The title wasn't my idea
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12th Ashan, 718
For someone with mysophobia, his sister had elected a peculiar place to live, but what the alleyway lacked in orderliness it more than made up for with bargain rent prices. Sometimes principles fell victim to vices.
The door was locked. It was a miracle she hadn’t put some kind of enchantment on it. Probably thought that either no one knew she lived there (she had no friends, after all) or no one would be stupid enough to break into O’Connor’s house. He wasn’t a master lockpicker, nor did he bring anything to pick locks with him simply because he didn’t need to. The good old Shadow Key was fished from the innermost pocket of his coat as a gentle evening breeze attempted to sweep the dank alley clean.
The lock gave and Finn breathed a sigh of relief. He’d discovered that the key worked on most plain locks, but could not bypass enchantments. The door creaked open, gaping darkness welcomed him, accompanied by a waft of stale air. He wrinkled his nose, but stepped forward regardless, his heavy, tired footsteps echoing into unknown depths.
He left the door half-open, letting a sliver of moonlight slip into Fiona’s cold, orderly home. With a low thud his backpack hit the floor near the entrance, the pots, pans, and other materials from the road rattled in relief. They could rest at last.
Stepping forward, he rekindled the old, dried firewood in the underutilized stove with an idle motion, bathing the home in a dim, warm light. Flames licked at the wood and for a trill, he shared in their joy. But his mirth wasn’t too last. A grinning face loomed in the dark.
It couldn’t be! He retreated a step, only to hear something crack under his boot. When he looked, the horrid face of another Doran figured, splintered and cracked, stared up at him with the same, joyless smile.
Doran smiled to his left, Doran smiled to his right, Doran smiled everywhere he looked as entire shelves had been dedicated to the Hero of Oscilus. Their hard, lifeless smiles and glass, cat-like eyes stared down with the utmost menace. Figurines carved out of wood, metal and ceramic hung from hundreds of drooping puppeteering cords, hanging from the ceiling like spider’s silk.
“What in the-” he muttered under his breath. Finding oneself in a dark, abandoned home full of smirking Doran figures was horrible enough, but to realize that his sister must’ve collected these figures bordered on nightmarish. He had never once been given any cause to believe she idolized the grumpy alchemist. Was she in love?
The horror was shaken with a nervous, childish giggle at the very idea that this was how Zipper O’Connor coped with butterflies in her stomach.
Now that the fire in the stove had had a little time to grow, Finn closed the front door and let his eyes slide across the small home, the parts not covered in finished and unfinished figurines that was. It wasn’t there. Not that he’d expected Fiona’s letter to be on the kitchen table, that would give it too much prominence, too much authority. She’d always claimed she didn’t care for the letter, sometimes even said she’d thrown it away a long time ago, but she’d lied to him before and he wouldn’t give up looking for it until he’d searched every nook and cranny of her house.
He started in the kitchen, not in the least because he hoped there’d be a snack hidden somewhere. The first drawer contained cutlery and some stumps of poorly carved wood. The drawer below that was where Fiona kept her pans. Used to anyway. It now served as bucket of sawdust. Perhaps she had-?
He rummaged through the sawdust, spilling some of it onto the floor, but his fingers found nothing that resembled a letter at the bottom of the drawer. It was onto the cupboard next, though they could be more accurately described as Doranboards, for they contained more botched, awkwardly grinning figures. He was starting to wonder just how much money she’d spent on the wood and tools required when he considered that the kitchen was a rather unlikely place to store private belongings. A small desk lined the far wall of the living room. Fiona had clearly rarely used it for some dust had gathered around the legs of the chair. Finn’s heart jumped as an army of grinning figures appeared in the small mirror atop the desk. He quickly put the creepy thing down before returning his mind to the task at hand. The bottom drawers were empty, but the top drawer contained some paper, an inkwell and-
Now he was the one grinning as he pulled a familiar looking envelope from the depths of the drawer. With trembling digits he hurried over to the front door and stuffed the letter into his backpack, never minding the trail of dirty footsteps he was leaving in Fiona’s impeccable house. “Don’t judge,” he whispered to the many staring Dorans. Heart racing, he slung the backpack over his shoulders and prepared to leave.
Sometimes principles fell victim to vices.
The door was locked. It was a miracle she hadn’t put some kind of enchantment on it. Probably thought that either no one knew she lived there (she had no friends, after all) or no one would be stupid enough to break into O’Connor’s house. He wasn’t a master lockpicker, nor did he bring anything to pick locks with him simply because he didn’t need to. The good old Shadow Key was fished from the innermost pocket of his coat as a gentle evening breeze attempted to sweep the dank alley clean.
The lock gave and Finn breathed a sigh of relief. He’d discovered that the key worked on most plain locks, but could not bypass enchantments. The door creaked open, gaping darkness welcomed him, accompanied by a waft of stale air. He wrinkled his nose, but stepped forward regardless, his heavy, tired footsteps echoing into unknown depths.
He left the door half-open, letting a sliver of moonlight slip into Fiona’s cold, orderly home. With a low thud his backpack hit the floor near the entrance, the pots, pans, and other materials from the road rattled in relief. They could rest at last.
Stepping forward, he rekindled the old, dried firewood in the underutilized stove with an idle motion, bathing the home in a dim, warm light. Flames licked at the wood and for a trill, he shared in their joy. But his mirth wasn’t too last. A grinning face loomed in the dark.
It couldn’t be! He retreated a step, only to hear something crack under his boot. When he looked, the horrid face of another Doran figured, splintered and cracked, stared up at him with the same, joyless smile.
Doran smiled to his left, Doran smiled to his right, Doran smiled everywhere he looked as entire shelves had been dedicated to the Hero of Oscilus. Their hard, lifeless smiles and glass, cat-like eyes stared down with the utmost menace. Figurines carved out of wood, metal and ceramic hung from hundreds of drooping puppeteering cords, hanging from the ceiling like spider’s silk.
“What in the-” he muttered under his breath. Finding oneself in a dark, abandoned home full of smirking Doran figures was horrible enough, but to realize that his sister must’ve collected these figures bordered on nightmarish. He had never once been given any cause to believe she idolized the grumpy alchemist. Was she in love?
The horror was shaken with a nervous, childish giggle at the very idea that this was how Zipper O’Connor coped with butterflies in her stomach.
Now that the fire in the stove had had a little time to grow, Finn closed the front door and let his eyes slide across the small home, the parts not covered in finished and unfinished figurines that was. It wasn’t there. Not that he’d expected Fiona’s letter to be on the kitchen table, that would give it too much prominence, too much authority. She’d always claimed she didn’t care for the letter, sometimes even said she’d thrown it away a long time ago, but she’d lied to him before and he wouldn’t give up looking for it until he’d searched every nook and cranny of her house.
He started in the kitchen, not in the least because he hoped there’d be a snack hidden somewhere. The first drawer contained cutlery and some stumps of poorly carved wood. The drawer below that was where Fiona kept her pans. Used to anyway. It now served as bucket of sawdust. Perhaps she had-?
He rummaged through the sawdust, spilling some of it onto the floor, but his fingers found nothing that resembled a letter at the bottom of the drawer. It was onto the cupboard next, though they could be more accurately described as Doranboards, for they contained more botched, awkwardly grinning figures. He was starting to wonder just how much money she’d spent on the wood and tools required when he considered that the kitchen was a rather unlikely place to store private belongings. A small desk lined the far wall of the living room. Fiona had clearly rarely used it for some dust had gathered around the legs of the chair. Finn’s heart jumped as an army of grinning figures appeared in the small mirror atop the desk. He quickly put the creepy thing down before returning his mind to the task at hand. The bottom drawers were empty, but the top drawer contained some paper, an inkwell and-
Now he was the one grinning as he pulled a familiar looking envelope from the depths of the drawer. With trembling digits he hurried over to the front door and stuffed the letter into his backpack, never minding the trail of dirty footsteps he was leaving in Fiona’s impeccable house. “Don’t judge,” he whispered to the many staring Dorans. Heart racing, he slung the backpack over his shoulders and prepared to leave.
Sometimes principles fell victim to vices.
