[DE GERMAN WATTYS GRAND PRIZE WINNER & TOP 25 HISTORICAL AWARD 2023] *The perfect first mission for two inexperienced seekers: a small village in the middle of dark forests. Gruesome deaths and mysterious events. Kyle is a self-proclaimed Master of...
England, West Coast Devonshire, Dartmoor St. George, Outer Fields 5 November 1898, 5:04 p.m.
The sinister front of black clouds had by now drawn so close as to darken the sky. Again and again, the sky rumbled as if hiding behind the grey-black masses a hungry beast just waiting to swoop down from above. The wind had picked up noticeably. Leaves danced through the air, swirled around and were snatched away by coarse fingers. Rustling dominated the scene, the storm was near and would not be long in coming. The harsh wind pushed down trees and pressed blades of grass towards the ground with its force.
This was another reason why they hurried on their way back to the village. Kyle had to take off his top hat to keep it from blowing away. Gusts of wind tugged at their coats, tore at them like the brash hands of a child. It was more or less the same with their conclusions and clues: Swept away like a leaf in a hurricane.
"Do you think she's hiding something from us?" asked Dr Archer, and Kyle took his time answering.
"I don't. But... I don't think so." he finally said, rubbing his tense neck as he tilted his head slightly from side to side. "It looked to me like she was really worried about the dangers."
"What options do we have now to find out more?"
Kyle sighed, really wishing he had an answer. "We could try another medium for foresight," he suggested. After the experience last time, though, he wasn't keen on that. The remains of the bird had destroyed them and so he had nothing to use as an anchor point for the spell. A sudden, stronger gust of wind knocked the tippet of his cloak to the back of his head and Kyle wiped at the fabric to slide it back over his shoulders.
"It's worth a try, at least," Dr Archer agreed thoughtfully. And yet it seemed to them both that all their tracks were getting lost. Today a little boy had almost lost his life! Not a young girl, not an old priest, and not an obviously quick-tempered host either.
Kyle felt a drop jump into his face. Small but unmistakable, he nevertheless groped for it and wiped the moisture across his skin. "We'd better hurry or we'll be out in the rain in a minute."
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England, West Coast Devonshire, Dartmoor St George, Skirrid Inn 5 November 1898, 5:18 pm
Leaves rustled under their shoes as they hastily made their way to the Skirrid Inn. The windows and doors were closed by the storm, which cast its black shadow over the village like a harbinger of sinister events. Most of the inhabitants had retreated to the shelter of their warmed parlours and avoided leaving them. The events of the previous evening lingered like the charred smell in a kitchen and lingered there even after the day had passed.
