SEASON 1 - Ouroboros Metaphysical Shop

[whitechapel]

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Character: Quentin Severin
Time/Location: Ouroboros Metaphysical Shop
Scene Status: Closed.

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Transcript

Dearest Cecilia,

The day is Monday, November 7th, 2021. The time is 11:38 AM. This is Quentin Severin speaking.

Where to even begin? Last night, Morris Blevins was murdered and I believe that it is safe to assume who is responsible. I've spoken in great detail in past recordings about the esoteric and one might argue cosmic history of this area, but for posterity and recollection's sake, I'll speak once more. This town, as you well know, is a place where the veil between worlds is at its most thin and frayed. Since time began and perhaps further still, four entities have resided in the same dimensional space as where Dawn Chorus now sits, caught in a ceaseless blood feud for jurisdiction over the land. While they've been known by many names over the years, they are most commonly referred to as some variation of The Mother, The Father, The Elder, and The Stranger.

While I cannot begin to fathom their motivations or even their reasoning, the hard facts lay bare. At seemingly arbitrary intervals from prehistory to now, the entities choose four heralds to support their cause and act as pawns in their game of chess. These chosen four then engage in a brutish contest to the death in which the last champion left alive dictates who has leadership over the entities and, to a greater extent, dominion over the land itself. I've no idea if these champions are conscious of their actions or simply act as physical manifestations of the entities wills. To my knowledge and understanding, The Mother has presided as the chief eminence for several centuries.

While I certainly suspected that the so-called 'missing four' were the latest victims of this cruel game, yesterday's events all but confirm it. After much investigation on my part, I managed to track down and correspond with The Mother's herald on Summerland Isle. I'm quite happy to report that she is safe and sound by my own doing. However, I currently believe that Morris Blevins was assasinated by either The Elder or The Stranger's herald, he himself The Father's champion. The level of cruelty inflicted upon that poor man only serves to further my decision to support The Mother in her campaign to maintain the status quo. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't, as it were.

In my efforts, I also visited a sacred site known as The Hating Tree to perform a ritual in an attempt to delay a possible inevitability. Unfortunately, this also required me to maim my right hand to a considerable degree, but all things for the greater good. You see, I suspect I am not the only one with a vested interest in this apparent war... I believe The Elder not only has the support of his herald, but also of one Eph--

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

I'm sorry! We're closed!

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Hm. Forgive me, Cecilia. One moment, please.

From the backroom of his little shop, Quentin Severin let out a long, beleaguered sigh as he laid down his recorder, stood from his desk, and made his way to the front. How hard could it have possibly been to read a closed sign on a door? The world has no shortage of feckless idiots. After the sleepless night he had, Quentin was more than willing to give some unobservant pedestrian a tongue lashing. In fact, his heart swelled at the notion.

As he came to the front door, he reached out with his right hand to pull the lock without thinking. There it was, wrapped in bandages with blood still soaking through, barely containing the gruesome wound he had inflicted upon himself. His thumb wiggled involuntarily, mockingly, as if asking where the other four fingers had gone off to. Quentin ignored it and reached out with his left instead.

He pulled the door open with a hard tug, curses and venom already poised on his tongue before his eyes could catch up. “Can you not read?! We’re clo–” Oh. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Quentin thought. Standing there in the doorway with that all too telling smile and hands crossed behind his back was none other than Ephraim Ryan. Quentin involuntarily grimaced, his stifled voice replaced by a set of involuntary vowels grasping at coherence before he finally found his words. “...Mr. Ryan. May I help you?”

“Mr. Severin,” He replied. “How are we today? I believe we have a matter in need of discussion.”

“And what matter would that be?” Quentin asked. “We have no business together, I assure you.”

“Oh, but we do,” Ephraim said, his smile only widening further. “It’ll take no time at all, I assure you. May I come inside?”

“By all means,” Quentin spoke through clenched teeth, stepping aside from the doorway. “Please come in.”

Ephraim’s eyes gazed around the shop with vague amusement before they settled back on Quentin. “Lovely place you have here, old boy. Tell me… is doling out crystals with supposed ‘magical properties’ and mass produced spell books for the everyday occultist as lucrative as it seems?”

“It’s fine, Ephraim,” He practically growled. Ephraim had always had a way of getting under his skin. “Now, what do you want?”

“Straight to the point as always, Quentin,” Ephraim said as he walked to a nearby chair and took a seat, crossing one leg over the other as he folded his hands in his lap. “I've always liked that about you, you know. No time to dillydally. All business. Now, if I may, I’d like to tell you a story…”

Quentin leaned against the wooden counter, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared across the room at Ephraim. Words couldn’t begin to express how much he detested that man. Ephraim Ryan represented everything that was wrong in the world, all the evil that could exist stuffed inside of one man. The way he spoke, the way he smiled, the way his eyes seemed to gleam with that sense of knowing you better than you knew yourself.

“Once upon a time, there were two men. One was a magician and the other was a fool. You see, The Magician had grand designs in mind, a splendid plan that had been decades in the making. It was the work of his life, his magnum opus, his masterstroke, for which he would do anything to protect. The Fool decided that it was his place to interfere with The Magician’s plan. The Fool, you see, had nothing more than his jealousy and his envy to guide him through this life. He thought that he knew best. He thought that he deserved more…”

“Ephraim, I–”

“Shh, shh, shh. I’m not finished, Quentin,” Ephraim said. “Now, The Magician was a great and powerful man. He had ears in every home, eyes in every crevice. He knew everything and all. When he received word of The Fool’s transgressions, do you know what The Magician did? He went to The Fool’s home, he knocked on the door, he stepped inside, and he cast a spell. ‘From this day forth,’ The Magician said. ‘Your hands will tremble when you speak my name. Your mouth will ache. Your body will go into convulsions. If you ever so much as think of me or mine, your blood will burst in its veins and your muscles will melt from their bones..’ The Fool didn’t believe The Magician, you know. After all, he was a fool… and the next time the thought of The Magician crossed his mind, his eyes shuttered closed, his muscles stiffened, and… well, to save you from the gory details, he died a very painful death. Quite the story, wouldn’t you say?”

All the while, Ephraim smiled. Even as Quentin stood in silence, crossed arms falling slack to either side of his torso, Ephraim smiled. He smiled until his lips parted to bare his teeth, porcelain white each and all, a fit of gut busting laughter escaping his throat before he finally stood.

“Quentin, I’m well aware of your intentions and the actions you’ve already taken. We all have our part to play in this, but I assure you, your part leads only to suffering. Judging by that ghastly wrapped hand of yours and what my men found at the foot of the so-called Hating Tree, I’d say you’ve already suffered quite enough, haven’t you?”

Ephraim reached into his sportscoat’s inner pocket and pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag. Inside the bag were four severed fingers that Quentin recognized as his own almost immediately. Ephraim tossed the baggie on the floor at Quentin’s feet, shaking his head as he wiped his hand clean on his pants, already walking towards the front door.

“Consider this your one and only warning, Quentin,” Ephraim said. “You’re playing a very dangerous game that you don’t even know the rules of. The insect is nothing to the hand that swats it, I promise you that. Stay away from this, Quentin. And for goodness’ sake, take care of yourself.”

As Ephraim walked out the front door, he closed it with a slam and left Quentin standing with his back against the counter, skin gone flushed and mouth hanging agape. It only took a moment for him to collect himself before darting into the backroom and to his desk where the recorder still sat, red recording light still blinking.

“Cecilia?! Cecilia! Did you hear all of that?”

And so, the war began in earnest.