West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, Skirrid Inn
3 November 1898, 10:57 p.m.

Kyle turned away from the sight of the improvised dissection table and slid it across the room again. "Do you still need the bird's heart?" he asked as he then pulled up his case and placed it on the chair.

"I guess not." The doctor returned a little doubtfully. Kyle could already guess what images might be haunting his mind. There were countless, macabre, and truly bizarre practices in the arcane arts, among occultists or dark magic practitioners, where the fibrous boundaries to madness were crossed. Séances under the influence of intoxicants and trance states, offerings, and the use of mortal remains. Forms of cannibalism to necrophilia and another morbidity. Sophisticated mages and gentlemen shunned such methods. Kyle had come across such communities himself in his initial search for contact with the occult and had quickly refrained. That the thought of what an occultist might do to a heart made the doctor skeptical, he did not blame him.

Kyle instructed the doctor to draw the curtains, lock the door and then roll aside the old carpet. The slightly darker wooden floorboards drew a stained circle in the room. Meanwhile, Kyle undid the tight fastenings of his suitcase and carefully opened the lid.

Nestled in velvet red lining were countless reagents and items of various sizes and shapes. Inside the large lid, in compartments made for the purpose, were a handful of candles, a melting spoon, and a smaller book, its yellowed pages hanging inside the leather cover. Elongated vials of thick glass lay padded with velvet cloths in a holder. Some contained herbs, others were filled with liquids, two of them labeled "Holy Water" and "Consecrated Earth". Others contained dried mixtures of resins and incense. A small jar with a lid was held by a leather strap in the shape of a cross, with a wooden crucifix right next to it. A larger part was taken up by a noble mirror of shimmering silver, which of course was turned with the back facing outwards.

The other part of the suitcase was also filled to the last inch. Heavier items like a mortar and pestle, a small magnifying glass, and a handy sickle with a curved edge. A rabbit's foot lay in small compartments next to a small bag of semi-precious stones. A set of worn tarot cards was tied together with a ribbon. They lay next to a folded black cloth. A bowl of silver filled a larger area next to a crucible of salt. In it, wedged under the leather strap, lay a box of chalk and a tarnished horseshoe. Two hand-sized silver candlesticks nestled in two square squares, from which Kyle freed them with deft grips and handed them, along with their accompanying candles, to Dr. Archer. Then he freed a soft leather pouch from its prison in this smorgasbord of occult curiosities.

The doctor took his time to let his gaze roam over all the smaller and larger objects and ended up with a bundle of amulets tied together. The symbols, which came from a wide variety of faiths, nestled together on leather straps or thin chains. They formed a mess of brass, silver, and old copper.

"You collect a lot of trinkets," he remarked, his fingers reaching out to the hodgepodge of faith symbols. The amulets clinked softly as he slid them apart and looked at them one by one. Some engraved scriptures or whole symbols he recognized, such as an Egyptian ankh, a protective amulet of angels in three rings, reminiscent of orthodox crosses. But the rest was beyond the doctor's knowledge.

An amused snort sounded from Kyle. "THAT's not much, is it? That's all I could fit in that stupid suitcase. As a practicing mage, one must be prepared for all eventualities." he said, his voice resonating with pride, "There are endless paraphernalia, symbolisms, artifacts, and writings. Every spell we know has its roots in a different culture or belief system. Take, for example, the Seeing Mirror spell, through which one can see into other places. Every civilization we know uses different incantations, formulas, and paraphernalia. A shaman of an aboriginal tribe might burn herbs and scatter the ashes over the surface of a lake. A priest in ancient Egypt would sacrifice an animal and pour its blood into a bowl of gold filled with water from the Nile. And I use a silver mirror. Spells can differ drastically because of cultural influences or the era in which the spell was written down. Only the result is virtually the same."

Kyle explained the differences in spells as calmly and fluently as if he were trying to teach the doctor something. Meanwhile, using a small copper compass, he had determined the correct alignment and now beckoned the Doctor to hold the end of a narrow, red-dyed wool rope. From there as a center, Kyle drew a circle of chalk and marked outside it the cardinal points. Then he carefully put everything back in the case.

"Because of these differences in magic, analyzing dark magic is so difficult. It is even more difficult to find out who or what is responsible for the workings. A stick with any carvings on it may simply be a child's toy or a paraphernalia of a spell." At this, Kyle glanced at the dead bird. "Like interpreting cards, scrying or smoking much depends on interpretation. The art of divination or clairvoyance is a damned imprecise and very difficult occult practice."

Because of the imprecision of this practice, even many seekers felt that clairvoyance was a waste of time. Only rarely was there a clear sign. It was like fishing in murky water. Only rarely did one catch a fish by luck. For this reason, most seekers preferred other, but far more costly, methods of gathering information.

Dr. Archer nodded. For some people, such knowledge and explanations trickled off like water running down the curved spine of a leaf. It was refreshing to see that the doctor did not condemn him for using such an imprecise approach.

Concentrating, Kyle drew a series of strange symbols and signs in the 16-inch circle with meticulous care. Some overlap each other, and others are accurately enclosed within some of the lines. Although he had to draw fine strokes and shapes, he did not smudge any of the ones he had already drawn. He then spread a thin but perfectly closed circle of salt around the work he had created. Only when he was satisfied did he light the candles and, in an unusually stern and serious voice, ordered the doctor to bring the bird's heart. Carefully he placed the small bundle of fibers and muscles in the center of the circle. It was a strange sight indeed. He took his time before finally opening the leather pouch and gesturing to Dr. Archer to sit in the chair off to the side...

Darkness lay outside and tension in his limbs. She tensed his muscles and made him spread his fingers. Then both hands slid into the pouch laid down in front of his knees and brushed against softly polished forms. He closed the fingers of both hands around the contents like a bowl. Soft sounds could be heard from below, muffled and distorted by the layers of wood. Outside, the wind tapped softly on the closed window and a breeze made the curtains dance. Full of anticipation, both men sat there, in a village in the middle of the moors and dark night, listening to the sound of their heartbeats and murmuring thoughts. Then slowly Kyle raised his voice. Low and murmuring, as if he were whispering something to someone. A monotone of words in a foreign-sounding language that brought to life an incantation from days of old once more. Rough sounds, harsh and angular, spilled into the semi-darkness. The lights of the lanterns and candles began to twitch, though there was no strong breeze in the room.

Kyle could clearly feel the temperature dropping. It resembled the icy breeze there in the forest and reminded one of a feeling of loneliness that settled heavily around his shoulders. But he continued to recite the formula, not letting himself be distracted until he had finished forming the last syllables. Then, in a ritual gesture, he stretched out his hands over the circle.

A hollow, muffled drumming came crashing down on the wood. A rain of bones and small objects. Blackish and brownish bones nestled against brightly polished white pebbles. A semi-circular arch of ribs leaped away and came to rest clattering against one of the outer circles, a small shell rolled to one side and lay almost decoratively close to the outermost edge. A small bird skull lay near the heart, the others senselessly scattered at first glance.

Kyle felt a stronger tightness around his chest as if something was trying to reach for him. All at once, he tasted a sickening note on his tongue. As if a moldy fruit had been placed in his mouth and he was unable to spit it out. Kyle's gaze lay fixed on the structure in front of him, going through possible interpretations and trying to attach meaning to the positions where pebbles and bones had fallen. All of a sudden, something cracked.

Kyle's eyes snapped open as he saw a large crack go through the small mouse skull near the heart in the center. No sooner had his eyes found the source of the sound than it cracked again. And then again. As if something was groping its way from the inside to the outside, tearing one bone after the next. A deep clacking sound penetrated the room, an oppressive sound in the silence. The bones all trembled in the circle, they shook like trembling bodies full of fear of something that the mortals could not see. They jerked closer, drawn magnetically to the center by some transcendent power. Then, abruptly and against all natural logic, they lined up like rows of countless trees. They balanced on narrow, uneven peaks as if pulled upwards by invisible threads.

Kyle's mouth was dry, his throat tight. Both he and the doctor seemed unable to take their eyes off what was happening right in front of them. The oracle's bones shook and trembled, faster and faster. The clacking became more frantic as if a beat was nearing its finale, and Kyle too felt his heart riveted to follow this crescendo. Again a crack passed through one of the smaller chicken bones, this time nearly bursting it in two.

That burst snapped Kyle out of his trance. He placed his palms flat together and then noisily slapped them flat on both sides next to the circle. All at once, the flames of the ritual candles went out as if on a silent signal. The clouds of smoke spiraled upwards, prancing, and, like fading ghosts, were quickly lost in space. The clacking of bones died away as suddenly as it had begun. As if someone had cut the puppeteer's strings with a sharp blade, they simply fell over. Under a heavy breath of tension, a promising silence descended once more.

Dr. Archer had stood up and quickly covered the distance between them with long strides. He placed a hand on the mage's slender shoulder as he approached Kyle, crouched down and his gaze slid to the mess of bones. "What does this mean?" he asked. His voice had grown darker, deeper, and gripped with seriousness. An uneasy foreboding lay in his stomach like a lump of coal.

Kyle kept his fingers beside the circle, flat on the wood so they wouldn't tremble. His gaze was on the circle before him, the bones of his oracle, cracked and torn. Small pieces had chipped off and lay scattered as yellowish or black splinters. The shell had remained intact and had not moved. It affected only the bones. Slowly he disengaged a hand from the wooden plank and grasped one of the chicken bones, through which a crude split had opened, exposing the interior.

"That means it certainly wasn't a disease that was responsible for their deaths," Kyle replied with a new, uneasy yet irrefutable certainty. "It was right of the constable to inform the Order."

"We need to try and find out if the deaths here have any similarities to the discovery in the forest," the doctor said and Kyle only agreed with him on that.

Kyle's gaze slid to the remains of the dead bird. "Let's better burn the remains. Just to be on the safe side. Whatever lurks around here... it didn't mean anything good."