slowest to grow bear the sweetest fruit.’ We shall be still and act with prudence."
Still, fear is a time of opportunity, and so they scraped up a minor boon or two reassuring some of the lower rung players that certain territories were 'safe'.
Two months of this.
May, it is warming up. A cold and wet winter and the first days of sun are arriving, making the evenings damp and chill, but sweet with the scents of apple trees. The orchards are springing up everywhere as markets over seas and back east hunger for sweet apple flesh.
The Mouth stands over his two boxes, pry bar in hand. He's in a warehouse down on the piers, his bribes having hidden these two crates this whole time. He pops the first one open, not exactly sure, but the penny has been awful long in dropping.
The tightness in his chest turns to a full on terror. The box has a Kindred, but in too many pieces. The body is twisted, malformed, papery skin in abundance. It takes a moment, but he realizes he is seeing 'The Poke', a joke of sorts. The Poke has a lot of extra skin, could hide little tidbits and the odd wallet in it; kind of like keeping a pig in a poke. It wasn't a solid name but Mr. Sunshine couldn't always pick winners.
Mr. Sunshine. The Mouth realized that this was a messenger for Mr. Sunshine... The Poke was young, maybe a fresh of the blood about two years in Charleston, and he was due in Denver, not Seattle according to telegraphs, over due now.
A quick search and the Mouth finds the message from Mr. Sunshine, except it ain't Mr. Sunshine. It saying how The Mouth was probably getting too uppity, and probably needed to be taken out back. But the words weren't quite right, wouldn't stop someone from acting them before Mr. Sunshine would get the letter- The old geezer did not like the telegraph.
Also it was signed 'Mr. Sunshine' - Mr. Sunshine always signed with his Christian name initials, a challenge for his brood being to guess them correctly to get a prize. You get three guess before you become entertainment for a week.
Not a lot of guesses even after all these years.
So, a set up. But one designed for Camarilla authorities.
His eyes track to the second box, the Mouth's feet shuffle to the second box, he heaves with the pry bar. And there is a staked Kindred. there is a note tied to the stake:
'Mr. Mouth, I have upheld my bargain and killed the courier as you requested for arranging our access to your little town. This one was not part of the bargain but was along for the ride. I hired some Pinkertons to keep them safe, hope he gets a bit more power - You will need it for what is coming.
- Bishop Ruiz'
He hears three metallic pings, the sound of gold coins striking the wooden floors. Ping! Ping! Ping! The Mouth whirls, his prybar at the ready, and lays eyes on the coldly furious Marquis and the tragically distraught Sister.
"Your impudence, your arrrrrogance... It has gone to far!" the Marquis grinds. "Arranging the murder of our courier?"
"No, that's, it's a set-" the Mouth, for once, his name fails him.
"SILENCE, Wretch. As it appears to the world, so must we accept it. You will pay for this in suffering, so I will grant you the mercy of its swiftness. " The Marquis stalks towards him.
"Wait Marquis, let him explain, Mouth has been a risk taker, but nothing like this!" Clementine pleads. The Mouth is proud of her, she isn't asking for his life so much as she doesn't want to lose an ally. How far she has come...
"No, the letter it's a fake. I was expecting a Sabbat or Anarch, or one of them, staked and waiting for a ghoul to unship them in Seattle. Instead I have a dead courier and whomever this son of a bi-"
The Marquis is blindingly fast and slaps him with the force of a mule. "You paid a stupid man to go with you to do stupid things. He talked! Not about you, but your adventure. And he was paid in gold. If you are innocent, then you should have 25 coins, no?"
The Mouth was flung across the warehouse, his head swimming. "No, paid the Finn 4 coins. He helped..." The Marquis slaps the Mouth again, vitae exploding into the Mouth's throat.
"You fool. The others will kill you."
The Sister is reading the note, her hands shaking. She never knew about the challenge, because she was Sunshine's favorite. He just told her, then made her forget.
"Sister, please... The note, from Sunshine, it ain' his writing." It is getting hard to talk, harder still as the Marquis hits him a third time.
"It looks just fine from where I'm standin." Her voice is strangely cold to him. He remembers that she liked the Poke, the Poke he'd always do little sleight of hand tricks for her, made her feel pretty even with her face and all.
"Oh, sister, please. I didn't-"
She shrieks, her hurt and betrayal turning into a swarm of biting rats and cats and raccoon.
"You shouldn't have turned your back on us Mouth. You shouldn't have, you never turn on family like that!" The Sister's betrayal and hurt and trust and grief are flung at him in another wave of her little pets.
They burrow into his flesh. "Sister, I beg you-" the rats have found his face and trying to speak means they get his tongue.
Blood fills the Mouth's eyes and he goes still.
"Harumph. Girl, stop. He might have been telling the truth." The Marquis is examining the documents closely.
"I don't want to, he killed Poke, and now he's gonna die too."
"Miss Leveau. Manners."
She is a twisted vision of fury and pain, but the animals suddenly turn, hissing and red eyed, looking to her.
"But you have killed so many Marquis," a cool mist hiding her molten core.
"I have eaten, but this is different. The Mouth must end its sentence, but perhaps not the book. As Moliere said, ‘ We only die once, and for such a long time. ‘ He was almost right. “
The Sister, she bows her head, red sorrow running down her cheeks, flings herself at the Mouth's prostrate body. She holds his head, comes near, her face large and making the whole of the world. "Brother!" she cries, grief turning to rage.
"You did this, you made us do this. Marquis, even if he ain' done anything, I still hate him for this," her voice, cold, words tumbling over him like the avalanche, a frozen hand of God sweeping away the one thing he had left to love. "He should have come to us, and now..."
Rage, all icy and howling, as she gets even closer. The last thing he will see this Fury, a Maenad drunk on her conflicts. "If he did do it, I will have satisfaction, Marquis." With this words his world ends. She has called the feud, the duel, the orbit of Shiva. Even if he is proven innocent, she will never unsay those words, never forget she said them.
The Woman, no more the Sister, goes soft around the edges, for a moment he recalls the scared young woman brought to Mr. Sunshine.
His Torpor slips over him like a blanket, the itching of the animals as they burrowed into him fades, his family having their argument, trails off. Only the little blood left in him, pooling and cold in his gut, as he considers how terribly well he was set up, and why it was so easily done.
Numb, warmth, then cold.
Wellington, WA
The Mouth glared at the Finn. It had been a blizzard for days and even a Vampire feels the cold. Worse, they have nothing to keep them warm like people do; small stones heated in fires were the best he could do and that was a damned poor way to stay warm. The Finn had his dog at least. That dog was the key to this whole operation.
The lightning crackled overhead, rain sheeting onto the snow. Everything smelled of cold, ozone, and wet wool. Below them the train rested, waiting for the rails to be clear; a long beast full of panicked men and women, anxious to get through the mountains to warmth and safety.
Of course they had clipped the telegraph lines days before, dropping trees onto the line was easy enough, everyone blamed the storm. Of course the storm had dropped some trees onto them as well, often enough. Blood was scarce, and but for the Finn he would have been dead several times over.
A month, a month he'd been in these mountains. And now it was time.
The Finn claimed to know every kind of snow imaginable. For a mortal the Finn was an okay sort, spoke limited English, but had been an excellent guide. The strange little man had been living in the Cascades for twenty years or so, having survived the fire and wanting to get away from the horrors he'd witnessed.
And the Finn said this was avalanche snow.
The thunder boomed again, The Mouth saw nothing different on the mountain side, not until the Finn screamed, "It comes, the mountain, she moves!" Below a small speck of a man looked up, the horror on his face apparent.
It was terrifying. Even above, anchored in, everything shook, roared, the world disappearing in a cloud of snow and rocks and noise.
The trains... Like the hand of God swept them off the track and down the cliff.
The Finn knew his snow, for damned sure, The Mouth considered. They raced off in Tobagans, faces delightfully covered; mortals screamed a lot less when the face was covered.
Even with the sleds others got to the disaster first. Cries, yells for assistance, bits of train sticking out of the snow. People digging through the snow to find survivors, friends, family. The Mouth sought something else: Cargo.
The Mouth had a gift for the gab, but no talent at hiding himself. So he wore masks and gave little performances in the bars, dance halls, and the like. It was a risk, but risks were his business. Like this one...
At one rousing reading of Teddy Roosevelt's latest speech - Last week had been the Lincoln/Douglas debates in which he took both sides - He was heckled by a drunk anarchist, or communist, or something. The Mortals were popping up with new ideologies faster than he could track and Seattle was a hot bed for extreme labor movements, and when the show was done he tracked the fellow down to repay the ill treatment in kind.
Turns out the mouthy little louse was a Commie, and he claimed, drunk as he was, that as soon as the guns and gold arrived he and his brothers would be running things soon enough. A few more chats, a little intimidation, and hints of a longer life revealed the train he was going to be meeting.
The name though... His ally in all this? Someone they called the Bishop, a scary man who had fought many revolutions against the bourgeoisie and had helped many peoples gain their freedom from the capitalist monsters. In repayment, the Mouth ate him.
This was two months ago.
When word reached Seattle that two trains, one of which had the cargo the man spoke of, were trapped in the mountains due to bad weather, well, the Mouth spied an opportunity. He found the best Moutntain Man he could get a hold of and made a new friend. Good thing the Finn was a nutter who didn't care what the man with him did as he paid well.
And gold doubloons paid well indeed.
They were at the trains now, dozens frantically digging in the snow. The Finn had his dog on the sled, and the mastiff went bounding through the snow, coming to an anonymous mound, then barked twice. "You sure this is it?" the Mouth drawled out. The Finn spat something back that was likely a rude curse, ending with, "Yes, you Russki Bastard." The Finn felt strongly about his dog, if not his communication skills.
The Mouth whips his small shovel off of his back and starts digging, snow flying in great fans behind him. Undead muscles do not tire, and the had branches on the sleds to provide supports for any tunneling he might have to do; tunneling is something The Mouth'd gotten good at these last few years.
After about thirty minutes he struck the side of the car, he'd gotten lucky in that the boxy structure was intact; much of the hillside was littered with the cars that had not weathered God's unyielding might nearly as well.
A pry bar, his favorite weapon these days, allowed him to break into the car easily enough. He was on a clock, he had to get the goods to the surface and get to camp by...
The shot was deafening in the car, and it was darker than pitch. The whole lit up with the muzzle flare, showing a pale, sweating man, in a fancy derby with his left arm in the wrong places.
Good thing the Mouth had waited to light that candle lantern.
The bullet buzzed past his ear and he dove to the right, so the man couldn't cover him as easily. 'Gun Thugs' thought the Mouth, 'They hired gun thugs.'
The gun thug fires again, randomly, but using the muzzle flash to correct his next shot. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang-thump! as bullet struck flesh. But the Gun Thug wasn't used to the dark like the Mouth was, and even with a bullet the pry bar came down with a sound of green sticks breaking.
The Mouth waited for any further sounds of movement, but all was still. His hands shaking he lights the candle lantern to see the interior of the car, turned cavernous and jumbled from the 150 foot fall from the track. The bullet in his gut hurts, but he can't afford to waste the vitae to heal the relatively minor wound.
A quick search of the gun thug reveals a plain and serviceable revolver and a Pinkerton badge. Expensive gun thug then. Hunger gnaws at the Mouth, and he gives and in drinks what is left in the now dead man. Does not matter, but the warmth is welcome.
Sated, he searches for the crates he is looking for. He discovers another well dress man, crushed under the crates, already turning cold. Another Pinkerton, both men from back East.
Curious. Why would anarchists or the Sabbat hire Pinkertons?
He finds the crates marked with the 'symbol of the revolution' a fist holding a hammer, two of them. Long, almost like coffins, and the Mouth's dread is palpable. This seems more and more like a set up, a bear trap, and he stuck his leg in it.
He drags the crates, whistles, and some scrabbling later the Finn is dropping a rope through the hole. They spend a precious hour hoisting the boxes up, grunting, swearing, all around them men desperately trying to save their fellow man.
Finally they have the boxes strapped to sleds. Everyone else is so busy trying to get their people that they are pulling the boxes back up the slopes when someone stops them. "Hey! We need those sleds for the living!"
Ominous indeed that at a distance these crates look like coffins. The Mouth and the Finn keep trudging, snow shoes whuffle-crunching through the snow. The shouting man goes back to more urgent things, like rescuing his mates and passengers.
They struggle to get the boxes back to camp; up hill in the snow is hard work, even with the warmth of the Pinkerton the Mouth could feel his limbs getting heavy with cold. But they did make camp, buried in a cave cut into the snow. The Finn grins at him, "Worth, what they say, a tip?"
"When these boxes are in Seattle, then we settle up and you get paid, my dear Finn," I drawl back. He thinks I have a terrible frost bit and vanity, but I do not concern myself with this. The Finn's Mastiff knows, he avoids me and only loyalty to his master keeps the dog from my throat.
A week later they are in more familiar digs. In twenty years the city has recovered remarkably, turning into a commerce hub and exploring new avenues of wealth creation. Some man named Boeing was boosting his 'aeroplanes' odd machines that flew through the air. Some were even talking about flying one to moon or even the stars like some Jules Verne story.
The Finn was paid, four of his 25 gold doubloons, three for the trip, an extra as a reminder of silence and faith. The Finn and his Mastiff wandered off chortling at their new fortune.
The Mouth would rush to where he hid the boxes, but matters at court keep him away. Rumors of a possible move from the Anarchs, perhaps the Sabbat even, are rife. The fear at court is palpable as there is no response from the the Primogen and the rumors swirl deeper and deeper.
The Marquis, when asked by the Sister, was sanguine. "I leave it to Moliere: ‘The trees which are slowest to grow bear the sweetest fruit.’ We shall be still and act with prudence."
Still, fear is a time of opportunity, and so they scraped up a minor boon or two reassuring some of the lower rung players that certain territories were 'safe'.
Two months of this.
May, it is warming up. A cold and wet winter and the first days of sun are arriving, making the evenings damp and chill, but sweet with the scents of apple trees. The orchards are springing up everywhere as markets over seas and back east hunger for sweet apple flesh.
The Mouth stands over his two boxes, pry bar in hand. He's in a warehouse down on the piers, his bribes having hidden these two crates this whole time. He pops the first one open, not exactly sure, but the penny has been awful long in dropping.
The tightness in his chest turns to a full on terror. The box has a Kindred, but in too many pieces. The body is twisted, malformed, papery skin in abundance. It takes a moment, but he realizes he is seeing 'The Poke', a joke of sorts. The Poke has a lot of extra skin, could hide little tidbits and the odd wallet in it; kind of like keeping a pig in a poke. It wasn't a solid name but Mr. Sunshine couldn't always pick winners.
Mr. Sunshine. The Mouth realized that this was a messenger for Mr. Sunshine... The Poke was young, maybe a fresh of the blood about two years in Charleston, and he was due in Denver, not Seattle according to telegraphs, over due now.
A quick search and the Mouth finds the message from Mr. Sunshine, except it ain't Mr. Sunshine. It saying how The Mouth was probably getting too uppity, and probably needed to be taken out back. But the words weren't quite right, wouldn't stop someone from acting them before Mr. Sunshine would get the letter- The old geezer did not like the telegraph.
Also it was signed 'Mr. Sunshine' - Mr. Sunshine always signed with his Christian name initials, a challenge for his brood being to guess them correctly to get a prize. You get three guess before you become entertainment for a week.
Not a lot of guesses even after all these years.
So, a set up. But one designed for Camarilla authorities.
His eyes track to the second box, the Mouth's feet shuffle to the second box, he heaves with the pry bar. And there is a staked Kindred. there is a note tied to the stake:
'Mr. Mouth, I have upheld my bargain and killed the courier as you requested for arranging our access to your little town. This one was not part of the bargain but was along for the ride. I hired some Pinkertons to keep them safe, hope he gets a bit more power - You will need it for what is coming.
- Bishop Ruiz'
He hears three metallic pings, the sound of gold coins striking the wooden floors. Ping! Ping! Ping! The Mouth whirls, his prybar at the ready, and lays eyes on the coldly furious Marquis and the tragically distraught Sister.
"Your impudence, your arrrrrogance... It has gone to far!" the Marquis grinds. "Arranging the murder of our courier?"
"No, that's, it's a set-" the Mouth, for once, his name fails him.
"SILENCE, Wretch. As it appears to the world, so must we accept it. You will pay for this in suffering, so I will grant you the mercy of its swiftness. " The Marquis stalks towards him.
"Wait Marquis, let him explain, Mouth has been a risk taker, but nothing like this!" Clementine pleads. The Mouth is proud of her, she isn't asking for his life so much as she doesn't want to lose an ally. How far she has come...
"No, the letter it's a fake. I was expecting a Sabbat or Anarch, or one of them, staked and waiting for a ghoul to unship them in Seattle. Instead I have a dead courier and whomever this son of a bi-"
The Marquis is blindingly fast and slaps him with the force of a mule. "You paid a stupid man to go with you to do stupid things. He talked! Not about you, but your adventure. And he was paid in gold. If you are innocent, then you should have 25 coins, no?"
The Mouth was flung across the warehouse, his head swimming. "No, paid the Finn 4 coins. He helped..." The Marquis slaps the Mouth again, vitae exploding into the Mouth's throat.
"You fool. The others will kill you."
The Sister is reading the note, her hands shaking. She never knew about the challenge, because she was Sunshine's favorite. He just told her, then made her forget.
"Sister, please... The note, from Sunshine, it ain' his writing." It is getting hard to talk, harder still as the Marquis hits him a third time.
"It looks just fine from where I'm standin." Her voice is strangely cold to him. He remembers that she liked the Poke, the Poke he'd always do little sleight of hand tricks for her, made her feel pretty even with her face and all.
"Oh, sister, please. I didn't-"
She shrieks, her hurt and betrayal turning into a swarm of biting rats and cats and raccoon.
"You shouldn't have turned your back on us Mouth. You shouldn't have, you never turn on family like that!" The Sister's betrayal and hurt and trust and grief are flung at him in another wave of her little pets.
They burrow into his flesh. "Sister, I beg you-" the rats have found his face and trying to speak means they get his tongue.
Blood fills the Mouth's eyes and he goes still.
"Harumph. Girl, stop. He might have been telling the truth." The Marquis is examining the documents closely.
"I don't want to, he killed Poke, and now he's gonna die too."
"Miss Leveau. Manners."
She is a twisted vision of fury and pain, but the animals suddenly turn, hissing and red eyed, looking to her.
"But you have killed so many Marquis," a cool mist hiding her molten core.
"I have eaten, but this is different. The Mouth must end its sentence, but perhaps not the book. As Moliere said, ‘ We only die once, and for such a long time. ‘ He was almost right. “
The Sister, she bows her head, red sorrow running down her cheeks, flings herself at the Mouth's prostrate body. She holds his head, comes near, her face large and making the whole of the world. "Brother!" she cries, grief turning to rage.
"You did this, you made us do this. Marquis, even if he ain' done anything, I still hate him for this," her voice, cold, words tumbling over him like the avalanche, a frozen hand of God sweeping away the one thing he had left to love. "He should have come to us, and now..."
Rage, all icy and howling, as she gets even closer. The last thing he will see this Fury, a Maenad drunk on her conflicts. "If he did do it, I will have satisfaction, Marquis." With this words his world ends. She has called the feud, the duel, the orbit of Shiva. Even if he is proven innocent, she will never unsay those words, never forget she said them.
The Woman, no more the Sister, goes soft around the edges, for a moment he recalls the scared young woman brought to Mr. Sunshine.
His Torpor slips over him like a blanket, the itching of the animals as they burrowed into him fades, his family having their argument, trails off. Only the little blood left in him, pooling and cold in his gut, as he considers how terribly well he was set up, and why it was so easily done.
Numb, warmth, then cold.