***Winner of the Wattys 2016 for Hidden Gems***
The Edgewise exists everywhere and nowhere. A sanctuary to all realms, should you find the door. Managed by one Macklemore Edgewise, proprietor, guardian of the between places, and barman of mystery...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The Edgewise didn't quite have the knack for linear memory. It's grasp of such a concept improved out of necessity after the incident. It had to. But linear time is a mortal restraint, and the Edgewise finds it a terribly dull experience. Time is fluid, circular, branching. It resonates on a million different frequencies, each slightly different, a possibility unrealized or fully realized through the thin veil of another reality. Most of the patrons exist in a linear reality; a few are more malleable, but most are firmly anchored in one reality.
The Edgewise shivers at the sensation of footsteps, entering in the sacred place, the inner space. Not meant to be, never meant to be, but there nonetheless. The fibrous influence of the Edgewise twitched, pulling taut, hyper focused on the figure descending.
Jacob Henderson.
The Edgewise knows why he is here. It sees him descend the steps in a thousand fractured timelines, all of which abruptly end.
Time is fluid.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A hand touches the outer door, a silent plea, chaos barely contained beneath the skin. The Edgewise hesitates. There is danger there, but not intent. The Edgewise does not care about morality, but need. This one needs sanctuary. The door swings open. The patrons present shift their attention. A hand appears, weak, shaking, clutching at the threshold. It is the blood prince and the warrior who react first, sensing the desperation there. They move with surety and speed, dragging the body inside. The warrior rolls the body over. A man, a facade to the curse shifting beneath a flimsy barrier of flesh and bone. He gasps for breath. The warrior pulls his head into her lap, brushing aside dark sweat matted curls.
"He's ill," says Lady Agatha.
"He's dying," says Eugene.
"Like hell he's dying on my bloody floor," says Mack. The tavern master pushes through the gathered patrons. He frowns at the man as he kneels on the floor. "Barely more than a boy." He mumbles, reaching for the man's forehead. The Edgewise creaks in warning, a whine of cracking timber that gives Mack pause.
The man stares up at him with gray green eyes full of fear. "Please, stop it."
Lady Agatha yelps, but Eugene is already moving, yanking her back as chaos writhes beneath the skin. Mack catches the man's head before it hits the floor, hissing at the contact.
