Father,
I don’t have the courage to tell you in person. Atticus was killed in his home in Hlofreden several days ago. It pains to tell you this now, especially after our previous discussion of you reaching out to Atticus and hopefully mending some of the bridges which were burned.
No one knows the exact circumstances but I do have suspicions as to why he was taken from the world. The murderer has been dealt with in Hlofreden and if any co-conspirators are discovered they will share the same fate.
The city guard in Hlofreden will be taking care of burial rights. If you desire to see him off to the next life I’m sure arrangements can be made if you are hasty, however, I will not be present at any such occasion.
I’ll be out of touch for a stretch, but I will try to reach out again once I feel I am able. Congratulations on your increase in station and please give my best to mother.
With Care yet Regretfully,
Sigismund Richter
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A shopkeep assistant's story - “I’ll be in the kitchen packing for the trip south.” Atticus said as he ambled out of the room. I was accustomed to him walking away as he fired off instructions or commented on the weather. I took it in stride as I climbed the unstable rolling ladder that accessed the upper shelves of the component cabinets.
A chime dinned as the door opened behind me. A woman of twenty or so sauntered into the common area of the shop. She carried a woven basket of fine quality in the crook of her arm; her hands clasped daintily one in the other. A scarf of silk covered her head tying neatly under her chin and draping down toward her bosom. By her dress I would have guessed her to be a well placed servant or merchant’s wife.
“My dear boy.” she said from across the room. “Could you help me with a particular item?”
I hopped down from the ladder and straitened my apron. “What can I help you with?” I said, adopting a conservative pose.
“I am looking for some wax, not for candles and such. Something pliable.” She smiled with her eyes as she came closer. I had not seen her in the store before, which wasn’t unusual. I had learned over the last month of working here that about half of our business was a small batch of regulars. Another quarter of our business were the occasional or seasonal visitors. The remainder fell into the category of visitors from out of town. I had placed her squarely in one of the latter two categories.
“We have two types.” I said, leading her to the large table that served as a multipurpose work space. I drew two boxes from the large wall of drawers. In each were blocks of wax. One made from tallow and the other from bees. She brightened immediately upon seeing the collection of bees wax.
“May I?” She asked as she reached into the box. “The only way to know for sure is to handle it.”
I nodded in submission to her request. I heard a chair scrape in the kitchen behind the wall of drawers. No doubt Mr. Richter was climbing up to the stash of whiskey he kept over the sink. Normally I would hold the chair for him while he recovered his favorite elixir. If I went to aid him now he would only chide me for neglecting a customer.
“You are new here.” she said in a playful voice.
“A little over a month now Miss.” I proclaimed, attempting to convey my qualifications with confidence in spite of my short service.
“You’re a handsome lad.” She cooed as she studied my features. I glanced back toward the kitchen as I flushed at her attentions.
She pulled and shaped the wax while humming a little song.
“Is it to your liking ma’am, uh, er miss.” I said loudly to assert that I was still handling the business of the store and not flirting with a patron. The chair scuffed loudly in the kitchen followed by the slamming of a drawer and the clatter of a clanging spoon. Hastening footsteps moved closer from the kitchen.
“What do you think?” She said as she held up the small likeness. “I think its pretty good, don’t you?” She seemed to beam with pride at her accomplishment. She was radiant as the joy of her accomplishment spread across her countenance like the sun rising across a landscape. I vaguely noticed Mr. Richter enter the room. He carried in his hand a cup of tea on a saucer.
“Sorry to interrupt.” He said in his staccato timber. “I was just pouring some tea in the kitchen, you must try some. I have been working on the recipe for for some time. Yell me if I have it right.” He handed the saucer and cup to the lady then cleared his throat before speaking once more.
“Forgive me, I am the proprietor of this shop, Atticus Richter and this is my assistant Ori. Who do we have the pleasure of serving this fine day?
“Tibelde” she said with a curtsey. “Just Tibelde.”
She held the wax figure in her saucer hand as she sipped from the cup with her free hand. Mr. Richter studied her reaction as she sipped from the rim.
“How do you like it, eh?” His fatherly tone fully fixed in his words.
“Oh my.” She said. “Am I tasting notes of anise? And a hint mint.” She quickly drained the entire cup.
Satisfied, Atticus took the cup and saucer from her. She lingered for a moment touching him lightly on the back of the hand.
“That tea was to die for.” She said.
Atticus set the cup and saucer on the table before pressing with more conversation. The two of them exchanged in topics ranging from the proper grinding of spices to proper temperature for distilling spirits. Most of the conversation was well beyond my experience, but I smiled and laughed at the appropriate times, attempting to be good company. The whole time they were talking I got the feeling that the two of them were playing at a game that only they could see. Once during the conversation Atticus even winked at me as if to say he was winning.
A moment later a sour expression pinched his face. He looked unsteady, reaching a hand out for the table. In a moment he was on the floor, his breathing labored.
Tibelde dropped to the floor and listened at his chest.
“Help me move him. Does he have a bead near by?” Her words rattled around in my head a moment before finding purchase.
“Yes, of course!” I grabbed at his ankles and she hoisted his weight from under his shoulders.
Soon we had him upstairs in his bed. His breathing was easier almost peaceful.
“Will he be alright?” I asked.
“Don’t let that concern you.” She replied. “For now I need you to relax and lie down.”
I couldn’t understand how that was going to help anything, but her words had a grip on me that made it seem like the right thing to do.
“Face, down please.” She said.
From the floor of the room I could hear the flexing of the ropes under the bed. Followed by cutting sound. It was quiet for a moment, then I heard the singing again. I didn’t know the words, but the melody turned the air like a lullaby. She stood from the bed and walked past me toward the door.
“I have a friend for you to play with Ori. I want you to stay where you are and count to ten. Then the game will begin.”
The door closed as she stepped outside into the hall. I counted.
One, two, three.
With each number I spoke, fear grew in me. The sounds from the bed were not those of a sleeping man, but the guttural growls of a feral creature.
Four, five, six.
I could hear soft laughter from the hallway.
Seven, Eight.
I needed to see what she had done, but her instructions held me in place with the force of a dozen men. I slowly craned my head around toward the bed; my eyes drawing in the available information like a greedy beggar.
Nine, Ten.
As I finished counting the bloody corpse of Atticus Richter leapt toward me from the bed. He locked his fingers on me with the grip of an iron vice. Then he drove his teeth into my throat and I began to drown in the hot fluids filling my mouth and wind pipe. I tried to fight, to break free, but I was already too weak. As my life drained from me I heard a soft song from the hall before I died.