Instruments of Murder

[Lacuna]

Back and forth and back and forth. Rhythm and focus, nervous energy driven away, even as it continues to build. The threadbare carpet in her dimly lit motel was made even worse as her boot clad feet circle the space once again.

She curses under her breath as she abruptly stops, picking up a worn cardboard box, with faded black words writ across one side, then set it down. Then she hefted it back up. Then back down. Would it be more or less noticeable if she left it were it was, or if she tried to manouver it to the already full closet.

Another curse and the Mastigos gingerly pushes the box under the bed, arranging the blankets back to order after she's done. It would have to work. Because she'd called Epitaph and left a brusque message for her to find. Giving her a time, and place. Now and her shitty motel room, asking to discuss murder, and the instruments there of.

Cayce

[Epitaph]

It was strange, to be called out into the sunlight to discuss the ending of life, particularly when the season of spring was calling forth life in all its lush profusion. She drove beneath chandeliers of emerald against a cerulean sky, past the vibrant splashes of violet and gold arranged with the utmost of care. How cloying it was, how the dullards sought to smother the inevitable truth behind this facade of vitality.

Thankfully, the drive was rather short, and soon the black Landau Hearse pulled up in front of the pay by the week, pay by the hour motel. A much more fitting place to live, a reminder of the inescapable entropy which, even now was slowly eroding them.

The door to the Landau opened and a swirl of black cloth spun out into the sunlight. A parasol rose up, and then the figure in black moved to the back of the hearse and grabbed a large, leather, wood framed suitcase and then stalked over to Lacuna's door.

The rap of her knuckles upon the wood sounded like the crack of a sentencing gavel.

[Lacuna]

Lacuna's unending march around the room cuts off abruptly as the knock is heard. "Shit." a curse laid underbreath, hand wrenches through short blond hair. Her stepped pattern had been interrupted and now she felt off kilter as she goes to the door and slides back the chain.

"Epitaph. Come in." throwing the door open she backs away from the entry.

THe sight before is that of a dated room. Squat and square. The wallpaper screams '70s, the door leading to the bathroom, ajar and looking askew from it's square frame, is a sickly pea green. Lumpy looking twin mattress with it's bedding made, pointedly not the expected coverings that one would expect from this place. They looked nice. The closet was full of boxes, as well as a spare chair near the nightstand that had been pulled from the wall, acting like a table. There is a coffee pot resting on top of it.

Feeling stupid standing there waiting for the goth to sit, or not. She clears her throat, "Want coffee of something?"

[Epitaph]

Epitaph passed into the room, somehow managing to close her parasol with only one deathly white hand. It was clear that, although she was attempting to stride gracefully, the weight of the suitcase was far too great, and with an effort, she walked over to the bed and heaved the suitcase on top of it. With a sigh, she turned to her host, the light of the room glinting off of the piercing in her lip as she softly smiled.

"Lacuna, thank you for graciously offering me your hospitality, but I must decline. I do not like the effect that caffeine has upon me."

She paused.

Was some story of a horrible tragedy hovering upon her lips?

"How may I assist you?"

[Lacuna]

Lacuna watches as the women closes the parasol and stares. She honestly thought that it was a weird stereotype she'd adsorbed over time, but apparently goth's actually did that.

"Okay. Um, I don't know if I want to ask you why." because the warlock had met the women. "I'm going to have some." she says make up her own cup, dumping sugar and powered milk in. "Water?" She offers because, like Epitaph said, she as playing hostess even in this shit-hole of a motel.

Making her way to her lumpy matress, she sits, and nods at the chair. "You can sit. If you want." she might not there was a stain. From...something.

"Yeah." she sighs, "You collect things that have been touched with violent demise right? And you acquire them right? I know it's shi-things like those bowling shoes. But I wanted to know if it was other things....and if you deal with things that might cause a murder..." she says plainly. Somewhat awkwardly, but still with the blunt nature that seemed familiar to her person. "Specifically an axe. A big fucking axe." she'd lost hers and she missed it. A sledgehammer couldn't really cut (hah) it.

[Epitaph]

"No, thank you. Your water has lead in it," Epitaph replied, still smiling politely, "and I would prefer to stand."

The smile grew wider as Lacuna spoke, teeth brilliantly white against the black stain on her lips.

"Yes, yes, you are most perceptive. I not only collect these things, I also trade in them. I brought several to show you, some of my favorite pieces, but I must admit, I did not bring an axe. Why an axe, by the way? You're not trying to embrace your Danish ancestry, are you?"

[Lacuna]

Of course it dose.

"Suite yourself." said with a shrug as the women take a tentative sip of the still scaling liquid.

For a women as grim and morose as the Moros, grin looked out of place, while strangely reminding Lacuna of a kid in a candy store.

"Good. I would hate to have been wrong, but even if I was I'm sure you'd head into that business anyway." Shifting away to stand herself, "If you want to lay your bag here, I can take a gander." Moving away from the bed and trying not to look at what was poorly hidden under it, she says, "I...used to have an axe. Before I Awoke. I used to kill a lot of things that weren't human." and a lot of things that were. Her teeth grind together at that. How many people did she kill verses how many monsters. "Been using a sledgehammer as a replacement. Easier to get. But it's not an axe."

[Epitaph]

Of all the responses that Epitaph had been expecting, this was not it. Things...that were not human. Epitaph looked more closely at the massive woman across from her, her eyes not looking at the flesh, but rather at the chains that seemed to spill out from her flesh, as though they were wrapped around her bones themselves, the ugly, alien runes along their lengths pulsing faintly.

"So you are comfortable taking life, then?" Epitaph asked, her smile disappearing, though there was no fear or recrimination in her gaze, only the intense concentration of an expert discussing their field.

"Do you have Danish ancestry? It is possible that in a previous life, you also happened to wield an axe."

[Lacuna]

"More then most." she answers, she'd killed and not cared, but she was a big girl. She had to face her past. The consequences. "I'm really zen compared to what I was before." Shifting from foot to foot, "Before I Awoke, I hardly needed a reason. I fuelled by rage and hate, like I was a berserker. All I needed was my axe, and something I thought was a monster." she'd learned her lessons, and she still didn't know how many people she murdered.

"Now....I'm trying to do better." she expels air from her lungs and it might be a sigh.

Racking a hand through her hair, "I don't know about my ancestry. Parents are from the UK. I lived there for a little bit, but I don't remember much of it. We moved to the States when I was young. Never really thought to care about where I came from. Had more important things to think about."

[Epitaph]

"Well, I can assure you, you are assuredly doing better," Epitaph replied, striding over to stand beside Lacuna, and delicately, with an almost reverential care, she placed a pale, cool hand upon the other woman's shoulder.

"Clearly, there was something inside you that noticed the Prison you were inside of. You saw, even if only at a glance, that our existence within this world was blighted in ways that were never meant to be. Monsters do walk among the Sleepers, or stalk them from the shadows, preying upon them at will. My...my father was one of them. He did not use an axe. Instead..."

The Death Priestess trailed off her hand sliding from Lacuna's shoulder as she paced over to the suitcase. The claps opened with a surprisingly loud snick, as though something had been cut, and then she opened the case, letting the scent of leather and oil waft out.

"He used this," Epitaph proclaimed, removing an object carefully wrapped in cloth. Slowly, she undid the cloth, revealing an antique chef's knife with a meticulously maintained blade, and a polished wooden handle.

"It is my belief that these monsters are just another tool that the Exarch's use to create their prison. I'm sure you've heard the stories, of the strange abilities that the monsters have. Or perhaps you've seen them in person. They are not Supernal, they are not like us. This means that their powers come from the Fallen World itself."