Sig - My throat burned as I raised and drew straight from the bottle of Old Law. My mind blurred but the weight of what had happened seemed sharp within as if it had been forever burned in place by a brand glowing brighter red than a blacksmith’s forge. The warmth of the whiskey dulled my memory, but it was still there.
A sense of dread had hung over the shop from the moment I entered. It had grown with frightening speed as I cautiously looked around.
The decaying skin, claws, and ravenous mouth weren’t enough to hide that the creature within had once been the man I called Pop-pop. My mind had raced; the thought that this couldn’t be happening persisted.
The present raced back to me as a choked down another swallow of Old Law. Maybe if I had run I could come up with way to save him… Maybe if I subdued and restrained him I could come up with a better solution than battering the walking corpse until it stopped its unnatural movement.
I knew I was lying to myself and surrendered to the memory.
He isn’t my Pop-pop. Mourn the man after you’ve dealt with what he has become.
Ori’s blood dripping from the creature’s mouth made it clear it was no longer Atticus. The hatred in its eyes towards me only emphasized the fact. It wasn’t my Grandfather. It was an empty shell. Atticus was no more. Yet, a gravely harsh voice called out from the walking corpse, a voice reminiscent of Atticus’s.
You seek to destroy the good work I have created?
The shop was aflame by my doing. I would have burned the entire city down to stop the creature which now mockingly wore Atticus’s skin.
I called out in return, more to convince myself one last time rather than an actual retort.
This was not your work. This was the work of a good man named Atticus Richter. You are nothing more than a shell.“
Another draw from the bottle and my vision began to tunnel. Darkness soon followed.
The morning sun woke me as it crept through the open door to the balcony. My mind tried to make sense and reason where only a little could be found. The witch, likely the one Raenir once called “Lips”, who had taken residence in the lighthouse was nearly without a doubt the one behind Atticus’s murder.
How do you get revenge on someone who is already dead?
Some of my previous speculation had suspected Lips of being Gevorah’s agent. I had no proof, but if my speculation was correct I could at least guess at some of her ambitions and goals.
The witch carried a blade.
Signs of poison had been present in the shop, but the gaping wound in Atticus’s chest would have been the fatal blow. If she had compatriots it would be fitting if they were killed with her blade. The time of letting my friends dirty their hands in my stead was at an end. No more shying away from bloodshed, at least in this pursuit.
Time to go, Sig.
I gathered my belongings and stepped off the balcony in flight on my way to the lighthouse to recover the knife.
