Flashback Cousin, Who Art Thou?

[Gomer Caitiff]

The 34th of Spring, 512 AV.

Staring appraisingly at the dark, maroon quilt that lay heavy over the bed before him, Gomer frowned and tilted his head to the side. The color was a bit drab, but it looked neat and tidy - or at least close enough that his cousin might not notice that the bed itself wasn't all that comfortable just by looking at it. It was one of the myriad of tests those they were put through: sleeping in suboptimal conditions to give them a chance to display both how well they might endure discomfort and how they handled themselves when they were not sleeping well.

Taking in the rest of the room, he nodded with content. The picture frames had all been dusted, the wardrobe emptied but save a few mothballs should his cousin require them, the rug had been cleaned, and though the air was a bit dusty, he'd already opened the single window to allow a breeze to drift through. Currently the weather was a bit twinkling, little stars glimmering like golden dust through the air, carrying with them a gentle scent of roses. It was a pleasant sort of thing, and he was glad the city was in as high of spirits as he.

After all, it wasn't every day he was actually put in charge of something, no matter how trivial. To him, it was an opportunity to prove he was at least useful for something - though the thought that that something was "glorified maid" didn't cross his mind. Tasked with setting up the room for one Madeira newly anointed Craven, he'd had quite a bit of fun dusting and cleaning. It had taken him most of the morning to do his last rounds, and all that was left was to dust the chandelier that hung from the ceiling, the candles a waxy yellow and unburnt as of two days ago when he'd replaced them.

Running a finger around the length of his wrist, he let out a slow steady breath, envisioning the threads that held his true body to his physical one to slowly unknot. It was a sensation unlike anything else in the world, and it filled him with a warm anticipation as the slight pressure that he'd never really realized was there until he'd learned about it, finally gave way, like a sneeze or the sensation of cracking one's back.

His physical hand fell limp, dangling at the end of his arm like a meaty tassel. His true hand, however, remained where it was, now freed from the rest of his body. Letting his arm fall to his side, Gomer turned his attention the chandelier above him. When he'd replaced the candles, he'd forgotten about cleaning the thing, as he'd been a bit distracted at the time. Now, as his astral hand traveled on its own to pluck the feather duster from where he'd left it on the vanity, he paused a moment to compensate for the change of weight. Things were heavier than they usually were when he had the strength of his muscles behind him, and while he could grip the wooden handle without any difficulties, lifting it took a little bit more concentration at first.

Once the duster was in the air and he had a better feel for the weight, he set about carefully batting at the dust on the iron wrought tendrils. The air was kicked up into a cloudy drift, sparkling here and there thanks to the current state of the weather that had drifted in. When he felt it was clean enough, he brought hand back, already feeling the unfasted strings that held his body together reaching for the part of him he'd removed. Taking the duster into his physical hand, he set it on the ground beside him before grabbing at one of the invisible strings drifting from his wrist and began to retie the knots, connecting his hand once more to the rest of his body.

With the room complete and about a chime or two before his cousin was due to arrive, Gomer gathered up the duster, the old quilt he'd replaced with the maroon one, and his boots, padding barefoot into the hall and systematically twitching his fingers to make sure he'd gotten the connection right. His pinkie finger was bit extra twitchy, but it wasn't anything too concerning - often times it took a little longer for some parts of his astral form to settle back into his body.

Popping into his own room, he dropped the quilt off onto his sheets and, seeing as no one would be needing the duster for the moment, left it on his desk, the mess of papers rustling just slightly at the disturbance. Still in socks with his boots in hand, he headed out into the hall and down the stairs, running his free fingers along the familiar wood paneling and nodding politely to a wispy, pale woman who drifted aimlessly to his left, her legs blackened and charred.

When he arrived at the house's foyer, it was just in time to see the doors open and- He blinked in surprise, stopping in his path at the top of the balcony, still yet to descend the stairs on either side. The very first thought to run through his mind was "Why in the world would a ghost need to open a door?" which was immediately replaced with the realization that the pale, insubstantial figure below him was, in fact, the Madeira Craven he'd been expecting.

The whole gravitas of the situation, even when those newly given the title of Craven were as impressive as Godric or Einar, was never very great. Where Madeira was concerned, there was only Gomer to greet her. Of course, in days to come, she'd become acquainted with all of the others who resided within the manor - and without -, and Gomer didn't really stop to wonder if she might be disappointed by that. After all, he wasn't even a true Craven - just the son of the scrivener and brother to a prodigy.

As far as he was concerned, as he lightly made his way down the stairs with a gentle, welcoming smile, he was merely glad to see a new face, even if it was more ghostly than he had been expecting. "Madeira, I presume?" Having reached the bottom of the stairs, his slid slightly against the smooth stone as he padded his way over, moving his hands out to the side of him to keep his balance, boots teetering side to side in his hand. "Welcome to Craven Manor. I'm Gomer, pleasure to meet you."

His voice was light and causal, not at all the severity one might expect when passing through the impressive doors into the fabled Craven home. His attire, too, was that of a loose fitted shirt splotched with dust and little sparkles atop his leather pants and bootless socks. He first extended a hand in greeting, but reconsidered, choosing instead to offer a respectful but shallow bow. She was, after all, a Craven. "Are these your bags?"

[Madeira Dusk]

The 34th of Spring, 512 AV

Fourteen-year-old Madeira's mouth was dry, but she managed a wooden smile for Gomer as he came down the stairs.

She had visited the manor a handful of times over the years. Yet it was only when it had become her new home that she truly appreciated how big it was. The long, open halls breathed in gusty sighs, and from somewhere deep inside a groan of wood rumbled like some great beast tossing in its sleep. She had never felt so small.

Thrown by her cousin's retracted hand and quick bow, Madeira bobbed an awkward curtsy. With her best dress buttoned to her throat, her dull blonde hair in a bun as shiny and hard as lacquered wood and her posture straight and proper, she was the epitome of a good, obedient ward. Yet the perfect pieces didn't quite make a perfect whole, and her nerves shone through the cracks.

"Gomer Caitiff? Thank you for your welcome. It's a pleasure to meet you, too." She knew who he was, of course. Craven genealogy had practically been her bedtime stories growing up. The dry lists of birth, deaths, second deaths and accomplishments peppered liberally with her bitter father's anecdotes. Gomer Caitiff, son of the scrivener, brother to the heir; his impressive pedigree is widely considered to be the greatest waste of potential of their generation.

Just then, a tall man with Madeira's same pale skin and blue eyes came in through the front door, carrying a small chest that contained all her earthy possessions. He looked Gomer over from head to foot, noting the dust in his hair and boots in his hands, and announced: "I'd like to speak with Madara. Where is she?”

"Gomer, this is my father Philip Craven."

Philip did not acknowledge his nephew, he was looking around Gomer even as he pushed the heavy chest into his arms. There wasn't anything as openly negative as disapproval or disappointment in him. Gomer had raised something much worse in the ambitious Philip Craven- complete indifference. Turning back to Madeira, he bent low and whispered in his daughter's ear. There was something a little less than gentle about the fatherly hand he laid across the back of her neck. She nodded silently, her eyes on the stone floor.

Philip Craven kissed his daughter distractedly on the top of the head, and walked deeper into the mansion without another word.

In the silence that followed Madeira cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"I haven't... It's been a long time since I've visited. Perhaps you could show me around, Gomer?"

x

[Gomer Caitiff]

His mouth turned an amused grin at Madeira's dainty return. Up close, she looked less ghost-like and far more like a porcelain doll; in fact, she closely resembled a particular Akvatari piece he'd seen in his mother's curiosity cabinet when he was younger, only the doll that had sat behind the glass had seemed more... alive. If that were even possible. Still, she looked the part of a Craven, and from what he'd heard, she had "potential", though much had been said of him when he was younger, and it hadn't served him particularly well.

Alone as she was, Gomer opened his mouth, eyes glinting with a casual curiosity, to try to make her feel a bit more comfortable. The rigidity of her posture made his own relaxed shoulders tighten some out of the sheer force of her controlled etiquette. She wasn't going to be any fun like that.

Before he could speak, the doors once more sung open, little sparkles drifting in with the scent of roses, to reveal a man who held himself with a great sense of importance. Having lived among the Cravens for the entirety of his life, Gomer knew the difference between someone who was important and someone who wanted to be important. The blue eyed wraith was certainly a fitting match to the girl he strode to stand beside, but where she was the spitting image of a proper Craven, he was a bit more similar to one of the merchants in the Bizarre Bazaar, selling items at double or triple their true value.

Philip Craven's demand was met with raised eyebrows and a further widening of Gomer's amusement, spreading such that his lower teeth were visible. Making a point to acknowledge Madeira's introduction over her father's lack of one, he addressed her directly, treating the man with much the same indifference, though he had an impishness about him as he casually swung his boots back and forth. "Is he no-ow?" The last word stumbled out of his mouth as the chest was thrust into his arms with a business-like speed, setting him off balance but not taking away his grin.

As the man put a hand on Madeira and whispered something unintelligible into her ear, that smile quickly faded. The manner in which she responded with eyes down cast, lips held tight, and, if it were even possible, a slight stiffening of her already ramrod posture struck a chord within him. He knew of expectations and pressures - and they never sat well with him. His smiles and jokes and casual mannerism were all his own way of combating such things; the greatest of which being the collective disappointment of his extended family. While Philip Craven had no greater power over him than any of his other faceless uncles and cousins, seeing it exerted over someone else was enough to sober his mood.

His sea green gaze hardened as we watched the man kiss his daughter and stride off deeper into the house, no love lost. Though his lips naturally fell into a faint upward curve, the expression in his eyes was one of clear distaste. Forgetting himself in the moment, when Madeira cleared her throat, Gomer blinked in surprise, uncertain of how long he'd actually stood half glaring at the retreating figure of her father. "Right! Of course, right."

Shaking his head to clear it of the last vestiges of his malaise, he tried another friendly smile, though this time it didn't quite reach his eyes, as his mind was still a bit preoccupied. Fumbling with the ungainly chest for a moment while he adjusted his grip on his boots and shifted the weight of the container into a more comfortable position in front of him, rather than precariously resting against his hip, he gestured towards the stairs with a nod of his head. "Best to drop this off in your room first. It's in the left hall, third door down and on the right."

Setting off as he spoke, Gomer took the steps a bit slow, not wanting to drop Madeira's belongings and admittedly struggling a bit with the weight of it; he tried to lighten the atmosphere some with a question, pausing mid-step to glance curiously over at her, most of the tension in his eyes having since retreated. "What interests you?"

Taking another step and pausing once more, he clarified the question, his cheeks blushing a soft shade darker, "About the manor, that is. It's quite big, and I'm sure someone will be expecting you before too soon, so I... would prefer not to waste your time with anything boring. That's what everyone else has planned."

He winked at the end, as if sharing a particularly juicy secret, though if anything is was basic advice. Much of what was expected of them wasn't particularly fascinating or engaging, though judging purely on her appearance, Gomer wondered if she might actually just be a boring person and enjoy boring things. For his sake, he hoped not, but a part of him found that possibility admirable: if it were the case, she'd get on well enough in the manor, perhaps better without him.

[Madeira Dusk]

Madeira discreetly ran her sweating hands over the hips of her skirt before following Gomer up the stairs. She slowed her steps to match his overburdened ones, and studied him with quick glances from the corner of her eye. She could see his brother in him, abite in a somewhat watered down way. They had that same handsome structure and bright eyes. But while the Godric she met was all firm handshakes and gentlemanly elegance, Gomer had a rumpled, careless look about him. There was a cheeky turn to the corner of his lips, and bounce to his steps. What an odd creature...

He suddenly turned his head to regard her and ask a question. Madeira dropped her gaze immediately, embarrassed to be caught staring. He wanted to know what around the manor she wanted to see, and went on to explain that he didn't want to bore her, seeing that was what everyone else had planned. Madeira shook her head.

"On the contrary", she said primly, "I'm looking forward to the training. I want to learn to Lie, to gracefully posses and Invoke. I've heard Aunt Madara can invoke creatures from the Ukalas. Do you think it's true?" the stiffness was washing away as she spoke. Her dull, pale eyes lighting up with a wonder that would have looked charming on the young teen, had she been talking about anything other than the taboo of magic. "I know Uncle Frode is mad, but he can tear his astral body our of his bones and move things like a ghost! He also told me himself that he could read minds. I don't think thats true, though. But it's not just magic. How does Aunt Minerva influence the Womiyu? How do you find the Underground? I don't care if the lessons are boring. I don't care if I have to stay up all night to study. It's not about the journey, it's the destination that matters. Anyone who tells you otherwise doesn't know where they're going."

As her impassioned speech bubbled away, and a hot wash of humiliation rushed to fill the empty space. She swallowed noisily, looking at the carpet that dampened their footsteps.

"It was very generous of the family to take me in. I want to repay their trust by learning as much as I can and be an asset to the Craven name, that's all."

They found her door just where Gomer said it would be. Madeira rushed to open the door for him, and stood back so he could deposit the heavy chest. The room she would be living in for the next few years was clean and fresh, and just as uninviting as the rest of the house. There was an unloved air coming from the empty closet and unlit chandelier. But the window was open, and Ionu had reached its fingers into the space, leaving a sparkling breeze of roses to welcome her to her new home. She closed her eyes, breathed deep, and smiled genuinely for the first time since setting foot in the manor.

And maybe it's this sign from Ionu that makes her say what she did. Or maybe it's Gomer and his air of carelessness that makes her think she can get away with it. But before she could rein herself in she turned to her cousin and answered his question:

"Do you think... I'm interested in the basement, do you think you could show it to me?"

She had never been allowed to the basement before. Surely it was under lock and key, owing to how many dangerous things were kept below. It’s where they kept the dusted ghosts and items best kept away from the public front. Surely that was were the magic books the Speakers would not approve of would be kept too, if they existed at all. Maybe they kept curses and fetishes sealed in glyphs, maybe they kept the tools for invoking rituals down there. She did not know, and some new feeling was telling her she must.

She wiped her hands on her skirts again.

x

[Gomer Caitiff]

Poutine fam plaid hoodie offal twee.

His hands tightened around the chest in his arms to keep himself from chuckling at Madeira's juxtaposed tone tempered in formality and matter of subject as wild as his own interests. Though he kept his focus on the steps in front of him, he glanced back at her intermittently as she spoke, the curl of his lips clearly amused. She was fortunate it had been he to greet her and not one of their other cousins - her unabashed fascination with what many of the Cravens considered mere tools superseded even her immaculate posture and educated accent as something "worrisome". Had she more looked the part, he would have found her akin to a refreshing spring rain or a rush of cool air in summer. Instead, she was a queer, porcelain creature filled with something like moonlight - threatening to break herself apart without even realizing it.

She asked questions, her eyes telling him she wanted answers, but her mouth continuing to move, leaving him no silence to reply. He didn't mind, glad to vicariously experience Madeira's excitement, even tinged as it was with her faint nervousness that had yet to fade - if it might even fade at all. So many of those who came to stay in the Manor had a habit of being tense; it was one the reasons he worked so hard to project the contrary. When Madeira finally slowed her tongue, they had turned the corner, heading into the dormitory's hallway. She finished with a summary of the gist of her feelings as a product of gratitude.

It wasn't that he didn't understand where she was coming from, but his smile faded some, replaced by a softer, more distant pity. That she felt her curiosity need be qualified at all was a tragedy of its own; but that that need to qualify it would serve her well as one of the elites given the title of Craven was, perhaps, all the more tragic. Politely smiling and inclining his head in thanks as she darted forward to push the door open for him, he carefully deposited the chest at the foot of the bed, making sure to bend his knees so as not to tweak his back.

Finally a break given to speak, Gomer turned to try to address at least some of the questions she had asked, but instead he found himself mirroring her smile. She had seemed so small and delicate in the hall, but in the quiet of the small room, among the scent of roses and the gentle glimmer of the Alvadas air, there was something alive about her. Gomer felt a soft but painful tug in his chest as he imagined what her days ahead might be like, yet, staring unabashedly at her happy smile, he reminded himself that she might not be quite as meek as she had seemed.

When she turned to clearly, definitively answer his original question, Gomer made no move to avoid her gaze; instead, his already smiling face turned a more appropriately impish curl. "Madeira Craven." There was a heavy helping of a trickster's respect in his voice as he finally let out his chuckle, the time for it far more appropriate than before. "Are you certain that's where you wish to go?" The question was rhetorical, as he had already begun to back out of the room, playfully laughing out his words in invitation.

"I have only one rule for this particular expedition," Gomer held up his finger, the scars on his hand clearly defined by the sunlight that spilled out into the hall. His voice, for a brief moment, had taken on a businesslike tone, and his brows knit together in a seriousness that was difficult to discern whether it was in mock or not. "If we are caught, you are to say you asked me to show you the pantry." She had said, in her cascade of words prior, she had wanted to learn the Lie - the best way to do so, even if he himself was a right mess when it came to spiritism - was to practice the mundane art of truth twisting.

His condition given, Gomer's smile returned, and he continued down the hall, using the brief moment in which he was to be in command to address her questions as best as he was able, keeping his voice low and soft, though not quite to the point of a conspiratory whisper. That, after all, was to be saved for after they were through the kitchen. "As for what Miss Madara can and can't do... I can't say I have any idea. She's very powerful, is all I know for certain. Uncle Frode, though," He rolled his eyes, though his smile remained in playful place. "He's not just mad, he's absolutely batty." He widened his eyes on the last word in emphasis. "He's a crock of shyke though when it comes to that mind reading mysticism he's always on about. He's just... uncomfortably intuitive, is all."

The other things he was even less clear on, and though he himself was a projectionist, Madeira hadn't asked what he could do, and he felt no betrayal of the trust between them in keeping it to himself. "I don't really know about the rest of it, but..." He paused, halfway down the stairs, and lowered his voice into a softer, gentle whisper, "But it might be best you reserve those kind of questions people you trust. ...or me." Even quieter, he added, "Especially anything about magic." He made a face of mock horror: exaggerated frown with clenched teeth, eyebrows raised, and eyes wide.

Returning to a more casual level of conversation, though still quiet so as not to send his voice echoing about the hall, Gomer concluded, "But with a mind as hungry as yours, I'm sure you'll have no problem in your quest for asset-dom." Now at the bottom of the stairs, he gestured to a door along the wall opposite the one through which Philip Craven had earlier passed. "Why do you want to see the basement?" He posed the question innocently, as if he didn't know she knew what was down there. "I would think you more agreeable to a tour of the library or Fath-" Catching himself, he moved on without skipping a beat, "Rune's study."

There was a curiosity in his sea green eyes - one that was not without a hint of concern. Not because he was worried she might do something she shouldn't, but because he didn't understand her one bit. It wasn't as if he were an expert on all things individual, but she didn't seem the adventurous sort - just as she had seemed to be a lifeless doll before her moonlight had spilled out. He couldn't help but find her a curious thing - a feat, no doubt, in a city of illusion.

[Madeira Dusk]

Gomer's ever present grin widened into something wolfish when she asked to be taken below. She was right to suspect he wouldn't shrink from such a request. Rebels never made good Cravens.

But as he backed out of the room, pinning her to the floor with that scimitar smile, Madeira had to fight the wild impulse to take it back. She would claim that she was tired, she thought wildly. Or that she was sick, that she was she was a good girl who did as she was told. The excuses were all true, of course. But she wasn't even sure what made her ask the family washout to take her somewhere forbidden in the first place. Curiosity was too benign a word for this craving. This was a hungry thing. And the fourteen year old ward couldn't quite articulate what it was.

She teetered on her heels as Gomer disappeared around the door, caught between what she was and what she wanted. For one night, she finally told herself, she would take off the expectation and leave it in this room. In the morning she would put it back on as if this had never happened. She breathed deep, and after a long tick she lifted the hem of her skirt and chased after her cousin.

Gomer was suddenly businesslike as she caught up with him. He explained that there would be one rule to this quest: if they were caught they had to lie about where they were going. Madeira agreed immediately. She was already a practised liar, though she had never tried to fool the family before. But he could have asked her to summon Ionu with a snap of her fingers and she would have found a way to do it for him in that moment.

Madeira listened intently and nodded along to Gomer's answer to her previous questions. She even gave him a small smile at his animated expressions, though she couldn't decide wether she liked the way he talked to her like she really was just another kid. It happened so rarely that when confronted with levity from another human being she had no idea what to do with it.

Finally, Gomer waved her towards a door on the ground floor. It was a dark, elegantly carved thing, the kind you saw flanking every hall in the house. Yet as Madeira stepped closer she saw the subtle differences that marked this as something more sinister. Rivets of oxidized iron studded the wooden frame, and an unatural chill seeped from beneath the crack of the door. Madeira was willing to bet the whole thing was warded to keep ghosts out. Or in. She jiggled the handle and found it predictably locked.

"Why do you want to see the basement?" Gomer asked from behind her. He said he thought the Scrivener's study or the Library would be the more 'agreeable' option for her. And it was the way he said it, with a feigned innocence that probed at the raw, tender divide between how she struggled to present herself and what she really was, that made her turn on him.

"Why do you want to show me?" she bit back, nettled. "It would be in your best interest to keep me tucked away in my room. But you want to know just as much as I do, don't you, Gomer Caitiff?" She said his name with a cruel twist, like a knife in an open wound, and turned her back on him so he wouldn't see the uncertainty pulling at the corners
of her lips. Even by just asking Gomer to take her to the basement she had detonated any chance of holding her reputation with him. She was showing him too much and she wondered wether that was the right choice.

Her palms were slick again. She wiped them on her skirt and looked up and down the hall before pressing her ear to the door and jiggling the handle a second time. Besides the clicking of a handle that refused to turn, there was a looser rattling on the other side of the door.

"I think theres an external lock on the other side. So they can lock it behind themselves without using a key." she chewed her lip nervously and looked up and down the hall again. They were so exposed, just gormlessly staring at the basement  door like this. "Unless we can get someone to unlock it from the other side for us, we'd have to get the key. Do you know where they keep it?" The thought of stealing from one of the heads (for surely they were the only people who could own a copy) terrified her. But she was committed now, and determined to see this through.

x

[Gomer Caitiff]

The basement - or, really, The Basement - had been something he'd passed almost every day of his life. Having grown up in the austere halls of the Craven Manor, there was very little about it that was unfamiliar to him, though there were a handful of rooms and places he had never been allowed into. The Basement along with the three heads' rooms and a permanently locked closet on the second floor were the main places he'd always been told to stay out of. Having never been able to follow rules that weren't laid down for him by his elder brother, Gomer had long since figured out how to get into the closet and The Basement, though being able to do something and actually doing it and facing the repercussions were very different.

Her curt reply to his question, however, threw his thoughts off balance, and he found himself staring at the back of her pale blond head with wide, surprised eyes. She most certainly saw the quick flash of wounded pride, but as she turned so quickly, the true glimmer of impish interest that overtook his already battered and broken excuse for self-importance went unnoticed. Grinning wide, he casually muttered loud enough for her hear, "If I only did what was in my best interests, I'd be out with my brother right now, not babysitting."

Having little pride in oneself allowed for a curious dynamic with those who did. And while Gomer most certainly could have layered acid and spite over his soft, reminding words, he abstained. She was right. His one job, simple as spreading butter over bread, had been to see her to her room and ask that she wait patiently until she was called upon. Had simplicity ever been something he sought, most assuredly he would have done as instructed. Had she, like the delicate little doll she portrayed herself to be, sat quietly without the soul she'd let him catch a glimpse of, he absolutely would not have engaged her as such.

Instead, for whatever reason far beyond his comprehension, she'd slipped up. Perhaps it was the nerves; he could clearly see them in the manner in which she fiddled with her skirt, the tightness of her shoulders and clipped nature of her voice. If it were only nerves, he found himself a bit sad. She would, without doubt, return to the perfect little trinket for the Cravens to add to their collection. From what he could tell, she wasn't like his brother, nor the twins, nor even his father. There was nothing about her that stood out, and while he didn't doubt that quality made her a perfect candidate, neither did it allow her a true place among the Cravens.

Their similarity, even in the face of their blatant differences, was regrettable. Gomer almost pitied her; but he was too excited about The Basement to give it much more thought. She looked a proper burglar, leaning against to door and trying its handle, forgetting the company she kept. Her assessment, however, was spot on, and Gomer's grin only widened.

"This door isn't the problem." As he spoke, he called up the iridescent web of strings that ran through his hands. The map itself was a visualization technique that Godric had literally carved into him when they were younger, and while he'd been unable to complete it, it had been one of the few things Gomer had applied himself at, to the point where when he finally was able to use the magic he'd been studying for so many years, it wasn't nearly as difficult as he had imagined it might be.

Picking lightly at the shimmering strands with his left hand, he began to free his right, leaning against the door and staring right at the side of his cousin's face to try to keep her attention off of what he was doing - though he supposed she'd learn of his abilities sooner or later, so he didn't strain himself to conceal the odd movements of his fingers. "Once we get down the stairs there's a second door."

His wrist came free, the threads floating aimlessly around his hand as he continued, the invisible pieces of his astral hand starting to take form. He continued with a bit of an irked mutter, "It seems Uncle Frode anticipated- ehm... prying eyes, so to speak." Shaking his head, he continued a playful laugh in his voice, "In short, only a Craven can open the second the door."

On to the ends of his fingers, Gomer tapped the tip of each one by one, freeing the astral hand as his physical fell limp. He'd positioned his arm such that the listless limb would look natural, as it had already been relaxed. "And, well." He shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling as he passed his hand through the door, feeling about on the other side for the latch. Keeping his voice light, he deliberately made a point to stare into her, "I believe we have already covered the newest member of the family's stance as to whether or not I can open it."

With a soft click the door swung open, the heavy wooden doors giving way to Gomer's slight push, and revealing a dark, oaken staircase. The little room was unlit, and there was a distinctive chill in the air. "After you, Miss Craven." In a courtly echo of the manner in which she had said his own name, Gomer waved his left hand in a polite usher. His invisible right gripped his physical, but he did not reattach it yet. As he'd never actually been past the second door, he figured it was better to be prepared for anything.

[Madeira Dusk]

Just as Gomer expected, she did not miss his mumbled reply.

"Godric has better things to do than babysit you, that's why you’re babysitting me." she huffed.

Gomer was starting to irk her. That cocky smile, the playful laugh, the way words rolled off him like water off a duck. Even the way he was just leaning on the doorframe, staring at her like he was just enjoying watching her squirm. He was so... So irritating. Why couldn't he take anything seriously? Why did he get to pretend everything was a joke, while she could feel the barb of every word aimed at her?

And apparently he didn't even think this door would be a problem, it was the second door at the bottom of the stairs that would be trouble. Madeira's anger spiked then, and she was just about to suggest that he could jolly well steal the key on his own if he didn't think it would be a problem, when she noticed the odd movement of his hands. He was tapping, or twitching, she wasn't sure. If was a nervous habit then why did he look so calm?

Then with one last snarky comment, there was a soft 'click' and the door swung open.

The young teen paused, her brow furrowed and staring into the dark landing. What just happened? She ran her hand over the doorframe, half expecting it to be an illusion. But the lacquered wood was hard and real beneath her fingers. Gomer ushered her forward with a gentlemanly wave of his hand.

There it was again, that cockiness. He knew something she didn't.

"How did you do that?", she demanded. Was there a secret mechanism? A glyph that opened it for the right person? Did he know a magic, a shortcut, that would open any door for him?

"What happened? How did you do that?" she asked again, but there was a new, wheedling plea in her voice.

Suddenly it came to her that there were standing quite exposed in front of an open forbidden door. She pushed Gomer in first and followed, closing the door behind her and throwing the lock. Immediately they were plunged into darkness.

It was as if it knew they weren't suppose to be there. The very air was unwelcoming, thick with dust and a chill that cut through to her bones. Now that they were inside, Madeira's nerves had stepped aside and a thrill of fear replaced it. What could be down there?

With one hand on the wall for depth perception, she cautiously made her way down the steps. The stairs did not creak under her soft shoes, there was no friendly groan of an old house as they disturbed the cold and quiet. Not until Madeira found the second landing, and inched forward until she found the second door with the toe of her shoe. This door didn't seem as grand as the one before it. The wood was rough and the metal handle unpolished.

If Gomer was telling the truth, that door would only open for a Craven. She gripped the handle tightly, overcome with a sudden panic. What if it was more than that? She was born to the male line, so her name was Craven from birth. Sure, she was recently offered a place in the family home to be trained. But did that make her the kind of Craven that the door demanded? Was it just the name, or something else; that air of power and otherworldliness that the leaders all possessed?

Overcome with self doubt, and very aware of Gomer breathing behind her, Madeira held her breath and turned the handle. To her amazement the lock clicked and swung open on soundless hinges.

It opened to an room well lit with the steady glow of gas lamps. It looked like a workroom, or a laboratory. There was a chalkboard, and a long table was pushed against the wall. A shelf of books with old cracked bindings stood in the corner. Tools of the trade, including mountains of scrolls, beads, nails, souldarts, were mixed in with innocuous things she never expected to be there: an open woodworking toolkit, a magnifying glass, a bone saw and a mortar of something that looked like tea or tobacco. There was no outward sign of magic but for some small doodled practise glyphs in the margins of notes. Madeira was hit with a hefty dose of anticlimax. This was a strange workshop, but it was just a workshop.

There were two doors leading off of the main room. Madeira bit her lip and looked to Gomer.

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[Gomer Caitiff]

Her repeated question was met with mock confusion and a shrug. It wasn't that he felt he couldn't trust her - after all, they were both in each other's confidence by default, what with sneaking about the Manor like two little mice. He simply enjoyed the way she looked him, and anything to stoke the little ember of frustrated ire was more than enough reason for him to keep his mouth shut and lips turned in amusement.

She, unlike the twins and his brother, had not been raised in the Manor - by not fault of her own, certainly, and he by no merit. The reasons unimportant, what mattered was she was not accustomed to his humor at all. Everard would have given him a bloody nose by now, and Einar would have opened both of the doors himself, had he been of a mind to break the rules. Madeira, however, responded to every little thing he did, and while it was not so much a conscious happiness of being noticed, it did influence his willingness to let her alone.

Stumbling into the room at the mercy of Madeira's surprisingly forceful shove for one so slight, Gomer turned to whisper a quick, "Wait, don't-" but was tick too late. The door clicked shut behind them, throwing them into a complete darkness. Cautiously, he put his good hand out in front of him, now his turn to find the situation perturbing. He kept his mouth shut and made sure to breathe quietly through his nose to better hear Madeira's footsteps as he slowly followed her lead.

He'd expected both chill and dark - but it didn't make navigation any easier. Gripping the rail of the stairs, he waited until she was several steps down before starting, not wanting to bump into her in the darkness and startle one or both of them. It was best to remain quiet, and he didn't particularly want to be found out.

When they arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Gomer remained on the last step, waiting for Madeira to locate the second door. As her footsteps died away and there was only the sound of their breathing, he whispered an expectant, "Well? Go on then."

The light was welcome, and he headed into the room after her, never once doubting she'd be able to open the door and wholly unaware the thought had been what had delayed them. Blinking his eyes into focus, he found that the scene that greeted them was not nearly as exciting an image as he'd had in his head, and the disappointment and mild confusion were clearly displayed in the manner in which he chewed on his bottom lip and eyed the two doors, ignoring what he'd already deemed as a boring workshop.

Having since slipped his limp left hand into his trouser pocket, Gomer used his right to point between the two doors, muttering quietly under his breath as he alternated back and forth.

"Close your eyes and wander quick
Down this old crooked street.
Choose the path that's yonder, and
Ionu you may meet."

Ending on the easternmost door, Gomer turned to Madeira with a shrug. "Could be a... misdirection. We are in the basement of a family whose job is, essentially, lying." There was more to spiritism than fabrication, but it still played a substantial role. "It's probably best you open the doors from here on out."

The invitation for Madeira to choose either door was clear, even after he'd picked the eastern. As he wasn't certain which way would be best, nor what lead where, her guess was as good as his, and he made clear that fact by leaning against one of the bookshelves with a thoughtful frown. He couldn't say he wasn't still excited, but the initial disappointment had made the foray one more of investigation than inspiration.

Whichever door they chose, Gomer knew, at least, that there was a fair amount of basement yet to be explored. The workshop wasn't cramped, but neither was it spacious - though the latter may have been achieved by the manner in which things were piled and loosely organized. There was certainly no way that the family would need such security for handwritten annotations in books about long since gone family trees.

[Madeira Dusk]

Unlike Gomer, Madeira doubted that this was a misdirection. Maybe this was just what magic really looked like; no whirling machines, no dramatic puffs of smoke, no great epiphany. It was just people at a desk, tinkering and studying. The thought was humbling.

Having no better idea of where to go next, Madeira took the eastern door. This room opened into a spacious, almost empty room. The floor was stone, but the walls were wood. Here the lamps were spaced further apart, almost to the corners. Madeira stepped inside and ran her hands over the great knicks and gouges all over the walls.

As she walked through the centre of the room she noticed grooves in the floor. Running back to the main room and came back with a tall candle in a brass holder, she lit it on the gas lamps and kneeled to get a closer look.

"It's a summoning circle!" she announced, once she could clearly see the uniform sixteen points of a large star, etched with grooves to catch blood. "And these...." she ran her thumb over one of the deeper round indents that circled the star. "These must hold ghostnails."

She stood up again, holding the candle high to cast as much light as she could on the wounded walls.

"That must mean this is a..." If the other, more scholarly room was for theory and tools, this was where you practised them. She did not voice it, and did not let herself think what they would have to practise on. No wonder they kept it empty.

Once she had had her fill, checking every corner for secrets, she came back to the main room.

"Where should we go nex-"

A sound that filled her with dread echoed down from above. A lock clicked, and heavy footsteps fell one by one onto the stairs leading down to the basement.

Someone was coming.

A consuming terror wound itself through her body, broke through bone and stone and rooted her to the floor. If they were caught, her career would be over. She'd be sent back home, to a father who would learn to hate his failure of a child who destroyed his second chance. No, no, no, no that couldn't happen. She couldn't face it. Looking about wildly, she saw a small rough door she took to be a storage room studded with nails like the door upstairs. Taking Gomer by the hand, she dragged him through it as fast as she could and had just managed to shut the door quietly behind them when the door opposite opened.

Breathing hard, blood thumping in her ears, she couldn't bring herself to look through the keyhole and see who it was. Gomer could, if he had the nerves for it. All she could do was pray they didn't come through there, for there was no way out.

The air inside their cupboard was dry and dusty and bitterly cold. There was no lamps inside, but Madeira's candle sputtered and burned, giving them a flickering glow. Madeira listened at the door, hearing someone tapping their way around outside.

She lifted her candle, hardly daring to breath, to see where they had ended up.

Rough wooden shelves were stacked to the ceiling, all jammed with jars, decanters, vials, and a million other vessels all sealed shut with wax or twine or rubber sealant. They all contained something she took for powdered ash. But no ash she knew of could reflect light quite like that.

Then she heard the voices. It came from the jars to the side of the door closest to her ear. They were almost too faint to hear, but the sound could not have been more jarring than a cannon. They were begging, pleading, offering deals or threats. Ghostly voices. The light flickered as her hands began to shake, and she pushed her back hard against the door.

They had found where the dusted ghosts were kept.

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