The Crawling Sickness

[Madeira Dusk]

Winter 20th, 516
11th Bell


"Miss, are you ok?"

The girl who spoke was a wide-eyed little thing in a skirt that looked like it had been mended a hundred times. She rarely saw people this far away from the main docks of the Patchwork Port. Past even the stilted houses and the gulls that roosted in their rooves. Out this way there were only the occasional solitary fisherman or the adventerous sort out to explore the caves and tide pools. So she was suprised to see this woman, who didn't look to be either, and wondered if she needed help.

Madeira looked up from where she sat, rocking on her heels and clawing at the ground with broken fingernails to extract slick wads of clay exposed by the tide. Her eyes, red and swollen from lack of sleep, swivled madly in her head. Clay seemed to be caught everywhere. It was caked across her chest and thighs, and ran in milky rivlets down her skinny arms and pale belly. One side of her face and most of her hair was matted with sand and the sticky gray substance, like she had dragged it across the ground.

She was barefoot and shirtless, but her pants were rolled neatly to her knees. Several meters away what was supposedly her missing clothing was folded and placed carfully on a rock, out of the reach of the tide. Beside those was a lumpy rucksack clasped tightly closed, and a little jar that cast no shadow, filled with a substance that glowed softly even in the midday light. And aound everything was a string of jade beads that sat heavy in the sand and mud.

"Look at you", Madeira whispered, her voice thick and warped, as if she had something caught in her throat. Her neck bent to crazy angles as if to view the girl from every vantage point, and bits of sand and clay trickled from her nostrils as she did. "Look at you. So pretty. Dont let them get you. The flies. Can you hear them?" The muddied woman clutched at her belly, her bloodshot eyes suddenly wide and afraid. "They'll eat those pretty lips and crawl inside. They'll eat you from the inside out, all those maggots and flies. From your mouth, from your ears, your nose. From the openings they make themselves..." Madeira whimpered and threw herself back into her work. She clawed out a sticky handful of clay and slapped it onto her ear, and the soul suddered to feel the cool wetness plug the orifice. "You have to keep them out. Keep them from getting inside..."

The girl stood there, wide eyes only getting wider. Too shocked to move, too scared to stay. Her skirt quaked gently as her knees shook.

"Shhh, shhh, dont be afraid", Madeira cooed gently and reached for her with a muddy hand. Tiny drops of blood dripped from her cracked nails. She smiled then, releasing a torrent of saliva and sediment. Her teeth were black, smeared with clay and blood and the wriggling things you find in the sand. "Once I'm done here I'll protect you, too."

The girl found her feet then, and her voice. A shriek of panic ran before her, and her feet were hot on its heels. She ran screaming back to the ramshackle port.

[Maro]

Writhing against the wet ground beneath him, he fought to free himself from the beast that pinned him to the barely giving ground of the shore. Though he thrashed with every fiber of his being, it was not enough to break free of the heavy hand that held him down. Its crushing weight seemed to drive the breath from him, and though he tried to draw that precious, life-giving substance in, the hand that held him wouldn’t allow it. The more he struggled, the deeper the grit and the sand drove into his body, but next to the need to breathe, that discomfort was inconsequential. Panic built, slowly at first, but rose like a wave nearing the shore as the urge to breathe became desperate. Desperation drove most to great lengths, and for him, it granted great strength. In one colossal effort, he whipped his body back and forth, and a shift in the weight of the hand almost seemed to herald his imminent escape. But it was not to be. Something gray blocked out the sun an instant before it came crashing into his skull. Lifting his bolas, Maro peeked at the fish he had just clubbed. Swift and exact, the blow appeared to have done its work. Limp, the fish dangled from his hand by its tail, and Maro was satisfied with his work. As he moved to put the fish into his bucket though, it gave another thrash and fell from his hands. Dropping on top of the creature, Maro pinned it with his hand once more, lifted his bolas, and whipped it down against the fish’s head again. The fish screamed just before the bolas struck, or at least, the timing made it seem that way. It was an odd scream, off in some way, almost unholy as it emanated from some place away from the fish. Shaking his head, Maro tried to make sense of it. The scream sounded again, and Maro cocked his head to one side curiously as he glanced up the shoreline. A young woman was running toward him, panic in her eyes whose pupils nearly blocked out the irises. Fear. Even in his human form, the scent was thick on her. For those not inclined to use their noses to learn things, the fact was still obvious with just a glance. Her eyes, the white of her face, the shallow gasping as she tried to breathe, they said it all. She stopped when she reached Maro as he was the first person she had encountered along the shore. With how ragged her breath was, he was amazed she had been able to scream. Several times, she tried to say something, but every time, she stumbled over the words until she finally just sobbed and continued running to the Port. Encounters such as this one weren’t something Maro was accustomed to, and he stared after her retreating figure for a few moments before turning back to look in the direction she had come from. As he thought for a moment, he cocked his head to the side again unknowingly. “Don’t even think about it, Maro.” The voice made him jump a bit. He knew she was nearby. His Mark let him know as much, but he had nearly forgotten as he’d become immersed in fishing. Turning, he watched a ghost materialize. “Autumn, what are you doing out and about?” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Keeping you out of trouble it seems. Don’t even think about it.” “I wasn’t-” “Yes, you were,” she cut him off. Seeing the look in his eyes, she sighed. “Just be careful.” “I always am.” She glared again. “You never are. You always let curiosity get the better of you. Just promise me you’ll be careful.” “Okay.” He calmed his erratic mind and gathered his thoughts. “I promise.” Her narrowed eyes considered him a moment. “You’re still going, aren’t you?” “Of course, I am.” He couldn’t contain his excitement. “Don’t you want to know what’s down there?” “I most definitely do not.” Autumn glared, though she knew it would do no good. “Fine. Let’s go.” With his bucket of fish in one hand and his fishing pole in the other, he started down the shore in the direction the woman had come from, the pleasant grit of the sand squishing up between the toes of his bare feet. It wasn’t too far out until he discovered what had frightened the girl, but he was winded nonetheless. The weight of the fish combined with the water was almost too much for his small body to handle. As he approached the figure in the sand though, a familiar sensation came over him, one he found comforting. Death. The place smelled strongly of it but not in the natural sense. It was something he sensed more within the soul of his senses rather than in the senses themselves. It didn’t take him long to locate the source. It was the woman on the shore, slathered in streaks of clay. It was then that he noticed the things set aside carefully in a ring of green beads. Soulbeads! She was a spiritist. There was a jar of Soulmist in the small collection. As he turned his attention back to the woman, the signs of possession were quickly evident: the unnatural, graceless movements of the eyes and the body; the unholy sound to her voice as she muttered to herself, almost slurred; the pointless, repetitive monotony of her actions. That, or she was mad or drunk. Most spiritists capable of imbuing Soulbeads were able to control possession, and that made Maro more cautious. It was either a very powerful soul or a very old one. Maro made his actions as slow and nonthreatening as he could. Possessed people, he knew, could be surprisingly strong as ghosts didn’t concern themselves with tearing muscles or breaking bones that they were merely borrowing. They weren’t concerned with limitations of the body, and though it was difficult to tell with her sitting the way she was, Maro was certain he wasn’t much bigger. The ghost finally took notice of him as he set down his bucket and fishing pole in the jade ring. He removed the bolas from his belt and laid them next to her shirt. He didn’t want anything within reach that she could kill him with, and he knew ghosts could be temperamental. Not to mention, Maro could just as easily turn the weapon into a killing instrument, and he had no desire to kill. Still, he wanted something to protect himself with. To that end, he grabbed the fish he had just caught and killed and took it with him to the water line. His movements were slow; his eyes, gentle and friendly. Kneeling, he set the fish at his side and stretched his hands far out in front of him, like a dog waking from a long morning nap. As his stretch reached its peak, he sank the tips of his fingers into the clay and dragged them toward himself, mimicking her digging actions. Cold and biting, a gentle surge of water swelled around one hand and leg, and Maro was suddenly made more aware of his inadequacies. She didn’t need a weapon to kill him, if she chose to. She could just drown him. He pushed the thought aside and smiled as he looked at the clay in his hands and smeared some on his face. “Hello, friend.”

[Madeira Dusk]

Madeira had prepared herself for the possession as best she could. She had prepared plenty of soulmist, set up a ring of protection around her tools, and had even thought to remove the clothing she didn't want ruined. But what she needed most, she couldn't have. Rest was something you earned, not something you took yourself.
 
This had been her second violent job in as many days, and forty bells since she'd last slept. But she couldn't give up yet. Now that she had finally baited the ghost into taking her body.  
 
The plan was to let the ghost take possession of her body, and in exchange she would have the chance to lay siege to it's mind. It was a delicate dance. She couldn't fight the ghost for control of her own body and still have the concentration needed to wade knee deep in its memories. But it was a huge risk. One she didn't take without good cause and much preparation. It was rare to find a ghost who would use it's vessel gently. Aside from that, it took several ticks to expel a ghost once it got a hold of her. Several ticks in which she was incredibly venerable. Both from the living and the dead.
 
So Madeira didn't bother to interfere when the little girl approached her body. Though she was forced to watch the scene, in case the ghost attacked her, or decided she might be a better vessel. The divided attention just made her job harder. So she sighed with relief when the girl ran off, though she felt guilty that the girl had to run off screaming.
 
The ghost muttered to itself as Madeira rifled through its mind. No, it wasn't talking to itself, she realized. it was talking to her. It had shovelled enough clay in both her ears to make it's words all but indecipherable, but the bubbling fear, almost panic, was clearly palpable. It was scared for her. It wanted to help. It was killing her with kindness. 
 
Though for all it's madness and fear, Madeira could find no such fear in its memories. From what she could tell, the ghost was female, and a Eypharian. Besides that, the small portion of her mind she could access were perfectly normal and sane snippets of the woman's life as she lived. No fear. No flies. She couldn't even find a memory of her death. Madeira tried to follow the narrative of it's memories to their conclusion, but she didn't have the skill. Instead she was forced to dive in and reap surface memories without context, even while the ghost was forcing her body to eat briny handfuls of clay. The clay packed into her nostrils and throat made it hard to breath. She wouldn't be able to keep this up much longer.
 
She experienced unconnected glimpses of the Eypharian woman washing herself in a bath, to trying on and enjoying the weight of an expensive gold necklace, to preparing food with people Madeira didn't know. There was nothing to explain who she was, how she died, or where she lost her sanity. 
 
The ghost looked up when a second stranger wandered into her little section of beach, and Madeira got a chance to see a scruffy little runt of a man put his fishing tools into her ring of beads. She didn't know wether to laugh or cry. Who was this brave idiot, who thought fishing next to a clearly insane woman was a good decision?
 
The man approached her slowly, his expression calm and friendly. It was the same way you would approach an animal you didn't want to startle. It was a posture that screamed 'you are in control, I am not dangerous'. Then he sat in front of her, much to her surprise, and started to dig. He smeared a handful of clay across his face, and spoke.
 
And all at once it hit her, and she knew what he was doing. It was the same thing she would do if she saw the signs of possession. Plan A for her was always to open a dialog with the offending spirit, and get it to talk to her.
 
He was a Spiritist.
 
He knew she was there.
 
Her soul crowed with a joyful kind of hope. The ghost was watching him, distracted even from shovelling her mouth full of suffocating dirt. This was her chance. His unexpected arrival had bought her several more precious chimes with which to find what she was looking for.
 
She wouldn't typically be thrilled to be relying on the hands of strangers. But the fact that this man read and understood the situation so fast made him about the best ally she could hope for at the moment. Madeira retreated as far into the ghost's mind as she dared, leaving only the barest thread of attention turned to what her body might be doing.
 
Meanwhile, the ghost spoke to him.
 
"Greetings", the ghost was trying to speak around the buildup of clay and sand in Madeira's mouth, and was butchering the common language as she did so. Her eyes we're rolling over him, from his bare feet to his tangled brown hair. She didn't have the kind of control that lent itself to minute facial expressions, but the way she studied him was unsettling. Like she was looking for something crawling beneath his skin.
 
"You hear the flies", she stated with confidence, her eyes following the ark of mud across his face. "That's good. They don't understand. These people", she patted her own chest franticly, her voice becoming more and more agitated. "They have to protect themselves. They don’t know. They don't hear them. But they're here. The flies will eat them, they'll eat you, too."
 
Without warning the possessed woman launched at the stranger from the balls of her feet. With a flurry of sand Madeira was straddling his waist. One hand was wrapped under his throat, pushing on the hinge of his jaw to try and force his mouth open. Her other hand was groping beside his head, clawing out a handful of thick clay.
 
"Shh, darling, its ok." her smile was back. Pink saliva dripped onto his cheek. "It's going to be ok. I wont let the flies inside you."

[Maro]

Doing what he did for a living, Maro had plenty of interaction with sailors, and if there was one thing he understood about them, it was that they loved their stories. It seemed for every one story he had, each sailor had a dozen to match it, but Maro was pretty sure he was the only one who could say he’d been straddled by a young blonde and have that be a bad thing. Panic rose in him. He had been cautious but not enough. As she had become more agitated, he let his mood shift to match hers. He thought he’d left a comfortable distance between them, but she was faster than he thought, and stronger too. Before he had had time to react, she exploded off her feet, rushed him, and knocked him on his back. In an instant, her hand was on his throat. Not on his throat, he almost noticed too late, but on his jaw, and as she squeezed and reached for a fistful of sandy clay with the other, he realized she was trying to open his mouth to fill it with the grit. Her words only served to reinforce this. “Shh, darling. It’s ok.” The hand against the hinge of his jaw squeezed a little harder as if to reassure him. “It’s going to be ok. I won’t let the flies inside you.” Her motive, whether to truly try to save him from imaginary flies or to suffocate him in rage, didn’t matter. Her actions were going to kill him. It would have been reasonable to lose reason completely, but there was a strange comfort in the face of death. Everyone faced it eventually, and Maro knew his time would come sooner than most. Still, if he could avoid it for now, he should. He’d have to figure a way out of this. Her weight, though not formidable, was enough to hold him down, and the hand that squeezed his jaw pressed him into the sand. He knew better than to struggle. If it had been him and against her, he might have had the strength to wrestle free, but that wasn’t the case. It was him against the ghost, and he knew ghosts could push the human body to the very limits of their strength and often beyond. No, strength wasn’t going to get him out of this. He’d have to give her what she wanted, play to the truth she saw. He wasn’t much of an actor or a liar, and that made this a desperate ploy. If it was flies she saw, he’d have to give her flies. Her hand drew up the slick clay, and bits of it slipped through the cracks in her fingers on to his cheek. Whatever he did, it had to be now. Terror filled his face. That part he didn’t need to act out; there were few times in his life that he had ever felt such real fear. Though the fear was directed at her and not the flies, she didn’t have to know that. His hand crossed over his face and began to brush at his ear. It was part of the act, but it also put something between her hand and his mouth. He had to sell this if he didn’t want her to see through his charade. He clawed his fingernails against his temple until they drew blood. He let the panic he felt fill his voice. Every sentence came faster and faster, more desperate than the last. “The flies. I hear them. They’re trying to climb inside. They’re trying to get in through my ear. Don’t let them. Please.” A real sob escaped his throat. That seemed enough to do it. Swinging the mess as quickly as she could, she slapped it across the side of his face and crammed it into his ear. The blow left him half stunned but turned him in the direction he needed. He could see the dead fish, and it was in easy reach. Clawing another handful of sand from the shore, she made to fill his mouth. Pain seared his jaw as she put enough pressure to force it open. A small amount of sand made it in before he turned his head aside. He writhed, not to break free but to add to the charade. Her hand, still on his jaw, was pushing him down, and every thrash drove the gritty sand beneath him deeper into his body. He cried out, “It’s not thick enough. I can feel them pushing the sand aside. They’re still getting in.” Another sob. “It’s not thick enough.” The possessed woman dropped her fistful of mud, and her rolling eyes scattered about, trying to find something that would keep the flies out of his ears. It was the opening he had been searching for. His hand wrapped around the base of the fish’s tail. It wasn’t the same as his bolas when it was corded together like a club, but it would do the trick. Desperation drove most to great lengths, and here, now, it gave him the little extra strength he needed. He swung the fish as hard as he could from his disadvantageous position, meaning to slap her across the face with it, but she turned back toward him with another fistful of something she thought might work. The heavy head of the fish connected with the side of hers with enough force to momentarily knock her off balance. He shoved and found himself free of her. As soon as he was free, he was up on his feet, sprinting toward where he had left his bolas as well as he could through the sand that shifted beneath every step. It was still safe where he had left it in the ring of Soulbeads. Soulbeads! They created a barrier that was impossible for a ghost to pass. His plan changed in an instant, and he turned to see if she had followed him. She had, and with the minimal control the ghost had over facial features, Maro couldn’t tell if she was pursuing him out of rage or out of the necessity to save him from the unabating flies. Just before she collided with him, he shifted his weight, pulling her with him, and her momentum carried them both into the circle of jade. He meant to land on top of her, but his lack of coordination and muscle made him appear a touch chivalrous. The young woman came down on top of him, and his head struck the rock. Maro pushed her off him, and as she tumbled unceremoniously to the ground, he took stock of himself. He was still alive, but that hardly mattered at the moment. Everything hurt.

[Madeira Dusk]

Madeira ripped through the ghost's memories, hunting for insanity in a logical mind. She was aware of the attack her body was waging on the fisherman. She could feel the tension of his jaw under her hand, see him try to twist out of her grip. But she was only a spectator. There was a moment of hesitation in her as the ghost held the clay above his open mouth; should she fight back and stop this?
 
No, she couldn't. She might never get this chance again. And the man could survive eating a handful of clay, as long as he swallowed it to make room for the next.
 
Instead she threw everything she had into her own attack. If she couldn't find the Eypharian woman's insanity in life, she would have to look through her death. But even that seemed beyond her. She reached as far as she could, combing through even the most banal of memories, looking for it. The woman's name was Djamila. She enjoyed lavender soap and spicy food. She was a tailor by trade. She lived with four people. She hated the cold. But as far as she was aware, she had not died. Or at least she refused to remember it.
 
Madeira's reaping was starting to develop a desperate edge. She could not lose this. She had to know how she died, and what had gone so horribly wrong to make such a normal woman lose her sanity so abruptly. There were no other leads, and she had no other choice. 
 
Suddenly her body was falling, and falling hard. The ghost vanished from her limbs instantly as her torso crossed the soulbead threshold, and Madeira was left grappling in her suddenly empty head as the ghost's memories dissolved behind her eyes. Shock had dulled her wits, and she was too slow to take control in order to brace her fall. But the sharp impact never came. With a wheeze of air from both of them, her head bounced off the strangers chest. In the next moment she was unceremoniously shoved aside.
 
Now in full possession of her faculties once again. The Spiritualist took the opportunity to roll onto her back, clutch her thighs to her chest and roar in pain as a cramp twisted down both her calves. Exploding at the man after so long in that bent, hunchback position had snapped every muscle in her legs and neck. Tears welled in her eyes as she blink for the first time in what felt like forever, trying to clear the sand out of the delicate membrane. And she was horribly, intimately aware that five nails on her hands had split past the quick.
 
Even so she scrambled back to her feet, perhaps a little drunkenly, and unable to fully stand straight while fighting muscle spasms and a vicious case of possession fatigue.
 
"Come back!" She screamed at the empty air, looking up and down the beach. "Come back here you crazy bitch!" She tried to rile the ghost, but it was useless. With a midday sun shining almost directly overhead, it would be too bright too see her. And without the benefit of a confined space, the air was too diffused to smell her or feel her chill. The ghost was gone.
 
"Damnit! Damnit!" The blonde kicked the sand in rage before succumbing to a coughing fit. Soon she was bent over at the hips, hands on her knees as she spit, snorted, hacked and otherwise tried to expel the grit clogging her throat and sinuses. Once the spell had passed she gingerly removed several shards of iridescent shell that had pierced the delicate roof of her mouth.
 
Finally, she turned back to the stranger. All traces of the mild, affable Madeira were gone under the pressure of frustration, sleep depravation and no little amount of pain. Knots pushed beneath the skin in her boney shoulders as years of training forced her to straighten her posture. She was an ugly little thing in that moment, all bones and dirt, with her nostrils flared and her blood and clay caked lips set into a hard, straight line. Her eyes, even bloodshot and full of tears, had the kind of intensity that burned holes in solid rock.
 
"My name is Madeira Craven. Who the hell are you?"

[Maro]

Everything hurt. Everything. The deep scratches in his temple burned, and the bits of sand in them didn’t help. His head throbbed furiously from where it had struck the rock, and when he touched a hand to it gingerly, his fingers came back smeared with blood. As he shifted a sharp pain spread across the surface of his back. When they had come down, they had done so over the top of his bucket, and he had been rewarded with a smattering of slivers for his efforts. Maro made to gasp, but as he did, he sucked some of the grains of sand down his throat, bringing on a fit of coughing. Every forceful exhale brought a racking pain to his ribs where her head had smashed against his chest. When he was finally finished coughing, he turned in time to watch the spiritist stumble to her feet. Maro had only ever been possessed once and that had been by Autumn. She had been kind to his body; this ghost had been anything but. A twinge of pity spurred him to stand, but a wave of vertigo slowed him. Her sudden shouts stopped him completely in confusion as he steadied himself on the rock with a shaky hand. “Come back! Come back, you crazy bitch!” There was a brief pause as she waited for something. “Damnit! Damnit!” Her own harsh coughing fit took her, and Maro waited to speak until she was finished and began to pull bloody shards of shell from her mouth. Maro let his concern show in his voice, since his body didn’t feel up to demonstrating it. “Are you sure you want her coming back? That didn’t look like it was going well.” She turned on him, her small frame straightening. Her face took on a neutral tone, but her eyes burned with a fierce hate or anger or frustration. Maro couldn’t place the emotion; he just knew that he felt more in danger now than he had with the ghost. Still, not one to back down and ever curious about what could come next, Maro rubbed his hand across the black scythe mark on his palm to give him courage and squared his scrawny shoulders. Somehow, though he stood several inches taller than her, he managed to feel small in her presence. “My name is Madeira Craven. Who the hell are you?” He tried not to, but Maro shrank some. “I’m Maro. Why do I feel like I’ve done something wrong?” Before Madeira had the chance to answer, Autumn suddenly blinked to his side. Maro had almost forgotten she was there; she hadn’t been materialized during the brief encounter with the ghost. The words were forming in his mind to tell her he was alright when he realized the look in her eyes was not concern. Rather, it was anger, fiercer than any he’d ever seen from her, and it was undoubtedly directed at him. Whatever he’d been about to say fell apart and never made it to his lips. If he hadn’t already shrunken as much as was possible under Madeira’s intensity, he shrank more now as Autumn shouted at him. “What was that?” Maro tried to calm her. “It’s gonna be okay, Autumn. See? I’m okay.” It didn’t work. Her shouts became angrier, rawer, more anguished. “It’s not okay. You could have died. You said you’d be careful. You promised me you’d be safe.” “But I’m fine now,” he tried to reason. It was a weak argument. He knew she was right. She knew she was right, too. “Out of shear, stupid luck. That was anything but safe. You promised me!” Some instinct from when she was alive told her to shove him to emphasize her anger. Her hands connected with his chest, and rather than the cool, gentle touch he was used to, this blow was frigid and sank through his flesh to affect the very soul of him. He collapsed, trying to draw breath, but it wouldn’t come. He thought everything hurt before. Now he knew everything did. That blow had gone deeper than bones. Realizing what she had done, concern finally did come to Autumn’s eyes. “Maro, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” Autumn’s eyes, usually as warm and inviting as the summer skies, turned on Madeira, piercing her with a cold hatred. “This is your fault.” It was an unfair accusation. Maro knew there was nobody to blame but himself for the harm that had nearly come to him. He tried to interfere, to draw Autumn’s attention back to himself, but his breath still wouldn’t come. He reached his scythe-marked hand toward her misty form in an effort to grab her and pull her away. An experienced spiritist was no one for Autumn to be picking a fight with.

[Madeira Dusk]

Maro. What an odd name, she thought. And what an odd creature. He was so unremarkable that it was, in itself, remarkable. He was a scrawny runt of a thing, even with his shoulders squared and his head high. The skin that was not caked in dirt was tanned from work out of doors, and his green eyes were narrow and contemplative. He was of an age with herself, though she couldn't bring a number to mind that would fit both his matured body and inquisitive eyes. His posture was cowed in her presence, and his voice had a measure of concern in it, though he looked just as sore and bloody as she was. And over everything was a flavour of curiosity. He wasn't running away because he wanted very badly to know what would happen next. He was a very odd creature, indeed.
 
Suddenly a ghost materialized behind him. Madeira had a short moment of mingling relief and dread, and a cry of warning on her lips, before counting arms and coming up four short. That wasn't the Eypherian ghost. She was a young, pretty human woman. Which was about as much detail of her outer appearance that the Spiritist could bring herself to notice, when truly she was watching the ghost's whirling soulmist with alarm. Whoever she was, she was pissed.
 
The already small man seemed to get even smaller in the face of her wrath. The only thing in the world that could do that to a grown man was his mother. She knew, because that only thing that could make her that contrite herself was her own family. His flimsy excuses shrivelled and died as they left his lips, and only seemed to make her angrier. Until it all came to a head with both her hands on his chest. Madeira flinched in second-hand pain to see him touched by a ghost directly like that. He dropped to his knees, wheezing.
 
The ghost apologized for what it did, and a flash of genuine concern winged across her face, before turning to Madeira. And all at once the concern was replaced with a cold kind of hatred. Broken and bleeding as she was, the Spiritist still had enough functioning nerves to anticipate the pain she was about to feel, should this turn sour.  
 
Normally, she would placate the spirit by telling it what it wanted to hear wether it was true or not. Lies never made her squeamish. But she couldn't find it within herself to produce the empathy and charisma needed to lie to this Autumn. She was tired. So, deeply bone-tired, that she would rather physically fight the angry ghost than use her tapped out brain power to silver-tongue herself out of this. If the ghost tried to attack her she would rip it apart.
 
"It was necessary." she sighed, her voice flat. ”Yesterday a Svefra was found dead on this beach. The Divine Legacy opened his body and found every cavity packed with clay. He literally ate dirt until he suffocated. Then the whole bloody world shrugged and said 'better find a Craven for the weird shyke'. And now here I am trying to exorcize a ghost gone possible murderer that I know absolutely nothing about. Your son paved his road with good intentions and ended up getting in the way." she explained with a kind of soulless bedside manner. It was true she could have stepped back into her body and evicted the ghost. But she didn't. Because what she was trying and failing to do was worth Maro getting hurt. And she was going to have to have a heavy drink before she was ready to look inside herself and think about what kind of person that made her. 
 
"Now if you'd excuse me, I have to go find my ghost. Autumn, Mar-"
 
She made to nod at the man who had mistakenly tried to save her life, and caught sight of the hand he had outstretched to hold Autumn back. What at first she thought to be a smear of black mud on his palm was too perfectly shaped. It was a shape she'd seen before.
 
"Your hand" she blurted out, her voice cracking out of the cold monotone like a teenage boy. "Show me your hand."
 
Though she technically asked for permission, she didn't wait for his consent. In three strides she walked around the ghost like she wasn't there, and was kneeling in front of him. In the next tick she had his hand cradled in both of hers, angry ghost all but forgotten.
 
"Oh my gods, I don't believe it." She was turning his palm this way and that, like the mark might disappear in the right light. His hands were bizarrely thick with callous, made all the more noticeable next to hers, which had never done a chime of manual labour in her life. Deep in his thick skin, right in the centre of his palm, was a black scythe. The mark of Dira. This small, unremarkable man had stood in the presence of Death herself, and earned her favour.  
 
Her breath wheezed out of her like a kettle loosing steam. All at once there was a tiny spark in her pale eyes that wasn't there before. Though she was still manhandling him shamelessly, her touch turned reverent and respectful. 
 
"Holy shyke. You're an Eiyon. You can help me!" 

[Maro]

Maro was glad Madeira wasn’t in a fighting mood. He couldn’t really blame her for not being, but it was something he was happy for. The last thing he wanted was for more people to get hurt. His main concern was for Autumn, but he wasn’t a heartless creature. There was a smaller, lesser part that didn’t want to see Madeira injured either, especially as this hadn’t been her fault. Any passion, any rage, any emotion left her face, left her eyes, left her voice, and Maro found that discomforting. This Madeira was different from the first Madeira he had encountered. That was no surprise, as the first hadn’t been her but the ghost, but this Madeira was also different from the one who had come out of the possession cursing and shouting, challenging a spirit. Maro didn’t like the sudden switch but supposed he couldn’t blame her. If he were in the condition she was in, he was sure emotions would be a luxury he wouldn’t have the energy for either. Possession wasn’t just taxing on the body; it had the same effect on one’s emotions and mind. It acted on a level with the soul that left one completely drained. The explanation that came made sense, but once again, Maro found the near apathy disturbing. “And now here I am trying to exorcize a ghost gone possible murderer that I know absolutely nothing about.” There was a pang of frustration here, and Maro was glad to hear some emotion returning. He was sure the frustration came from her lack of knowledge. History was an important thing to most spiritists. Knowing about a ghost and its past was essential to helping it move on. “Your son paved his road with good intentions and ended up getting in the way.” “He’s not my son,” Autumn grumbled, though at one point in time that description would have been the most fitting for their relationship. Now they were best of friends, but Maro still had a hard time understanding the emotion that welled up inside him every time he saw her. In the way. Maro’s head fell at that. As usual, he had seen an opportunity to act, had done so exactly as she said, with the best of intentions, and had only ended up making things worse. Little ever seemed to go right for his well-intended assistance. He either saw opportunities where there were none or he didn’t have the muscle to back it. All of Madeira’s efforts, all the grime she had swallowed, the beating her body had taken, all of it was for nothing, because Maro had stolen the time she needed from her. Madeira dismissed herself. “I have to go find my ghost. Autumn, Mar-” There was a brief pause as she recognized something. Then the missing emotion returned to her voice. “Your hand. Show me your hand.” In an instant, she was kneeling before him, his hand cupped in hers. “Oh my gods, I don’t believe it.” A hint of excitement rekindled in her tired eyes. “Holy shyke. You’re an Eiyon. You can help me!” At this, his own excitement burst through him, giving him a second wind. His breath finally came, and after taking an initial gasp, he started to breathe free again. “I can help? I can help!” In his joy at being able to make up for his mistake, there was a moment where he couldn’t place how being an Eiyon made anything better. Then, it came to him. “I can help. I can sense the dead. I can sense a ghost. I could help you find her.” He paused, unsure as to the nature of the ghost. “Or him. It doesn’t matter. I could track it down, and then you’d be able to exorcize it.” As always, Maro’s excitement bubbled over, and he stumbled over some words as he tried to explain that he didn’t have much experience in such things. “I’ve never really done that before, tracking, I mean. When I lived on Black Rock, ghosts were everywhere, and so the sense just seemed to be a natural part of life. Here, though, it’s muted, probably because there are fewer ghosts about. I could certainly try for you. It’s the least I could do to make up for messing up your exorcism. I’ll track the ghost, and you’ll finish the task.” He finally locked eyes with her and realized she was waiting expectantly for him to add something more, to offer some other bit of aid. Cocking his head to one side and looking at the ground as if it would give him answers, he racked his brain for whatever he had missed. Slowly, his eyes rose to meet hers as his mind began to put the pieces together. “You were letting the ghost possess you. While it was toying with you, you were searching its mind, but you said you know nothing about it. You weren’t finding the answers you needed.” The final piece fell into place. Eiyons could view the moments surrounding a person’s death. Maro ripped his hand away as if Madeira was a viper, as if she was fire, as if her touch would wound him. Scrambling back a few steps, he glared at her. “You want me to use the sight. You want me to view her death.” He shook his head, clutching the marked hand to his chest as if to protect it from her. “I can’t help you. One’s death is a private affair. I promised I’d never use that part of Dira’s gift.” It was a promise he had made to Autumn and one of the ones he truly intended to keep. He shook his head again. “I can’t help you.”

[Madeira Dusk]

Madeira smiled for the first time in days. It was a small, tired thing. A tiny pull of the mouth that cut fissures in the clay and blood drying on her lips. But it was genuine. She found an Eiyon. In the middle of all this shyke, she found a man favoured by her god, and he was going to help her.
 
Not only that, he was excited to help. Madeira wasn't about to look over her shoulder and check that his ghostly companion shared the same kind of enthusiasm. Instead she nodded along to his reasoning, as he puzzled out how he could help. He was clever, to understand the situation so completely when most of the drama was rattling around in her head when he showed up.
 
Suddenly his enthusiasm waned and grew cold. His dark brows knit together and his eyes drifted to the sand as he tried to connect the last piece of the puzzle. When he met her eyes again a shiver ran down her back. In the second before he ripped his gnosis and her hope away from her hands he looked at her with fear and revulsion. Like she was poisonous.
 
And with his hand clutched to his chest and his words tight and final, he refused the help he was so willing to offer a chime ago.
 
Madeira was left kneeling in the dirt, looking at her empty hands as the brief spark in her eyes sputtered and died. She slowly got to her feet, feeling every muscle in her legs thrum like overwound guitar strings. Half of her wanted to take him by the throat and shake him, the other half wanted to lay in the soft sand and cry like a child. And a smaller third part wanted to laugh. Because there was some cruel, capricious god up there who thought it would be hilarious to push her to the end of her rope, only to drop a solution on her lap and slap her hands when she tried to take it.
 
Torn between all three, the muddy, half naked blonde was stuck standing there looking like a puppet with it's strings cut.
 
Finally, she found her words. She spoke them to the sand at her feet.
 
"Her name is Djamila. She's an Eypharian tailor." she began, spitting a gob of sand and blood. "I'm not very good at the memory-reaping thing. But as far as I can tell, she's a good woman." When the Spiritist looked up, her previously dead, bloodshot eyes were ablaze with something very close to hatred. "And she will be stuck here, forever unless you help me. Your dignity is sweet, darling" she snarled, "and I'm sure it'll help you sleep at night. But this woman is scared, and insane, and murdering people. I'm sure a little trip down memory lane is worth it to but Djamila to rest."
 
Madeira stalked over to the rock and threw her clean blouse over her muddy torso and threaded the buttons, doing her best not to aggravate her torn fingernails. "It's so ironic. I mean, Death herself gave you a gift. She pointed you out among all her followers, over Madara and Gideon, over Chassa and over... and over me, and gave you the tools you need to help souls move on, and you've never used it." She picked up the long string of soulbeads, winding it neatly around her hand and stowing it away in her leather bag. Then she rolled down her cuffed pants and shoved her feet into her boots. Lastly she swung her heavy bag over her shoulder, only to stumble and gasp as the strap bit into her shoulder and threw her already precarious balance.
 
"So either you come with me right petching now, and you man up and you save the ghost of Djamila the tailor. Or go home and pat yourself on the back, and congratulate yourself on protecting this mad, terrified ghosts petching privacy." 

[Maro]

Madeira’s face fell as did her gaze when Maro refused his help. “Her name is Djamila.” The beginning of her explanation came with a sort of emptiness, and Maro felt sorrow and pity well up inside him that he couldn’t offer the assistance she so desperately needed. “As far as I can tell, she’s a good woman.” Pity became an overwhelming flood inside of him, and Maro was about to reach out a comforting hand when Madeira’s eyes came back up to meet his. Whereas before they had a spark of hope, now they were filled with a different kind of fire, one of hate. That, or something so close to it Maro couldn’t tell the difference. As she glared at him, he suddenly felt very small again. He wished he had his bolas, but she was standing between them and him. Even the dead fish would have been a comfort at this point, but he had left that near the water line where he had slapped her with it. With nothing with which to defend himself, his hands curled into insignificant fists at his sides. If she attacked him, he would fight back, but that didn’t seem to be on Madeira’s mind. She meant to wound him differently, emotionally, strike a blow at his soul. Maro was so frightened of her that he missed the first sentence, but he caught the rest. “Your dignity is sweet, darling.” There was no missing the contempt she laid into that title. “I’m sure it’ll help you sleep at night.” She went on but broke off suddenly, making her way over to the rock where they had left their things to throw her shirt on. Maro was happy for the space between them. The only thing coming to mind was how her hand felt against his throat, and that wasn’t something he wanted to repeat. Derision seeped from Madeira’s voice. She made no effort to hide it. “It’s so ironic. I mean, Death Herself gave you a gift. She pointed you out among all Her followers.” And as Madeira listed the names, Maro felt as if she was belittling him, judging him, deeming him unworthy of the gift he had received. “… over me, and gave you the tools you need to help souls move on, and you’ve never used it.” Maro could feel the tips of his ears begin to burn, partly at the embarrassment of having an accusation laid against him but mostly in rage that she had said he was unworthy of Dira’s gift. He knew what being an Eiyon allowed him to do, but it had been a ghost who had told him not to use it. Whatever shrinking he had done melted away as he squared his shoulders and clenched his fists so tightly they trembled. There were few times in his life that Maro had ever felt this way, but right now, he wanted to hurt Madeira. She rounded on him. "So either you come with me right petching now, and you man up and you save the ghost of Djamila the tailor. Or go home and pat yourself on the back, and congratulate yourself on protecting this mad, terrified ghost’s petching privacy." Maro was about to open his mouth to deliver an equally bitter challenge, but a cold touch on his shoulder stopped him as Autumn stepped between the two living beings. He felt the burning leave his ears but not his soul. He still kept his fists clenched, even though he knew everything would be alright. Autumn was coming to his defense. But the words she spoke were not the ones Maro was expecting and didn’t hold the anger that coursed through the two spiritists as they faced off. Rather, Autumn sounded tired but a different kind of tired than the one Madeira and Maro felt. This wasn’t a weariness born of some brief physical struggle. This was an exhaustion that had been a lifetime of death in the making. “Don’t blame him for this, Madeira. It isn’t his fault. I raised him this way,” she admitted, giving evidence contrary to her adamant statement that she wasn’t Maro’s mother. “My death was a terrifying thing.” She said the word like it was a living being, a monster of sorts, cruel and crushing. “It’s something that I would wish on no one, not even to witness. I told Maro to never use that part of Dira’s gift to save him from accidentally stumbling upon my death. He is too empathetic. Seeing that would break him, and that was something I wouldn’t allow.” Autumn sighed, a remnant response from her days as a living being. “But I won’t let anyone else suffer for the sake of my insecurities. If it’s his help that you need, that Djamila needs, then you only need to convince him. I won’t hold him back any longer. I can’t promise that he isn’t too set in his ways to change though, but if he is, then I beg you, Madeira, save your hate for me.” Autumn turned back to Maro and, placing a hand on either side of his face, calmed him with her touch. Cold and comforting, this was the touch he had come to expect from her. Her eyes met his. “Madeira has done nothing wrong. Don’t blame her for her anger. Save your hate for me, Maro.” That was something he couldn’t do. There was no way he could hate Autumn, and if she said she was the only one he was allowed to hate, then there was no one for him to harbor ill feelings toward. With a sigh of his own, Maro’s fists unclenched, and all anger left him with the air in his lungs. Autumn smiled a sad smile. “This is for you to decide, Maro. Not me, not any preconceptions I’ve placed. Just make the choice based on what you feel is right.” Maro was hesitant to make such a decision, and dropping the preconceptions he had been taught his entire life was no easy thing to achieve. “Are you sure?” Autumn nodded, stepping away from him, a motion which, in a way, signified her leaving his side, signified her giving him control of his own life, not that he didn’t have it before. Her next words helped ease him into making the choice. “I raised you to be wise, Maro. So whatever choice you make today, I know it will be wisdom that guides it, and I will be proud of you for it.” He considered his options for several moments, and with a glance out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Madeira’s spark of hope return. Hope was not something he would deny. Being hopeful himself, he knew how often hope was met with disappointment, and Maro wouldn’t be the one to crush someone else’s hope. Still, he didn’t know if he could say yes. He turned to the spiritist. “I will offer what help I can. I’m certain I can track the ghost, and if we find her place of passing, I will decide then whether I will… if I even can. I’ve never tried before. But Djamila deserves her rest,” his hand massaged his jaw gingerly, “despite whatever grievances we may hold.”