For ease of reading, I have recorded all these mysterious visions we seem to be receiving in this thread.
"Oh, how I have missed the salty seas! Aye, it's near naught of an opportunity to behold such beauty!"
"How could you find excitement over an atmosphere of blue and nothing but? My stomach churns by the mere thought of it, let alone my seasickness."
"To you, everything is about the view, but surely, you miss an important perspective to the beauty of the ocean!"
"Which is?"
"The smell of salt in the air."
"And?"
"The sound of the waves."
"Nothing fantastic about water splashing on wood."
"And yet, that is your expertise, given a little bit of imagination! How are you one of the world’s most prolific artists if you’re to see the ocean as a simple, uninspired puddle?”
“Simple, our world has more to demonstrate than its elements. Life, as we know it, tells us many stories; from the faces of passersby, the fascinating daily construct of the animal world, to the grandiose picture of a city, bustling with all living beings, whether be humans, pets or even rats. One can find many answers in life by simply observing everyday occurrences and, with the help of a brush and a canvas, I can translate that observation into a timeless historical piece. What could you possibly find something interesting within this simple, uninspired puddle, that you’ve spoken about, if you cannot observe a story within it?”
“There’s a story in all things, not just life itself. Activity is presented in more than daily occurrences.”
“If it’s about motion…”
“More than motion! Time itself is presented in everything! You see the story within societal activity, whereas I see a story from the perfect opposite. Observing the waves, as they’ve crossed from coast to coast: What have they carried along the way? Every drop of water, even if it’s all the same to the common eye, carry a different story and a different possible outcome of its purpose.”
“Where are you going with this, Therese?”
“No matter what you see out there, you will never have seen it in a similar way, no matter how small the difference. If you’ve ever felt that you’ve seen something from a previous vision, perhaps should you observe it from a different perspective? Suddenly, a different outcome will occur.”
“You’ve lost me in more ways than one.”
“That, too, is a matter of perspective.”
At the garden. Therese is sitting at a bunch, conversing with Valentina about their lives preceding the social experiment. Eventually, someone else walks by the two: A narrow-minded Edward, looking everywhere but in front of him. Therese waves at him for a while, shortly giving up and shouting at him for an invitation to sit down and converse.
The man, lost in his own thoughts, breaks from his absence of spirit.
“Therese! Oh, my, you’ve scared me.”
“Your lack of presence told me that.”
“How could that be? Presence doesn’t speak. You could read someone’s expressions by looking at their face, but I was facing away from you…-”
“Ah, blabbermouth! Sit, now, I’ve done naught but read your whole body. There’s more to someone than a face! Fascinating of you to be ignorant of this type of knowledge, what do you really do in your studies?”
Perplexed, but his interest now piqued towards their conversation, Edward sits by Therese, while a silent Valentina observes.
“I don’t study humans and, quite frankly, I find that remark to be a tad insulting. I try my hardest, like every other academic.”
“Aye, for the money I could obtain for hearing that saying.”
“You think academics are fakers?”
“It doesn’t only go one way or another, my Edward! I, too, have made some studies. The world around me were students, students and more students! Why, had I have seen a face that never frowned there, I would have stayed.”
“And so…”
“You say they try, but they’re unhappy! They cry more often, they look at the ground when they walk, they are shut-ins for the majority of the day! Students do not live a healthy life, but they dedicate it nonetheless towards what makes them as such. You say they try…”
“But they do, Therese. We try, just as much as you do. I cannot read ‘bodies’, as you say, but you cannot understand what we truly live for.”
“If it is unhappiness that you settle for and you’re content with it, I will not personally judge or damn you for it. However, I do worry about your way of living.”
“That unhappiness is from the stress we all experience throughout our studies. We might be suffering, but ultimately, it is inevitable! Research takes time and patience and results, with varied consequences, may not be what we are looking for, but it is what brings us to a future we can all live in, without worry, without detriment, without danger. We suffer, but we do it for you. Without us, you would be stuck in your caves, making a fire and barely making through the day without hunting down nearby stock.”
Valentina, locked out from any way of speaking — as the other two are back and forth on their topic, endlessly, it seems — attempts to break her own ice.
“Excuse me…”
The bickering ceases for a second, but no soul answers to the quiet girl. Although visibly upset by the lack of proper response, the priestess maintains her composure and leaves the scene, heading for the Chapel. The remaining two look at each other and, despite the lengthy talk, they’ve come to an agreement to stop their debate without uttering a single word.
At the library, near sunset. The ocean’s waves can be heard from inside the building. However fierce they may be, they still produce calm sounds when heard from inside the house. The sunset’s shine illuminates the room, making it look more of a sightseeing location than a place to find and read books.
Percy is sitting down at one of the Library’s desks, staring at a blank paper with a look of what seems to be dread and absence of mind. Valentina enters the scene shortly after, ignoring the catatonic man and his blank sheet, not by will, but by the lack of presence from the poet himself. Despite her thinking that nobody’s in the room, she still sneaks by, hugging the walls, as if there were 20 librarians actively searching for her. The silence in the library is disrupted by the priestess’ footsteps, but that alone does not wake up from Percy’s absentminded state. With a book in her hand, she closes by the shelf closest to the window, which is currently brightening the room and showing its dusty state. As Valentina closes by the shelf, she notices the deadlike body, stumbling and falling to the floor, waking up the romanticist from his slumber.
As Valentina gets back up, Percy jumps from his seat, eventually noticing the girl in front of him in a seemingly distressed state.
“Ah, Church woman! You’ve, er... “
The “Church woman” stares blankly at him.
“...Valentina, yes. You’ve woken me from my sleep... A slumber of depression and despair. Had I wished for a clearer mind for this poem, but au contraire!”
“Oh my, have you slept at all in the recent days?”
“No, no, no, my lovely! I have done nothing but torment and turmoil to my soul, looking for the right words for my newest work of art. As it is now, it’s nothing but a big hole, and my mind, she’s splitting apart!”
Valentina lets out a shocking gasp, one that startles the poet, such as how a cat’s reflex would work.
“Bless your soul, Percy, but I hope that no demon is within you…”
“Forgive me, ‘tis not what I meant. As simple as can be, my romantic mind, without a shadow of a doubt, has been spent. For I cannot bring myself to write a letter, to you and the rest of the island, my motivation has been torn asunder!”
He gazes at the book on the floor.
“Even more, I’ve done nothing but trouble for you, my lady. If I may, let me help you with this book, the least I can do to be handy.”
The priestess acquiesces with a simple nod, not one that the romanticist could read in her face. He bounces off his chair and picks up the book. Valentina points at the shelf, indicating where the book should go. Sliding it in, Percy turns to her and offers a gentlemanly bow. Unlike him, however, she manages to read the hopeless romantic in him and leaves without a word. Seconds pass as he stares at the door. Curiosity piqued him, as he turns around and picks the book from the shelf, opening and reading its contents. A few pages in, he closes the book and places it on top of the bookshelf.
A grin forms soon after.
“By the gods, Valentina, you’ve inspired me once more! With your help, I shall write what people will expect from art and lore!”
He sits down at the desk and immediately inks his feather, writing on the blank paper with passion emanating from every letter.
At the garden, a very careful and concentrating Tomas is crouching down, tending to the flowers. Alisa is helping alongside him, sweeping the pathway leading to the Chapel. Barely a word is uttered between the two, not that Alisa expected any other outcome: It's already well known with the island's inhabitants that Tomas does not listen when he pours his heart in his work. It's better to leave him be, but she would rather defy that notion. She approaches the florist.
"Tomas."
The water slowly drips to the flowers. The quantity of liquid poured in each plant seems to be measured scientifically.
"Tomas…"
Touching his shoulder from the back to get his attention would probably startle him, to the point of a heart attack.
"Tomas!"
Silence would speak volumes of his dedication, but he cracks and responds in an irritated manner.
"Quiet, they are scared of your wails."
Alisa stays silent in turn. Tomas stands up and turns around.
"And concerning the poison clouds you're scattering all over my children, I suggest you sweep in the pathway's direction, rather than the precious soil you see around you."
"Surely, you jest, Tomas. How should dust affect your so called children?"
She scoffs as she continues.
"I will have you know that, while flowers should be well maintained, we should not be treating them like-"
The words "contained experiments" almost left her mouth, but the irony of that statement would only bring further trouble in the discourse. She imagines all the things she could have done than follow along in this damned "experiment". The regret has settled from the beginning, but it has now plagued her mind.
"...Like test subjects!"
She tried to change her wording, but the regret persists in her mind.
"Not only dust, dear, but sand, dirt, ashes, salt! The sea’s salt, of all things, and it is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It accumulates in the air – I damn the ocean’s winds – and then hides in our ground, our soil, our houses! I try to keep the least amount of foreign objects from touching my flowers. I could have not accepted this experiment myself, but this soil…"
He rests his ear on the earth.
"This soil is special. It feeds the plants like nothing I have ever seen! I've seen rare plants here, turning to dust in the blink of an eye! I need to know more of it, and that is why I must maintain these flowers with utmost importance. It might be the key to many secrets in life, yet your ignorance would damn it all in one go."
Alisa furrows her brow, more in disbelief than in stupor or anger from the florist's obsession with his plants. She sighs.
"You are quite an insane fellow, you know that?"
Tomas' ear presses on the ground still. He signals a finger in the air towards Alisa.
"Silence, the soil is speaking."
Inside the Trophy Room. Gareth, his wife Aileen, Angus and François are assembled around a knife display, stuck in a corner, overwhelmed by various trophies, displays and sets of armor.
Angus opens the display. “Fine collection, aye, but do not touch the blades, if you can.”
Various knives of various curvatures shine from the sunlight, coincidentally beaming down on the display in the most opportunistic angle. François had his eyes laid on what he believes is a knife, polished with steel and a fine edge. He pulls it out carefully, to his overseer’s demands. Angus gives a short scoff at the Chef’s fascination with the blade.
“Don’t think these cutters are made for cooking, lad. Your presence alone was unsolicited in the first place, dare I mind you.”
François does not flinch at the remark, but instead holds his head high for a passive retort.
“Blades are made for cutting. Knives are blades, knives are used in the kitchen. The most inspirant recipes are made from unconventional methods. However, I understand that you do not want these knives to be dirtied, am I correct?”
“Aye, but there needs to be no reminder that ‘tis the house’s collection, not yours.”
Gareth approaches the two, as if he were to announce some form of decree.
“The chef will not use these blades for cooking. I think we all know this by now.”
Followed by quiet, amused clapping from the wife behind him. Easily pleased by her husband’s authoritative presence, but easily annoying to the others’ eyes, she doesn’t utter a single word, for fear of being ostracized from the new society and, worse, her own lover. Angus is visibly annoyed, not by the clapping, but by the cook’s wise-assery.
“Overseer, sir, I assure you that I only wanted to have a close look at the knives. If they were made for collecting, then so be it. However, my curiosity also extends to the house’s obtenance of these tools.”
Angus opens his mouth in pure annoyance, but stops and takes a breath before speaking.
“This display was given to us as part of the experiment. I, myself, do not know of the display’s origins, nor do I know of how we’ve obtained the rest of this cornucopia of rich man’s treasure.”
“A… Cornucopia?”
“Figurative speech, first word that exited my gob.”
“A figurative speech that a cook would say.”
“I am no cook. Hells, I can barely toast a loaf without it becoming ash.”
The group share a hearty laugh, with Angus having an awkward chuckle. François returns to the display.
“Despite my insulting and, if you could excuse me for that display of unpleasant wit, these knives are sublime! I picked the steel one as it reminds me the most of a kitchen knife. I did say that knives are made for cutting, but knives can be made for displaying too, if they look beautiful enough.”
The appreciation for the knife display visibly calms Angus down to reduce the redness of his face.
“Some have jewels on them! Emerald, rubies, even a diamond! Breaking one of these would make its value worthless. I understand how these need to be pristine and, as soon as I heard of the display, I couldn’t resist to ask for a viewing. It’s… not a hobby, but an interest of mine.”
Gareth smiles. “Will that be all, then?”
The chef nods, asking to be excused. He exits the room with a hop and a step.
Angus manages another scoff.
“I hope that the people don’t share his enthusiasm for talking down on us.”
Aileen steps forward and faces the overseer with a look of concern on her face.
“My, oh my, Angus, you need to trust our subjects a little more than that! François is our friend, after all! Such talk should not be frowned upon as much as you are frowning about it!”
“Take a break from law, and everyone revolts when you least expect it. You need to practice your stern looks, miss.”
“And if our people get scared of us, what could they possibly do? If we’re too strict to them, who’s to say that they won’t get rid of us in return?”
Angus is silent for a few seconds.
“...That’s a stern talk. I hope you’ve got more of that in ye.”
He then dismisses himself from the room, leaving the couple alone.
It’s dark.
You only see dark.
They only see dark. Nobody is around them, yet they hide.
A muffled conversation holds place in this darkness. You barely make any light of the words you hear.
“Surely... is near, why now of all times should...?”
“You were supposed to… but you decide to join us in this façade. What… in showing yourself here?”
“I must see it with my own eyes. With…”
“Your… Is not flawless. Prying eyes are everywhere, that much, you should know.”
“I invite them to try. It would require… I do not expect such persistence from anyone.”
“You underestimate humanity as a whole.”
“Should humanity be estimated at all is of no importance. What is important is… Let them see it for themselves. We’ve talked enough. Any more, and...”
“I hope you know what you are doing.”
Footsteps can be heard, as if the two voices are walking away from each other.
A bright night. The moon’s shine embellishes the view of the sky, riddled with stars and light clouds. The dreamy view washes away the endless waters surrounding the isolated location. Inland, a campfire, located outside of House Minerva, becomes the only source of light of the island, with a single man contemplating right beside it.
Moments pass by, another person joins the bonfire.
“You should know that you shouldn’t be allowed outside without supervision, Nathan.”
He sits by the fire, keeping a distance away from the thief.
“This experiment never told me about supervision, sir. I might be a thief, but I will have you know that a thief, at least one with the capacity to think, would have no reason to steal or hurt anyone in a place like this.”
“The possibility is still present.”
“Of course, Gareth. Should I steal from kitchen cupboards or from scientific cabinets, I would be the number one suspect. Why even attempt when the intrigue starts and ends with me as the accused? There is no fun in hiding when you are constantly in plain sight. Figuratively, might I add.”
“You are a troublemaker to my eyes and to many others in this island. Justify as you may, but regardless of your situation, it is still my directive to keep watch on everyone and ensure the security of this island. As for you, you are under Academia’s watch. Should any of the representatives need you, I trust that you will follow their every command.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve hurting me.”
“Their experiments are purely psychological.”
“Science does not efficiently determine one’s mind. If I were to experience any trouble, I would approach Valentina, instead.”
“Prayers are to ease one’s soul, not mind.”
“If only.”
Silence reigns the camp for a moment. Nathan looks up at the starry sky.
“Gareth.”
No answer.
“The night sky has never been so stunning, hasn’t it? I’d stare at this forever. It’s dark, yet, everything shines so bright. I feel like I’m in a dream.”
Gareth ponders at the fire, instead. The thief lets out a brief sigh, standing up and approaching his elder.
“However, this is no dream. Perhaps you should be careful, for I am not the only criminal here.”
He hands over a knife, adorned with an emerald stuck by the hilt. Gareth lets out a surprised face, while Nathan flaunts one of satisfaction. The illusive man retreats to his house, while the other stares intensely at the weapon.
House Academia.
Two men are having a battle of words over moot points. Although muffled words at first, their conversation eventually becomes clearly audible.
“... not supposed to take part in this.”
"I will have you know that I was the top pick for this project and I have been proving my worth every second of my time here!"
It's Zayn and Mernon, and they're on the verge of yelling at each other.
"Well I will have you know that your only display of worth in this island so far has been nothing but buffoonery! Complete, utter-"
"Buffoonery!" Mernon scoffs. "Your dictionary is as extensive as your contributions to real science!"
Zayn's face can be visibly seen turning redder by the second.
"YOU have been bringing PESTILENCE to this house with your so-called 'experiments'! YOU were the cause of last night's sickness, when your 'Potion' turned a simple salad vinaigrette into PUTRID SLIME!"
"That salad was delicious and nobody knows true food in this. What is putrid is YOUR attitude!"
"HAVE YOU EVEN POURED THE DAMNED SLIME ON YOUR SALAD?!"
Mernon takes a pause of hesitation. He's about to bite his lip, but refrains from doing so in reflex of not showing weakness towards his opponent.
"That is besides the point. The point I am tryi-"
"YOU HAVE POISONED HALF THE ISLAND!!"
You swear you could hear Zayn's screams resonate in your head. You wonder if his screaming could be heard from anywhere within the island, possibly farther. Mernon's mouth is about to open when a person can be seen outside, from the window, falling down. A second later, a thud could be heard. The two academians rush downstairs and head outside, spotting an unmoving body, lying on the ground.
Upon closer inspection, the bloodied white dress, long black hair and a serious stab wound to the stomach can only belong to an unfortunate Valentina. Zayn approaches the body furthermore to observe for any other injuries.
"Oh, gods."
"Is she alright?"
"Buffoon! Do you think she's alright? Fetch the bandages and medicine already!"
Mernon dashes back inside to the house. Zayn touches his fingers beside Valentina's neck to check for her pulse…
...Nothing.
Mernon comes back, carrying whatever he thinks could be first aid. He attempts to help by applying some ointment on the open wound, then bandaging it. He notices that Zayn has been observing the whole time.
"Why aren't you helping?"
Zayn unconsciously bites his lip.
"I'm afraid we cannot help at this point."
The two academians look at each other, then at the body, for what seems to be an eternity. Silence dominates the scene, so much so that you could feel it resonate in your head.
Leisure Room. A place for winding down and uplifting one’s spirits. People live life without a care as they share their worldly views of all and nothing. To have House Minerva host the postmortem of Valentina’s unpleasing demise is nothing short of irony, but the leader’s word was made so. Gareth, Gordon, Angus, François, Zayn, Mernon, Renard and Therese surround the table, normally used for playing cards and enjoying a drink, with Valentina’s body in the middle.
Not a month has gone by since the experiment has begun and something went remarkably awry. Someone’s eagerness to kill was in the forefront of everyone’s thoughts and fears, more so than the Priestess’ death. Small talk was made little, as everyone knew that breaking the silence would only make the atmosphere feel more tense. It had to be broken eventually, and who else to break it but Therese.
“Right, I am not here to extend the world’s longest moment of silence. I’d like to get this done with so we can plank the bastard and go back home.”
Angus breaks the ice even further:
“Lass, I’m sure your friend’s death is a very painful one, but the experiment will go on without her, or her murderer. If yer waiting for a wee boat, you’ll be waiting for a very long time.”
A contesting frown is formed on the seafarer’s face. Angus knows well that he is in for a long discussion, if you can call it a discussion.
“Aye, the boat’s not coming, but it’s not like we can’t make one ourselves?”
Gareth moves in to quell the tension.
“The seas will swallow us whole, if we’re to make our own boat. I cannot allow for us to leave, for we’d evade danger with an even greater one. You’re a seafarer, yes? What makes you think we can build a boat for all of us to get in, not make it drown and direct it to the closest land mass?”
“I’d rather drown than stay here and I’m sure most of us think the same.”
Therese turns to the quiet folk. No hands are raised and eyes are looking at the various pass-time objects they could consume to forget the commotion. François, as he eyes the champagne bottles, loosens up a bit.
“I don’t think we should depart from here… I do enjoy the idea of, well… not dying.”
Mernon moves forward with some words of his own.
“Tomas promised me some rare specimen the other night. Were I to leave… How could I prove my superiority to our dear ‘buffoon’ Zayn? Besides, it is not like we are all murderers in this island. I’m sure the thief sneaked out of his cell to satisfy his bloodlust...”
The chemist doesn’t take the statements very lightly.
“Buffoon of all buffoons! Your comments are always out of place, even in the direst of conditions. A thief does not satisfy itself in bloodlust. A thief steals, you buffoon!”
Therese motions as if she’s about to have a headache. She pinches her bridge in defeat and interrupts before the two scientists start their daily comedy routine.
“Right, right, right, right, let’s not get into any baseless accusations! I’m not here to learn about your lives, I’m here to be part of an experiment. This was supposed to be an experiment about life in an isolated island. If someone dies, I can safely say this whole operation was for naught. Whoever chose the candidates needs to reconsider their career…”
Gareth interrupts Therese’s train of thought with a simple gesture. Despite the situation, he is able to keep his composure and keep attention where it is needed.
“If you want to leave the island, we can discuss it later. For now, we have a murderer and a body to solve. Can we all agree to focus on this more important matter for now?”
A simple nod can be seen on everyone’s head.
“Good.”
He turns to Gordon and beckons him to approach the body.
“Gordon, what do you make of the stab wound?”
The swordsman crouches over to the body, observing closely the wound and the blood splatter it created.
“A knife.”
François stutters forward.
“W-well, I am sure it cannot be a kitchen knife. Am I correct, m‘sieux?”
Silence, followed by Gordon’s ignoring follow-up.
“Something the size of a ceremonial dagger, or maybe a pocket knife. I do not know exactly.”
A clearly audible sigh of relief is let loose by the chef. Gordon prods a bit at the wound, opening it up, letting a bit of blood further gush out.
Renard, who hasn’t shown any presence until now, snaps from his absent mind and protests.
“Why are we examining the body here, of all places?”
“The rain would wash away the blood.” replied Gareth. “And I can assure you that nobody wants to go to sleep as a soaking wet rag.”
“Well, why not at House Acade-”
“Quiet.”
Renard seemingly snaps back into his state of catalepsy without uttering a single word.
Gordon keeps away from the body and furrows his brow in discontent.
“It is a deep wound. If I were to guess, it was a single stab, from the tip to the hilt.”
“Sick bastard of a whore.”, grumbled Therese.
“A wound like this is very decisive, from the movement leading to the impact. Whatever the killer was doing, he or she felt pure dedication to see this kill through.”
Silence, again. Gareth ponders to himself. Whatever he was thinking of, he did not like.
“I must speak with Nathan.”
He turns around and leaves the group. Gordon follows suit, but the rest of the pack stay around the table, gazing at the lifeless body. Angus ponders to himself in turn, rhetorically asking a question out loud:
“What does that div have to do with the kill?”
“But thieves don’t kill, right?”
A collective of all but Mernon turn their head in annoyance towards Mernon. He backs up and leaves the room, as the gazes pierce through his soul.
At the holding cells. An unnerved Gareth approaches Nathan's cell, clearly shaken by the recent events of the day: A leader manages a group of people and, not even a month in, chaos settles in. Despite his discouraged mindset, he attempts to hold his emotions in, readying to parley with the thief.
At the cell, Nathan is lying down at his bed, not to sleep, but to stare at the ceiling. Contrary to a nobleman's thoughts, the cell is not a pigsty, a trademark style of a prison cell one could see in London or any of its popular jail counterparts. Instead, it is a modest bedroom, locked up behind bars. At least, it would be locked up, had there been a dedicated guard to watch over him. Nathan is his own guard, deciding when he leaves and when he stays, not that he seems to mind it.
Gareth knocks at the cell bars, which lets out a slightly reverberated sound, loud enough to wake up Nathan from his aimless gaze.
“You know something about the knife?”
Nathan stares at the nobleman, with a smile at the corner of his lips.
“Figured it out, sire?”
“Cut the jabs, thief, you are currently suspected for more than knife robbery.”
The prisoner moves to sit at his bed, facing Gareth. His nonchalance spells out misdemeanor for his peer.
“I was hoping you would understand. What do you think of that knife? The second I laid my eyes on it, I knew it was something special. It is not special to the naked eye, but my gut instinct says otherwi-”
“Pray that your knife isn’t the one that’s involved, because the priestess has been murdered by one.”
The grin immediately fades away from the thief. The news has shocked him, as much as his shock, shocked the news bearer. Nathan is brought back to his aimless gazing, possibly attempting to let out sound words, rather than stutters and stammers.
“Show me the knife.”
He complies without a word. From under his bed’s pillow, Nathan pulls out the knife: The same one he presented to the leader at the bonfire some nights ago. The knife and its encrusted emerald does not bear any scratches, or more importantly, any trace of blood. Gareth deduces as much after examining it thoroughly for a long minute.
“I assure you, Gareth, that I did not use that knife for blood sport. I am a thief, not a killer. I do not partake i-”
“I’ve heard that excuse well enough. What you have to say does not matter and I have heard it enough from more than one idiot, anyway. On the same day, mind you.”
“Fair enough, but that knife is not well made for killing.”
“Have you taken any other knives?”
“I don’t need more than one.”
“Where have you taken this, then?”
“The display, in the Trophy Room.”
“And you knew about it? Since when?”
“You’ve presented them to that Cook. He seemed to enjoy of the longer sort.”
“So you admit to snooping?”
“A thief admitting to snooping to a monarch speaking with authority.”
“Yes, or no?”
Nathan starts taking aback from the barrage of comments and questions. He knows that Gareth is taking this situation seriously enough to warrant frustration from passive talkbacks, something he usually does not have a problem with.
“Yes. The knives looked like treasures, artifacts, what have you.”
“And your motive was to steal.”
“A criminal decides to murder in a location, devoid of an escape route. We’ve had this talk before. If you want me to help find the murderer, I will follow suit. For now, any other answer to your questions will mean nothing to you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I am not the killer.”
Pause.
“Right. You are ordered to follow me until the murder has been solved. Any aid that directly contributes to solving this mystery will be rewarded. We’ve no time to waste, now.”
--
The Fountain. Mernon is heading towards House Academia, where the unfortunate event has taken place. The front door is not blocked by a body anymore, but the sight of it all is still vividly burned into his retinas.
Inside, he notices the clock. It’s nearing midnight, only a few more minutes to go. The day has been long, with the murder mystery seemingly lasting even longer than the day itself. Inside, he sees Percy, sitting by one of the coffee tables, staring at a blank piece of paper. Not to scare the poet, the Alchemist greets him in a soft spoken voice. Percy does not answer, or move in any way. Approaching him, Mernon notices distress emanating from the man’s body: An aura in which he has never seen or experienced before. From the Romanticist’s eyes to the sheet, only one shakenly written word can be read.
“Marie”
Never have I worked so hard for such an abstract project. All the lies I have given to them on a silver platter can greatly jeopardize my plans if they’re to find out, but to what extent do I have to lie? It’s a breakthrough in the history of everything. Mathematics, science, literature, philosophy, and so on, these concepts can never figure out what I am about to discover. Greed from other investors would ruin me, and I am not about to let a single soul get to the bottom of this before I do first.
The workers have done an excellent job building a tiny village. Given the materials they had to work with, it is a miracle that they have not run out of anything whatsoever to construct the houses. I cannot give credit to the source, as it is not working as of right now. Whatever has happened to it, I will figure it out as the time comes. If all goes right, time will mean nothing to me. Time betrayed me long enough, and it would betray me even further as I go on. Life isn’t about the short moments, but the big impact you leave upon others.
I hope to bring a new view to the world. I doubt that I can make the biggest impact on it, but the fruits of our labor can turn a profit quite quickly. Industries have begun deploying these work strategies for harder, better working subordinates. If they can go further and beyond what is expected of the crystal, I can easily turn the tides of trading to my favor. Hendrik conjectures that results should be fine by my standards, but I don’t think he knows what my standards are, nor what the crystal can do. I don't even know the extent of the gem’s power, and I am already risking my entire project for mere lies. The safest option here is obvious. The poor saps that have chosen to be here will have to do their best for me, or I might be in deep trouble.
The priestess' gaze locked on to the poet's head, then, to his hands. For a moment, one could tell that she was relieved, but she did not let her guard down for too long. Therese steps forward with prudence.
"Valentina… If that is you, please tell us."
Silence, but only for a moment.
"I…"
That single word was enough to send shock to those who are currently witnessing this miracle, albeit a nightmare for some: Valentina's voice was clearly heard, echoing quietly throughout the building. Angus enters the scene, keeping his calm despite the overwhelming events that have occurred throughout the day and night.
"I had this dream… Percy was there, telling me to remember… something... He was crying and begging, but I could not understand him…"
Angus turns his head to see a shaking Percy. Sweat is ever so visibly forming on his forehead, visible thanks to the moonlight shining through the chapel's glass panes. Shortly after, the poet's teeth start chattering.
"Gordon, you might want to grab this Percy fellow. Lad's having a bad reaction."
The overseer's tone did not seem to come with authority, rather, it was a suggestion. Gordon obeys without hesitation, putting his arm over Percy's shoulder.
Valentina continues.
"Then… I felt hurt. I felt hurt, but I don't know what happened next..."
The swordsman's arm grips tighter to the shaken man's body.
"Then I woke up here. The pain felt awfully real, but I don't feel it now. It was like a dream… It was a dream, wasn't it?"
Angus rushed towards the poet, but as he was about to hold him with the help of Gordon, Percy let out an overwhelming scream, tossing about without aim, but not losing Gordon's tough grip.
"YOU'RE NOT ALIVE, MARIE! I KILLED YOU, I KILLED YOU SO YOU CAN BE FREE!!"
The two authoritarian figures pick up Percy, ready to take him outside. Angus clears his throat and speaks with confidence, unshaken by the murderer's fit.
"Right, lad, your confession was unnecessary and, quite frankly, you've done enou-"
"HOW CAN YOU NOT REMEMBER OUR BLISSFUL MOMENTS TOGETHER?! IS IT ME, THE ONE WHO BRINGS NOTHING BUT BOTHER?! TELL ME, MARIE. WHY CAN'T YOU REMEMBER?!"
Valentina lets out a worrisome gasp, immediately tearing up from the pathetic man's desperate screams. A jab comes from Angus, directly hitting Percy's face and knocking him out. He shakes his hand in frustration.
"He's lost his mind, int it? We'll bring him in. Therese, take care of the girl, would ye?"
As Therese nodded, the other two leave the scene with the unconscious romanticist. With a slight hesitation, she approaches the priestess, stopping at barely normal talking distance.
"Valentina… You really aren't hurt, are you?"
No response.
"I've got to say… I do not think that it was a dream at all. We were just talking about who did this to you. If I can be honest with ye, I feel like I'm the one dreaming here."
Tears are slowly flowing down from Valentina's eyes, followed by hiccups. Therese quickly rushes in and hugs her, in the hopes of calming her down.
"Perhaps… We're all dreaming the same dream…."
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