I
8th of Vhalar, arc 719A man was lain across a stone table. Leather straps prevented his wrists and ankles from enjoying a full range of movement. The buckles were reddening the skin. There were scratch marks along the wood surrounding the hands as well, likely from attempts to claw against the material rather than any sort of differing origin.
His body was a mess. Warped by the craters of innumerable plague, and body deformed from what appeared to be a flame that had once engulfed a decent portion of the body, to say he was in bad shape would be an understatement. The fact that he was alive was likely a testament to his fortitude, or at least his luck. Though at this point, many would argue that death would be perhaps the more ethical option.
He had been stripped of clothing, down to the loincloth. The room was warmed by the flames of a distant brazier and locked doors, in some attempt to not have the man suffer from frostbite as well as the ongoing health issues he seemed to be struggling with. At the end of the day, the man was destitute in almost all sense of the word.
It reminded Sybil of their first contract.
As they warmed the copper blade against the flames, their mind wandered for a moment. The glistening orange metal gleaming against the brilliantly blazing brazier, they looked at their own reflection within the dull sheen. There seemed to be an endless supply of those that were on the last whittled threads of sanity or life, who had some sort of guardian angel to try and protect them.
In this case, it was his mother. She's paying extra to remain anonymous, and for me to remain silent about her child's identity. According to the contract itself, he was found gibbering to himself in a hotel room next to a corpse. Why they hadn't heard of such an obviously dubious ordeal did not escape their mind, but the fact of the matter was that they had to bend to the whims of the market in order to get ahead. Sometimes, they simply meant going along with weak stories.
He was younger, though. As Sybil turned their gaze towards the man, so drugged on poppies and elixirs that he didn't know where he was, they could see the youth in his face. They could easily guess that he wasn't too far older than the typical age of majority. His features were strange, in that despite the marks upon his body, there were signs that he wasn't as old as his physical appearance led on.
Pulling the knife from the brazier, they turned their attention back to the table, and the man laying upon it. Their mind was slowly fluttering with distant thoughts of just what lay within the man. Sybil was familiar with ghosts and souls in a practical sense, but when it came to genuine academics and theorycraft? They honestly couldn't be much more clueless than they already were. What they were doing was defying the typical conventions of being a spiritualist. A strange title for the profession, considering the difference between spirits and ghosts.
Whatever was inside of the man, was something malignant. It was silent, that much was for certain, though. Their eyes slowly traced along the man's body as they attempted to make sense of what could possibly cause this; it made no difference however, unless this entity was something that was different than a soul. Which at this point, just might be the case.
The fits of screaming and rage were definitely indicative of possession, but there seemed to be some sort of underlying instability. The mind did not naturally crumble this quickly, even in cases of possession, someone is able to hold onto their thoughts at least some of the time, and if they can't? Chances are it's a powerful soul, which tends to make itself known almost immediately.
Yet nothing had come to parley. It was a silent approach that made absolutely no sense. Something was distinctly wrong, and the general idea of what was wrong, was upon the tip of their tongue. But there were no apparitions demanding that they put down the knife, or trying to reason with them on why this is the only way to for their future to be secured.
There was nothing but absolute silence. The sound of the twos' breathing and the crackling of the distant brazier. Was something lying in wait like some kind of tanner mantis preparing to lunge at its prey? Was this even an issue that they could handle on their own? Sybil's speculations were met with no answers. Frankly, there was no way to understand what was even happening without just jumping in and see what works.
It was juvenile though, wasn't it? To blindly cut into someone without knowing what was the matter, it was as though they were a child again playing at things that they didn't fully understand. Something that perhaps someone else could do entirely better and more ethically.
Placing the blade of copper on the table next to the man, they almost expected a violent response. Their mind braced for the shock of something screaming, or perhaps making loud and incessant demands that echoed through the room itself. The sound of a metal blade running against the metal plate seemed to fill the silence.
Yet, there was nothing. A blank sheet of silence filled the room with unremitting oppression. It was louder than any sort of specter trying to scream its incorporeal lungs out. The incessant ringing of the absence of noise covered their senses as they tried to make sense of what was even going on. It wasn't even chaos that confused them about this situation, it was just the complete and utter lack of any sort of response that started to make the hairs on their spine stand straight.
This was wrong, wasn't it? Their eyes settled upon the man strapped against the table. Whatever was left of this man was more than a little damaged. It was hard to say if they would do more harm than good, trying to make sense of his condition. Possession is hard to verify in a man that's already more than a little bit of a derelict. In the end, as they reached for the knife, their mind had already made a decision: Not knowing is worse than knowing.
Within a break, Sybil had their answer.
Whatever was within the man was most definitely a soul that wasn't his own. The slicing upon his skin with a copper knife seemed to alleviate some of the possessive effects, but as time went on, it had diminishing returns. A mixed method was applied in an attempt to disrupt the entity's hold upon the man.
As time passed, the twitching fingers of the derelict man was enough to tell them that they were on the right track. The more that they began to cut into him, the more he seemed to respond. For a short while, it seemed as though the answer to the problem was found, despite the distinct lack of information that was given.
Designs were drawn upon his flesh with the knife. Sybil was looking across the table and towards a book that bore strange symbols within it. They had been assured that it was the language of the Immortals, but it wasn't something they were familiar with. As they carved the glyphs into the body of the writhing man, they couldn't help but squint at the confusing explanations for what this was even supposed to do.
Apparently, the phrase had something to do with guilting the specter with the power of Vri. Something that confused Sybil, as they had never heard of the god having anything to do with exorcisms, nor anything to do with directly communing with anyone for something as petty as this. Yet, it was attempted, as anything is better than nothing in this specific case.
…
The metallic twinge of the scent of blood hangs in the air with an uncanny thickness. What resulted was a bloodletting of sorts. They had to cut deep enough to try and effect whatever was taking over the body, but it's uncertain if it had left. There was something that stood out to Sybil, though.
The body, even now, didn't really move. Between it and the unseen soul that had inhabited its body, there was just very little reaction. Even now, they could hardly even really see any difference than when they started, aside from slightly more relaxed facial features, as though he was not in any sort of pain. Which is odd, considering what he'd been through.
Bandages were wrapped upon him. He was prepared to be sent back to his mother to be examined by whatever means she had to determine if this worked or not.
Sybil was by no means her first choice after all, and only conceded when Karlsson intervened.
… This was the last time they'd seen the man. There was no further correspondence after the payment. A lingering sense of dread coats Sybil's mind about it to this very day.
