*****
To: My esteemed colleagues of the Strangelight Workshop
I sincerely regret that once more I must refuse your request for a face to face meeting. While I remain deeply dedicated to the organization and wish to allay your fears at the earliest opportunity, an unexpected emergency demands my immediate attention. Please accept my humble apologies over this matter, but I simply cannot spare the time required to travel back to Ceryl at this juncture.
Yours in earnest inquiry,
Lord Jonathon Worthington, Associate Investigator
*****
I glanced over my handiwork and grunted in tired satisfaction. This was the fourth draft of the letter, and the writing was finally legible. In the other three cases a sudden spasm had caused me to slash the pen across the cheap parchment like a hullgrinder through a skiff, and I was sweating with the effort to keep my hand steady this time.
"Finished, sir?" Orsch asked, allowing a note of impatience to creep into his placid deep voice.
"Yes, I believe I am. The sickness may have robbed my body of its strength, but for the moment my mind remains clear. Are you certain that this is the correct course of action?"
Orsch declined to answer as he reached over, his massive fingers gently dusting the document with sand to speed the ink's drying. He deftly rolled the missive up and slid it into a sturdy leather carrying case before reaching out the open window of our rented hovel and depositing it in the waiting courier's hands along with several crowns. The boy, not more than fifteen years old, looked on in awe for a moment before a warning rumble from my companion sped him on his way to the train.
I couldn't blame the boy for staring, even though I knew it made Orsch uncomfortable. Ogruns were rare enough in this part of the countryside, and his style of dress certainly did not help. A jaunty bowler hat sat atop his broad head, pulled low to meet the wide leather strap of the goggles that he was so fond of wearing. His heavy woolen coat was tailored to fit his naturally massive frame, and the vest and white shirt underneath were perfectly in keeping with his dark trousers. His scuffed traveling boots spoiled the debonair effect somewhat, but there was no doubt that, even for an ogrun, Orsch was a unique sight.
My own style of dress was a twin of his, although I avoided wearing any sort of goggles or other apparatus on my person for health reasons. Due to the delicate constitution I'd been born with, any prolonged contact with mechanikal creations would result in a severe allergic reaction that would incapacitate me for hours; my trusty forgelock pistol was the pinnacle of technology my body would tolerate. Some of the people we encountered mistook my poor health as a sign of weakness, and my pale complexion and slight build led them to underestimate me. Although I lacked Orsch's obvious size and strength I did not share his propensity for pacifism nor his distaste for violence. The worn grip of my pistol peeked out from where I'd hung my coat on a rickety chair; even though it held only a single bullet I was a crack shot with it, as many hooligans had discovered in the past.
"I do believe it is time for your treatment, sir," Orsch said, motioning to the warped mirror on the opposite wall. While it had all the accuracy of carnival glass, it was sufficiently reflective to see that he was right. My skin was darkening even as I watched, and as my true complexion emerged so too did the scarlet tattoos that covered my face and body. Without instruction Orsch moved to close the window and draw the tattered drapes closed, handing over the last of the ointment from our bags after I was safe from scrutiny.
I dipped my fingers into the foul-smelling jar and managed to scrape enough out to cover my face and hands, noting with annoyance that I'd have to be careful to keep my shirt buttoned fully up to the collar to hide the rest of my skin. It was deep summer in Cygnar, and while the heat never seemed to bother Orsch I lacked his indomitable ogrun fortitude and cursed the necessity of the long-sleeved coats and shirts that hid my affliction. My displeasure manifested in a string of coarse words.
"Language, young master," Orsch chastised me. He was right, of course. He always was. While the damnable sickness had robbed me of most of my long term memories, Orsch had a mind quite unlike any other ogrun, and in addition to continually schooling me on manners he attempted to keep my cognitive functions sharp with frequent and unexpected lessons. My companion was endlessly fascinated by the intricacies of human thought and science, from steam engines to engineering to the philosophical differences between Morrowans and Menites. But those interests paled beside his true love: the supernatural.
Since ogruns lacked the spark to manipulate the arcane most were content to leave it to the smaller races, preferring instead to either follow their natural warlike tendencies into mercenary work or, in rarer cases, pursue a life of worship to their nature god. But Orsch considered such vocations beneath him. In all of our travels I'd never met another ogrun with the deep and unquenchable hunger for the occult that Orsch possessed. Perhaps that was why he had volunteered to accompany me from my family's household, since the curse of my bloodline guaranteed that if there was supernatural trouble to be had I would damn well be drawn into it.
Truth be told I didn't even remember first meeting him. The sickness had robbed me of many things and restricted my activities greatly, but nothing was as annoying or disruptive as the blank space in my mind where my past should have rested. My memory only stretched as far back as the last couple of years, and I worried about losing more of it as each day passed. Orsch tells me that once I was able to remember events five years ago, but that each month shortens my recall more and more. The truly terrifying aspect is that I cannot feel the loss of the memories or even tell that they once existed; they slip away like thieves in the night, leaving not a trace of their passing.
"Are you sure we can't just meet with them, even once? They're not being unreasonable to request to meet with one of their most successful operatives; it can't help but raise their suspicions that I continually make excuses to avoid them."
"No, sir, I am afraid that is quite out of the question. The other investigators that comprise the Strangelight Workshop must, as a simple matter of deductive logic, have devices that allow them to see through all forms of obfuscation. The concoction would prove woefully ineffective against such things. And may I remind you that I was against associating yourself with the organization to begin with?"
"You may not," I answered irritably. When I'd first heard of the Strangelight Workshop a year and a half ago I'd hoped that they might possess a clue to the bizarre affliction that damned my family line to this sad fate and how I might reverse or stop it. They were hard to find, even harder to contact, but after a reluctant Orsch lent his considerable arcane knowledge to me I managed to impress them, convincing those who ran the Workshop that I'd be a valuable asset out in the field. While I'd been unsuccessful in my attempts to winnow anything useful out of them, I soon discovered that I quite enjoyed the assignments they sent me on. It gave me an opportunity to turn my curse to others' benefit, and while it wouldn't allow me to avoid my fate it at least consoled me on the road to that forgetful oblivion.
"Any word from Father?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"Of course not, sir. You really must stop dwelling on your family. They weep for you, but they know your destiny must be either fulfilled or averted before your return. It is better for all parties involved that you do not contact them."
It was the same answer he always gave me. Although I could not recall them Orsch assured me that my family was a moderately wealthy one in southern Cygnar, and that they had more sense than to get caught up in the hostilities in the region between the Menites and the rest of the country. I found my inability to remember them quite disturbing, and despite their existence being nothing more than a hollow concept to me I felt compelled to ask after them from time to time. Although the manifestation of the curse meant I had to be distanced from the rest of the bloodline they were still kind enough to send regular dispatches through various couriers with enough money to fund our travels, for which I was grateful. But never was there a note, not a scrap, no worried script asking after me; just a series of silk purses containing various amounts of crowns that were usually sufficient to purchase the necessities of life until the next purse came.
This time it had been a little less than we needed, and our accommodations as a result had suffered. Orsch refused to let our standards of hygiene and dress slip despite the troubles, but the living situation was unavoidable. It had proven to be less of a worry than I'd first imagined, as we were kept busy climbing through ancient Orgoth ruins from dawn until late at night, searching for a local legend. Farmers spoke with hushed terror about spectral banshee that appeared in the ruins, chanting incomprehensible words, trapped eternally in some sort of ritual. The Workshop had feared something dire in the works and dispatched me; indeed, upon my arrival the illness had reared its ugly head, a sure sign of baneful magic in the area. But despite weeks of fruitless searching and progressively growing sicker the entity continued to elude us. The last few days I'd fallen unconscious from my affliction, and when I finally awoke from fevered dreams Orsch had been there, as always, tending to me. I don't know if we somehow dislodged whatever artifact was causing the disturbance, but the ghostly specter had disappeared, and my improving health confirmed that whatever haunted the area had fled.
The problem now was that the special alchemical mixture I used to hide my affliction was nearly gone. I'd been horrified upon awakening to see that the bloody tattoos that heralded the curse's arrival were burning their way out of my darkened skin, blazing for the world to see. A day and several applications later the skin on my face and hands had returned to their normal pallid state, but it wouldn't last long unless we procured more of the substance.
"You're sure that the mucker that created this gunk is willing to make more?"
Orsch winced. "Please, sir, do not use that terminology. It is below your station to speak in such a way. In answer to your question, yes, there is no doubt he will cooperate. He has served the Worthington family in this capacity for two generations, and although his time is closing he should maintain enough of his mind to be of use one last time. But he requires our assistance before he will reciprocate. A thoroughly despicable maneuver on his part, but one that we must accede to out of necessity."
"He'll help us or we'll hoist his guts up the mast on a slaughter-hook, am I right, mate?"
I clapped my hands over my mouth with shock. The disapproving look from Orsch was unnecessary; I could only stammer an apology and blame my recent bout of illness for speaking like an unschooled country lout. Orsch went to the front of the inn to inform them of our departure, his chilly demeanor reprimanding me in a fashion words could never match.
To occupy my obviously failing mind I packed my few belongings into our luggage, and sat heavily on the sagging excuse for a bed, which moaned dangerously and threatened to jab me with rusty springs. As I sat contemplating my recent descent into the speech patterns of a field hand the light sounds of tiny silver bells jangling against each other came from outside the window. I squinted through the worn drapes, trying to make out the source of the sound, and discerned a silhouette in the afternoon sun. The curves were obviously female, and the woman seemed to know she was being watched. Gently a nailed finger began tapping against the glass, and a lascivious laugh sent tingles up my spine with a thousand unspoken promises. As the lush silhouette leaned in against the window, I noticed that something was dreadfully wrong with her head, a deformed mass atop the otherwise lovely-looking shadow.
I drew closer to the window, although I didn't remember getting up from the bed. The light took on an unnatural cast to it as I approached the drapes, floating across the floor without taking steps. My hands reached out of their own accord for the drapes while luscious lips pressed up against the pane, and as my fingers closed around the curtains I could just make out whispered words from those lovely lips, a phrase repeated softly again and again.
"Don't trust him."
I threw back the drapes to behold my mysterious visitor, and a lancing headache bored through my brain as the dazzling sunlight hit my eyes. Confused, I sat up on the bed and saw that Orsch had slid the drapes back from the window to let in the dying sunlight. Fighting back my disorientation, I realized I must have fallen asleep and dreamt the mysterious figure.
"Is something amiss, sir?" Orsch asked, his voice still cold. Looking up into the emotionless goggles he wore, at the hard grey of his monstrous inhuman face, the words died in my throat and I remembered the warning of the phantasm: don't trust him.
"Nothing ... nothing's wrong, Orsch. Just bad dreams, a remnant of the sickness most likely. Nothing more," I stammered, suddenly afraid of my loyal companion. Despite every ounce of logic I possessed screaming that this was Orsch, the faithful ogrun that had taken care of me for the last two years, I couldn't bring myself to tell him what I'd seen. It felt so real, so different than the fever dreams, but there had been no woman, no warning, and no reason to mistrust the creature that had tended to me for longer than I could remember.
Preoccupied with the details of our travel arrangements, Orsch accepted my answer without second thought, gathering our bags under his massive arms with no visible sign of effort and inching out of the room sideways, careful to avoid wrecking the doorjamb with his shoulders. I took one last look around the room, as was my habit, making sure that nothing had been left behind. I went to the window to pull the drapes closed out of courtesy to the next occupant, and my blood turned to ice in my veins.
Barely visible in the fading sunlight on the window pane, unseen by Orsch in his haste, was an imprint of a kiss, captured delicately in the tiny cracks in the glass.