Edgewise

7

The Edgewise was aware of many things. Its threads of influence wove through a vast array of realms, often carried there like a pinch of lint on the backs of its unwitting clientele. The patrons of the Edgewise were aware of the tavern's sentience, but most did not and could not comprehend the depth of that sentience. What does a tavern think about? The thread count of bedsheets? How many barrels of fresh beer are stocked in the storeroom? The simple answer was yes, the Edgewise thought of these matters, but it was a mere trifling to the deluge of thoughts that poured through the tavern's unseen synapses.

The consciousness of the Edgewise was as incalculable as the reach of its influence. Only a few individuals were aware of it, one of them currently lying on the forest floor of blood drenched Sanguinhiem with a spear through his chest while a squad of the Crimson Legion's finest bore down on their mutual charge.

The rafters of the Edgewise creaked in an exasperated sigh. It was one thing to observe the happenings across realms, another to do anything about it. The form of a building was so bloody limiting, no matter how expansive one's consciousness grew to be. The tavern had seen the incursion of the Wolven into Sanguinhiem. It saw what greeted them upon their arrival. It witnessed what happened after. Events were in motion, great cogs of an endless machine that had been spinning for time in memoriam. The Edgewise could not affect the course of these events, but it could affect small things. Such as getting its pig headed proprietor out of the muck.

A casket of whiskey, aged seventy six years, wobbled on the storeroom shelf. After a few moments of dramatic edging, it surrendered to gravity, falling to the swept stone floor with a heavy thud. It was a well-built cask, suited to this purpose. After resting a moment, it began to roll from a force far beyond gravity, picking up speed as it thumped over the door frame into the main room. It rolled past the dozing Munch, toward the locked door. The casket paused three feet away as the Edgewise funneled its focus into moving the tumblers of the lock. The most difficult task it would have this eve.

Time passes differently to some entities. The turning of tumblers crawled by in a torturous eternity, as long as three deep snores from the Munch. The locked clicked.

A moment later the door swung open, admitting Captain Ravelock and a handful of far too sober pirates, their loud complaints rousing the lone guard of the tavern with a rude snort. The Munch snarled at them, and met with careless laughter. He reached for the rifle of bone at his side. The Edgewise contemplated the wisdom of leaving them unsupervised when another regular walked through the door. Cesario frowned at the present occupants of the room, fiddling with her collar ruff. She would keep the ruffians in line. The Edgewise appreciated a woman of rare talents.

"Where's Mack?" The Shakespearian vagabond's question was met with a chorus of catcalls and pleas for grog. She planted a hand on her velvet clad hips. "Oh, stuff it you lot. You know where the barrels are. Serve yourself. And don't make Calponia clean up after you." The pirates settled. The Munch ceased loading bullets of teeth into his gun. The casket rolled out the door, which shut behind it.

It rolled out into the fog, steering through unseen currents of energy until it found the path it needed. The casket thumped against a sealed door, once, twice, thrice, and waited.

Mr. Henderson glanced up from a weak mug of Earl Grey and a PBS Civil War documentary at the front door. Who would come bother him at this late hour? In this neighborhood? He snagged his walker, grunting against the ache in his knees as he hobbled to the door. He rested a moment on his forearms, wheezing at the effort it now took to cross a room. The energy of youth was a far gone, fast fading gleam in his eye. With much puffing and sighing, he undid the half dozen locks and opened his door until it buffeted against the walker's frame. The dim hallway was empty.

Releasing a string of curses to make a widow blush, Mr. Henderson shoved the door closed, and thumped his walker in the opposite direction. He turned to find the casket of whiskey waiting for him by his chair. He stared at the innocuous container, as if it would explode any moment. Finally, he threw his arms up in the air.

"Well, out with it already!" He fell heavily onto the walker, glaring at the casket as the cork popped with a begrudging note. The rich scent of aged whiskey filtered through the stale air of his apartment, overwhelming the lingering odors of baby powder and moldering tea bags. Mr. Henderson inhaled the fragrant liquor, listening to the hiss of air escaping the sealed casket with quiet intent. After a long stretch of silence, he locked his protesting knees, wearily staring off into space. "I'm too damn old for this," he muttered.

Another scent teased the air, of sunflowers and warm sugar. Her scent. He had watched over her for many years without her knowledge. "She was supposed to be safe beyond the door."

Regrets always left the aftertaste of ash on one's tongue. These days, it was all Mr. Henderson could taste. "Bugger," he grunted, nabbing his navy coat and trilby from the wall rack. With more cursing and bemoaning, he switched the walker for a cane, the end curiously not rubber tipped despite the treacherous conditions of the building's stairs in the winter months. Mr. Henderson pursed his lips, wishing he could have at least finished his program before he locked up his apartment behind him and approached the hastily drawn graffiti still decorating the hallway wall. The landlord tried to scrub the drawn door away, but Mr. Henderson made sure to give the girl his best sharpies. His destination called for the extra coverage in his coat pockets. He pulled a pair of rabbit fur lined leather gloves over his gnarled hands and wrapped a thick black scarf around his neck. Best to cover up that area in particular. He knocked on the wall three times.

The faint smell of mildewed clothes seeped from beneath the door of her vacated apartment. It was soon overpowered by another scent, of rot and ruin, and things better left in the dark.

The door in the wall swung open. Mr. Henderson shuffled into the ankle deep muck of Sanguinhiem and headed for the prostrate figure pinned to the ground.