Post by Eden Morgan on Oct 28, 2017 21:56:43 GMT -5
Hell, March 13, 1919
Esteemed Mortals of New Orleans:
They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, indestructible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.
When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.
If you wish you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to not only amuse me, but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman. I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.
Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens (and the worst), for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death himself, Gabriel.
Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is:
I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you choads. One thing is certain and that is that some of your people who do not jazz it out on that specific Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.
Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and it is about time I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fancy.
--The Axeman
Esteemed Mortals of New Orleans:
They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, indestructible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.
When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.
If you wish you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to not only amuse me, but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman. I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.
Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens (and the worst), for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death himself, Gabriel.
Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is:
I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you choads. One thing is certain and that is that some of your people who do not jazz it out on that specific Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.
Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and it is about time I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fancy.
--The Axeman
New Orleans
Current
Eden Morgan pauses in her movements around the room, her attention caught by a rhythmic, polite rapping at the front door. She mutes the television, watching as Caleb, a shadow in all-black answers the door. She raises an eyebrow as a brief conversation ensues, Caleb opening the door to admit Killian King, dapper as always in a bespoke suit. She smiles in welcome, her words interrupted by the gruff voice of Richard Nottingham.
“Oi lovely, you've gotten yourself some help. Well don't just stand there gawking, lad, these packages are heavy. Take one and help me get them to her room. Lead the way,” Nottingham orders pushily. Caleb doesn't budge an inch.
“I'm security, not help-staff,” he says evenly.
Nottingham snorts and then places a hand to the side of his mouth.
“I realize it does nothing for the continuation of your job to say so, but as of this moment, I believe you'll find that she's quite fucking safe. If you're concerned about him, it's not a gun in his pocket, he's just happy to see her. Feel free to perform a thorough pat-down if you so choose, however,” Nottingham jests. “Now get your arse out here and help me!”
Caleb shakes his head in annoyance then steps outside, taking up one of the professionally wrapped packages, Richard carrying the other, as the two of them bring them to Eden's room. Eden's brow furrows in question as she watches them go, her words belying her interest.
“So you finally decided to stop by and see the apartment. About time, it's not like I'm so very far away,” she jokes, her eyes flitting around the room, glad she'd taken the morning to tidy things up a bit.
I think... I think when it's all over it just comes back in flashes, you know? It's like a kaleidoscope of memories, it all comes back.
“You were fortunate to obtain a property such as this one. Many would give their eyeteeth for that kind of luck,” he observes.
Eden chuckles.
“I make my own luck, Kill. Can I get you something to drink?” she asks. Killian holds up a polite hand, declining.
“I can't stay, I have an appointment to meet with a certain dastardly Quarter schemer of both of our acquaintance,” Killian says, adjusting his pristine white cuff.
But he never does. I think part of me knew the second I saw him that this would happen.
“Speaking of Lou-Lou, how is he?” Eden asks conversationally.
“Happy as a lark as he currently has the running of the Letter and my bank account at his disposal in order to throw the most memorable Halloween party New Orleans has seen in some time,” Killian answers.
Eden rolls her eyes as she pours a glass of red wine, placing the bottle on the island countertop.
“You'll be a beggar by the time he's through with you,” she warns direly, Killian grinning unrepentantly.
“He also tells me you've been to see him and that you've neglected to pick up a costume for the event,” Killian says, nodding in the direction of her bedroom and the returning Richard and Caleb. “In order to save dear Lou-Lou from such a state of despair that someone might miss his great undertaking, I've taken the liberty of selecting something for you. If neither will do, you won't offend me by returning them and selecting something for yourself.”
Eden smiles wryly, sipping her wine.
It's not really anything he said or anything he did, it was the feeling that came along with it.
“You always did have good taste,” she observes noncommittally. “What is the theme of this party? I'm sure Lou-Lou told me and I've just forgotten.”
“Masquerade,” Killian says brusquely. “So, each has a mask included, and even one for your Caleb, as I'm sure he'll be in attendance as well.”
“Classy-- and yet you invited Cypress...” Eden trails off, hiding a laugh.
“I had no choice, considering I've essentially stolen his annual party with little warning,” Killian protests. “Besides, Jezebel has herself assured me that he'll be on his best behavior.”
Eden snorts.
“Cypress is annoyed with you and you expect him to be on his best behavior? Yeah, good luck with that.”
Killian smiles wryly.
“What was it you said so eloquently only moments before, my dear? Ah yes-- I make my own luck.”
Eden nods.
“Yes, well, I must admit, seeing the apartment and bearing gifts were not my only reasons to appear before you today,” Killian continues conversationally.
“Oh?” Eden asks, sipping her wine. “Reasons such as?”
“Reasons such as-- are you quite sure you want to do this with Ichabod as he is currently?”
“What do you mean by 'as he is currently'? He's still Ichabod, no matter his personal losses,” Eden answers, Killian fixing her with a nonplussed look.
Eden smiles teasingly at the man who had once been known as UGWC's Bedlam Champion.
“What, you don't think I have the teeth for the job,” she asks playfully, baring her even, white teeth at him.
Killian smiles and shakes his head, a dark lock falling over his forehead.
“As I've said many times, Eden Morgan doesn't need teeth to tear a man's soul out. One need only stare in her eyes to be lost.”
Their eyes meet for a time, Eden looking away first.
And... crazy thing is, I don't know if I'm ever gonna feel that way again. I don't know if I should.
“Something tells me it's going to take a lot more to tear Ichabod's soul out. If he even has one. Samantha's death may have robbed him of what little he could ever have been accused of having,” Eden muses.
“He's a dead man walking. You'll bury the bastard, love,” Killian says, getting to his feet and gesturing for Nottingham. “I do hate to dash, but much to do, and little time to do it. Don't forget about the costumes,” he says, nodding in the direction of her bedroom. Absently, Eden says her farewells, musing over what Killian had said. She enters the bedroom and stares at the two large gift boxes sitting on her bed, waiting.
March 1919
Deep in the Vieux Carre, or French Quarter, the mood was a subdued one fraught with tension, worlds apart from the usual carefree manner that lay just along the surface of the city's dark underbelly. The French Quarter of the time was mostly a gritty working-class slum where the people spoke French as often as English. Women lowered baskets to the streets to grocers who loaded them with the food and perhaps an added pint of spirits. Bohemians had started to move into the area seduced by the cheap rent, and there were beginning to be trappings of one of their enclaves such as Paris or New York City.
But nothing could truly overtake the innate spirit of the French Quarter or its native people. The smells of the docks hung over the whole area, mostly the sickly-sweet scent of rotting or overripe bananas mingling with the fresh smells emanating from the myriad of bakeries making the daily breads. The streets were full of people, men going to and from work in the factories or at the docks, women to the shops or market, some plying their lustful trade even in broad daylight in the hedges that surrounded the square.
Jazz had only recently been born from deep within the bowels of the city, its rhythm emerging from within the African slums to spread to the whorehouses of Storyville, spilling out onto the streets and seducing the ear of the listener. None were immune to its brass beckonings, not even the social elite who lived up river in the great homes on St. Charles Street and in the Garden District. It was the best those living in the actual Quarter could aspire to, perhaps working in one of these homes one day, one of these homes where the maids waxed the grand ballrooms by sitting on towels and sliding across the floor.
A different life, a different outlook-- and yet, all feared the haunting reality of the Axeman. All feared the possibility that it might be the back door of their home with a panel removed by a chisel; the creaks and groans, growing pains of any house, became cause for a growing sense of dread; and the axe, a useful tool, suddenly became a sinister and macabre symbol recounting the horror of blood-soaked sheets and splattered walls.
New Orleans had always been a city that thrived on an underlying thread of chaos, but that chaos had taken on a dark portent-- and then it grew darker still.
The Times Picayune published a letter purported to be from the Axeman, declaring that he would kill again at 15 minutes past midnight five days later, but would spare the occupants of any place where jazz was playing. And on that night, the city noted for its music gave the most resounding party. All of the dance halls were filled to capacity; jazz bands, ranging from professional to amateur, played at parties at hundreds of houses around town.
But the poor of the city, the denizens of the slums of the French Quarter were seemingly forgotten. Many couldn't afford what was required to partake of their own jazz party in their tiny living rooms, and so it was with a fear and apprehension that the French Quarter counted down the days until the Axeman cometh once more.
But then, a beacon of hope.
There was a great to-do as a group of mysterious benefactors known only as The Court sought the hasty restoration of an abandoned warehouse, turning it into a refined jazz club, replete with a ballroom and grand staircase leading to an observational balcony. It was a feat of engineering, and only achieved due to the seemingly bottomless pocketbooks of those who made up The Court. Who were they? It was a titular mystery, a welcome respite from the dour glowerings of the Axeman and his brand of calamitous chaos. Before the announcement came, many viewed the new jazz club with contempt and open animosity. It was seen by the unfortunates who would undoubtedly suffer the Axeman's rage as a gloating, in-their-face cruelty. The party would continue and the jazz would flow for all but the unlucky few who felt the blade of an ax against their flesh. And it was right there among them with its beckoning and yet unattainable glow, taunting...
And then the announcement came. The club was not the exclusive establishment all had believed it to be, it was, in fact, a place for those to seek sanctuary who could not otherwise, a place for all to come and throw themselves on the mercy of The Court as they filled every corner with jazz music, driving away the Axeman.
All were welcome, the announcement said. The one caveat was that each visitor would be given a mask at the door and they must wear it while they danced the night away to the stylings of a jazz band.
It was a simple price to pay; really, not even a price at all. To be able to rub elbows and attend a party among the elite, without a care in the world for a night?
The Court were unknown and yet they were as gods.
New Orleans
Current
“Tell me you're taking this seriously and not just retail therapy-ing your way through this weekend.”
Eden sighs heavily and rolls her eyes as she turns away from the counter with her purchase bagged, looking to Jet Somers in annoyance. She stops before him with her hands on her hips.
“New Orleans is a big city, how exactly did you find me?” she questions, Jet grinning.
“You weren't answering your phone so I assumed you were avoiding me because you didn't want to hear a lecture--”
“You assumed correctly,” she snips.
“-- so I texted Caleb. He gave you up. Take it out on him,” Jet says as he follows her out of the store.
Outside, Caleb leans against the building his phone in hand. Eden glares at him and he smiles back then winks.
“Some security you are, telling anyone and everyone my location,” she mutters in disgust.
“I've not told anyone and everyone your location, only him. To my way of thinking, if he's allowed a key to your apartment, then it's okay to answer any pertinent questions he might have. Telling him where you were and what you were up to didn't seem to be hazardous,” Caleb offers by way of argument. He then looks to Jet. “Is she always this overly dramatic?”
I knew his world moved too fast and burned too bright, but I just thought...
“Always,” Jet replies, earning a mocking expression and a middle finger from Eden. She turns and walks on up the street, away from the French Quarter shop, Jet jogging to catch up to her.
“Hey! I had a point I was trying to make--”
“So make it, no one's stopping you,” Eden says as she quickly passes in front of a horse-drawn carriage.
“Edie-- wait--- would you slow down just for a second,” Jet complains, gently hooking her arm and pulling her back under a balcony of one of the many apartments in Quarter.
Eden sighs.
“Look, I know you're not happy about me going after Ichabod right now, but you have to trust me on this--”
“Wrong,” Jet says with a smile. “I'm fine with you going after Ichabod right now, I think you're just the one to take him out and remove that title from him. I just want to make sure that you're taking the threat of him seriously and not relying on your prior knowledge of him.”
Eden raises an eyebrow.
“You mean prior knowledge where he's my sometime-mentor-sometime-taxi-driver? Prior knowledge like he's one of the most violent and sadistic bastards I've ever had the pleasure to meet while also exhibiting patterns of incredibly unpredictable behavior? Or maybe you mean the prior knowledge where he's shown himself only too happy to orchestrate or facilitate the means at which I spiral out of control? Is that, by chance, the prior knowledge you were hoping I wouldn't rely on? Because me, myself, I'd say it's pretty fucking handy stuff to know.”
Jet runs a hand through his hair, the brown locks falling right back into place afterward. Eden briefly ponders whether he practiced the effect before a mirror.
“Yeah, but-- it's also everything with Samantha, and of course, Gabriel. Use it against him, if you can--”
How can the devil be pulling you towards someone who looks so much like an angel when he smiles at you?
“That's the last thing I should do. He expects that, and it would disappoint him. I'd hate to disappoint him. Like it or not, Jet, this match is a long time coming between myself and Ichabod. I, personally, can't wait for it. He's become a sort of twisted family for me--”
“Family? Really, Edie? After what he did to Hanneman's remains?” Jet asks, a nerve in his jaw ticking at the memory.
“Yes, it's a shame I don't know where Samantha is laid to rest, truly,” Eden muses. “But yes, family. Think about it-- we define ourselves by our family. We entrust them to protect that which we hold most dear, we value them above all others. Just because we aren't blood, even as you and I aren't, sometimes the bond of family is one forged by choice. There's even traits shared,” she says slyly.
Jet snorts.
“You and Ichabod share a trait, Edie? What it is it?
“Ichabod and I are the same deep down, Jet. We manipulate, we thirst for power, we control, we punish, but our actions are driven by one singular place deep inside-- we're alone. And we hate it. We're almost incapable of real feeling, it has to be surprised out of us, but when we feel it--” she trails off, looking away. “And we share one more trait.”
Jet frowns, watching the woman he thought of as a sister and his best friend.
“Yeah?”
“Everything we love turns to ash,” she says easily.
March 18, 1919
They came. From all throughout the French Quarter, they came until the building was filled, and still, there were those who practically hung from the railings in order to be near the glow and the warmth of the jazz band in full swing within, as if even the radius of the building were to offer some form of protection from the coming bogeyman. As they entered, dressed in their finest clothing, some of which was their Sunday best, some outfits pulled from trunks that had rarely seen the light of day, each person was offered a variety of masks of various little woodland creatures, all atop silver trays held by doormen. There was no entry without a mask, and soon, the ballroom was swirling with dapper gentlemen in their suits dancing the Charleston with ladies in lightweight dresses. There were beads and pearls, T-strap shoes and brogues, hair ornaments and hats, but everywhere, everyone was cloaked in anonymity and it lent an air of careless frivolity to the environs.
Above it all, watching from the interior balcony stood four figures, three gentlemen and one petite woman, each with a mask covering his or her face.
The first was dressed all in black, his mask white with the eyes rimmed in black, striking short feathers of brown-gold framing the face of what appeared to be the lofty Tyto owl. Beside him was a shorter man, his dark brown hair long and reaching the shoulders of a uniquely stylish brown suit, his face covered by a mask that was a broad, bold affair made up of browns, golds, and coppers, a beak sharply curved downward, the entire thing in the stylings of a Barred owl. Beside him stood the third man, this one a mix of black and white in his suit stylings. He carried a cane, and the mask upon his face was an almost dizzying blend of grey and white with black trim, mask more sinister and skeletal in appearance than either of the others, but it was obviously a representation of a Screech owl.
And finally, beside him was the woman, attired all in white in a dress of the latest fashions. Her upper arms were bare, the white stole she wore to match her outfit draped loosely around her waist and hanging from her forearms, already covered in white satin gloves and draped in diamonds. With every little movement, her fringed skirt swirled about her thighs, silk stockings caressing their way up to disappear with a whispered promise beneath the white fabric. Her dark hair was done up in waves that framed her face, a diamond hair ornament slid to the side for decoration, diamonds dripping from her ears. Upon her face was a white mask, molded to fit the contours of a more feminine expression. The feathers were flecked in black, eyes outlined in black with a black beak curving downward, startling blue eyes peering out at the world before her. She was the snowy owl, the guardian of ice and a world of white, the paleness of the mask and her clothing seeming to highlight the porcelain perfection of her skin, marred only by the startling crimson of her lips.
The four watched from above as the gay frivolity of the evening wore on, each with a smile upon their lips. Every so often, one would descend to mingle with the group below, to dance and make merry, but inevitably, they would return to their perch, whispering amongst themselves as they observed. More than once, the throaty laugh of the Snowy owl echoed out over the masses, and one by one, they cast confused frightened eyes up toward the balcony, their masks making them looking like nothing more than a sea of prey cowering before the hungry eyes of the predators. Eventually though, they forgot their fear in the wake of the delights the night promised, and returned to dance their cares away.
The Axeman was all but forgotten.
“Careful, they frighten easily. We don't want them to bolt, do we?” came a whisper from the Screech owl.
“I don't know, I have always enjoyed a chase,” this from betwixt the bared teeth of the Barred owl.
“A chase, amid this lot? You would have a better chance of draining the Mississippi River with a straw,” murmurs the Tyto.
“Shhh... we hunt larger prey tonight. But just look at them, all of them. It's almost like Mardi Gras. Isn't it amazing what power a simple mask has? Put one on, and you can be anyone. Beneath the disguise, the poor become rich, and the rich, well... they can do anything they damn well please. I think we've shown everyone that,” the Snowy owl casts knowing looks to her three partners. “We are the top of the food chain. We are the smartest. We are the strongest. And we will take what we want,” her eyes grow icy with her words. “What time is it?” she asks, cocking her head to the side.
The Tyto draws a pocket watch from his inner pocket, consulting it.
“It would appear to be ten after twelve, my dear. The Axeman draws nigh,” he answers.
A smile curves the lush, red lips.
“So he does,” she purrs.
New York City
Current
Eden moves up alongside the taller male figure, his face hidden behind the grey and white with black trim stylized and almost bony mask of a screech owl, the effect quite eerie. The two of them say nothing as they peer through the curtain, watching the setup of the ring in the arena with a detached fascination.
Maybe he knew that. Maybe he knew it when he saw me.
“It's amazing, isn't it, how easily and quickly people will believe a lie? Especially if it's one they want to hear. They fall to their own petty whims and desires. Months ago, I was humbled, laid low, my treachery bare for all to see and feast their eyes upon. And didn't they feast, all the little people scurrying around us like vermin, didn't they all have something to say about how the queen had fallen, about how her lies and her forked tongue were exposed to the world?” she almost growls out the words, the man beside her silent for the time being.
“And then a few pretty tears were shed, simple words toyed with in the dark and bandied about-- and suddenly I was to be pitied. The sheep welcomed me into their home, even while finding proper burials for their kin I had slain only mere weeks before. I was to be protected. And now, look at them once again, whispering as though they know me deep down when they haven't the slightest idea how to deal with someone like me. Even after all this time,” she finishes cruelly.
“People will whisper. They'll make their jokes,” he says softly, the air escaping his lips ruffling the feathers of his mask.
“Let them. They're so small I can't even see them,” Eden sneers scornfully. “It's now the four of us against all of them. Fuck anyone who isn't us,” she says stonily, and then smiles. “I don't believe it's quite fair to them, is it?” she asks, the corners of the man's mouth upturning in a smile. “They'll all burn now, all of them with all of their little plots and schemes, their little betrayals. It's our day, and we'll have order.”
I guess I just lost my balance.
She pauses, cocking her head a little to the side.
“It's a shame Ichabod couldn't be brought around to our way of thinking, but sadly, he's a symbol of something that we will snuff out. He's one of the last true vestiges of that silly little preaching that took hold for a time-- chaos. One day, the master of chaos will learn that in the end, there is no such thing as pure chaos. Someone, something, somewhere is pulling the strings, holding the purse, calling the shots. He equates random happenings with chaos and calls them things of beauty, but the true beauty is in a plan where everything falls perfectly into place. Fuck chaos. I will have control.”
“Ichabod, for all his words to the contrary, is lost right now. Samantha--” the man begins.
“I know what Samantha was to him and what she is to him now. I'm sure he hears whispers in the dead of night and swears they're words of prophecy or instruction from her. He sees her death as some great cataclysm of the cosmos that will enable the chaos that he so loves to flow freely, but it simply isn't that. He's just like all those others, believing a lie because it's what he desires the most. It's disappointing, really. I never expected him to fall as he has, and yet here we are.”
I think the worst part of it all wasn't losing him.
“He doesn't believe himself to have fallen,” the feathers move this way and that, and for a moment, Eden wonders that they don't tickle him.
“Of course he doesn't. Instead, he'll believe that I'm lost, that I have demons deep within that I wish I could control rather than having them control me. He'll believe that I'm afraid to be happy, afraid to be loved, and that I want to control everything. At least he'll get the last part right,” she chuckles. “On Monday, I'll rip away that mask that Ichabod shows the world. We'll see just how chaos operates compared to control. I'll lure him right where I want him, with the promise of what he most enjoys, and he'll believe it because he wants to-- and then his reign will be over.”
“Don't dismiss him too easily. He may still surprise you. You should know that,” the man admonishes.
“I'm well aware of what comes with Ichabod. Nothing is every easy,” she says, linking her arms in his as they continue to watch in silence.
It was losing me.
March 19, 1919
The Snowy owl steps back from the three to approach a tall man stood all in black along the wall behind her. He, too, wore a mask, but his was simply of a black skull. Death. She leans into him, whispering into his ear, and he gives a brief, almost imperceptible nod before disappearing down the stairs. She returns to stand with her brethren, continuing their watch from above.
Only a minute had passed, and suddenly there was a notable quiet to the air, an uneasy calm filling the ballroom. The conversations and laughing quickly faded away as one by one, each of the partygoers realized something was amiss. But what was it? They couldn't put their finger on it.
But wait. That was it.
The jazz music had stopped.
As the realization began to sweep the crowd, the panic and hysteria followed closely behind, terrified moans erupting from the masses as they realized the time. It was almost time, and they cried out for the music, their salvation from the indestructible demon who came, ready for slaughter, with eyes as red as the blood he would soon spill with his hungry blade. They beseeched the heavens, looking skyward, and when that was of no help, they ran for the doors only to find them locked and barred.
There was no way out.
“I do so love when they try to run,” the Snowy owl coos, each of them watching the mayhem with eager fascination.
“The trap... is sprung. And now, the Axeman cometh,” the Barred owl says with glee.
“And then?” prompts the Screech owl.
“He'll glut himself on the offerings before him, and then we'll see how truly indestructible he really is,” the Snowy owl says with a touch of wonder as the lights above start to flicker. She slides her hand into the Tyto's pocket and retrieves his watch, studying it herself, her smile positively wicked.
“Right on time,” she whispers as the screams in the ballroom before them begin, the four of them approaching the railing as the heavy, warm scent of copper fills the air.
“And so the dance begins,” notes the Screech owl, the other three nodding.
“The Axeman will face The Court,” the Snowy owl declares, and the world seemed to take a collective breath, as if her words carried more weight than they should have.
And so, the four watched from their perch the perfectly controlled chaos below, waiting, waiting, to simply close their claws-- and feast.
