London,
Trafalgar Square
Order of Seekers of Truth and Knowledge
The Hall of Silence
2 November 1898, 8:34 a.m.

Tensely (perhaps a little nervously), Kyle's gaze turned to the vast hall that stretched behind the reception desk. Dark marble lined the floor, making the Hall of Silence seem sombre and mysterious. The light of many flames climbed along the small rivers in the stone, making them look like veins of gold in their glow. The high vaulted ceiling was characteristic of a former railway station hall and, in the style of such buildings, was flanked on either side by enormous columns. They embraced the recessed fireplaces, whose golden stucco against the dark green enamel tiles on the wall created a noble flair.

But even that decoration failed to transform the hall into something that could have been called 'inviting' or 'warm'. Presumably, this was not the Order's intention. The niches between the columns were ideal for conspiratorial chatting - but never louder than a murmuring whisper, in keeping with the motto of the hall. Dark green leather armchairs were scattered throughout the lobby around small teak tables. Depending on the time of day, there were sometimes more or fewer seekers and members of the Order in this place. At this time, most were working, so the area was relatively empty, with only a few lone gentlemen at the tables.

Each of his footsteps echoed treacherously in the vault, announcing the new arrival and trailing after him like an invisible cloak. A glance rose from a book; heads turned slightly in wary watchfulness of case files or research lying scattered on one of the tables. But he had no intention at the moment of catching a sneaky glimpse of other members' assignments. Therefore, he marched past the gentlemen, gave them a slight nod and strode straight past a stern-looking marble bust. On another of the presentation pillars, an antique firearm with obscure engravings gleamed under glass with a brass-coloured plaque. On the hall's north wall, a marble staircase and a mechanical lift led to the lower parts of the guild.

But this time, the lower vaults were different from his destination. He was not here this morning to train or attend a meeting. Nor to poke his nose into the magnificent collection of antique books... or stealthily look out for secret doors. The light from the massive chandeliers and crackling fires in the fireplaces travelled over his figure until he finally reached the back areas.

A small, round teak table nestled there in the corner next to one of the fireplaces. On the polished surface lay a black leather folder with the symbol of the Seekers on it, The golden embossing of the All-Seeing Eye. Three glasses stood next to a crystal glass carafe, two filled with liquids but one empty, and a small silver bowl of nuts. 

Of four available seats, two were occupied. The figures of two gentlemen occupied the seats of the moss-green wing chairs. Both gazes fixed on him as he covered the last few metres, and still in stride, Kyle could see the younger gentlemen sitting up straighter. There was an expression of extreme impatience in his features and the kind of condescending attitude that made him immediately take up an inner defensive posture. Kyle knew his partner, the oh-so-fine  Lord of and to Archer didn't think very highly of him. Excuse me... DOCTOR Lord of Archer. "Do not forget the doctor!" he thought bitterly, curling his lips.

"You're too late," Dr Archer stated. His voice had a sober, calm tone that reminded Kyle of the sharpened blade of a knife, and it didn't have to stab, and just the flash of the blade warned one to be mindful.

Dr Benjamin Archer was a tall, slender man in his mid-thirties with straight auburn hair and a rakish jaw that even the razor could cut. A neatly trimmed beard set his cheeks in a slight shadow, thickening around the curve of his chin as well as above his upper lip, where it shaped out with a slight upward sweep. His clothes were always decent and clean, not inferior, but he didn't seem to follow the latest fashions either. There was always something practical about it, comfortable rather than elegant. That kind of high lordliness alike, who felt so secure in their padded saddle of a noble title that they didn't care about their outward effect.

The man's shoulders were broader than most gentlemen's, which might probably be due to his service in the military, which Kyle had heard about. Egypt or Sudan, if he was correct. It also explained the more striking tanned complexion, which stood out from most rather sun-shy gentlemen but harmonised well with the transparent green of his eyes. Unlike the heat of Egypt, however, an aura of coldness always surrounded this man. When he saw him, his expression was usually opaque and petrified, challenging to read to the point of cold sternness.

Kyle didn't know precisely why thick air was between them from the first moment. Perhaps it was because Dr Archer had so succinctly remarked in the training room not so long ago that he had better wear a high collar. Since then, he stiffened of his own accord in the presence of this man. Unresolved matters could sometimes grow unpleasantly rampant.

And now this. Heavens, how he hated being paraded! Maybe that's why the "Excuse me. There were a few unforeseen incidents on the way." from him sounded a little testier than it had been intended.

"That's all right, Mr Crowford; we had a little chat anyway." The older man now gave and gestured to the empty seat. "Please, sit down."

The older man had an authoritarian aura like that of a teacher who, although he wrote on the blackboard, nevertheless noticed that someone was scribbling silly little pictures in his notebook. Lord Sunderbrandy's cutaway jacket of virgin wool gave the aged veteran the appropriate demeanour in his role as a mentor. The hair, still dark at the top of his head, was heavily greying at the temples. In the course of the first introduction, he mentioned that the significant jagged scar that ran through his left eyebrow, just past his eye and over the cheekbone of his cheek, came from the war in Afghanistan. An enemy soldier had attacked him with a knife in frenzied desperation. But he had survived the attack, the war and worse. Everything about this man radiated experience. Not only the kind that every man ideally gathers over his years but also an aura of knowledge that goes far beyond that. Not without reason was he a mentor and gold rank member in the Order.

Sunderbrandy thus held the highest possible rank one could attain in that society. They held copper. One day, when they had proven themselves enough, with the encouragement of their mentor, they would rise to the silver rank, and if everything went like clockwork for him, he would eventually hold the gold rank as well. This man in front of him played a decisive role in his plan to rise as quickly as possible. An incompetent mentor automatically dragged down the novice. But Lord Sunderbrandy always seemed as if he was aware of the world around him in a very different way, just by the way his gaze clung longer to one place or another that seemed mundane and ordinary to others. He was capable and outstanding. And this man was now his mentor and teacher.

Kyle felt his palms grow wetter. Excitement and fear in equal measure, a bizarre mixture that didn't often take hold in his emotional world. In a somewhat stiff movement, he smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles on his frock coat and took a seat in the leather armchair. The upholstery sighed under his weight, and although he had wanted to appear proud, he now felt like the student who had been late for class on the first day of school.

"Now that we are fully assembled..." began Lord Sunderbrandy, the fabric of his red waistcoat wrinkling with the movement as he reached for the crystal decanter and poured into the third glass of the amber liquid, "...we now come to your first order of business, gentlemen."

Their mentor sat back leisurely as if chatting about some article in the London Times while he filled the brandy in the glass. He pointed to the case file with an extended index finger. The noble Dr Archer was still practising well-mannered restraint while Kyle was already reaching for the black folder. He studiously ignored the piercing glance from the other side as he opened it to take a look inside. Two tickets fell out and fluttered onto his lap next to the letter.

"Information about an unusually high number of strange accidents has reached us from a small village in Dartmoor. You will therefore travel together on the midday train towards Plymouth and board a carriage at Exeter. Train tickets and a reasonable amount for expenses are enclosed with the order. As Copper rank members, they will be provided with a selection of other materials." their tutor explained.

Kyle's gaze slid over the documents in the file. It was surprisingly thin. Not to say more than sparse. Nevertheless, he skimmed the lines of the letter several times, as if there might be a hidden clue to be discovered in it.... until the person sitting next to him with a doctorate extended his hand, and he passed the file on. The previously tense atmosphere seemed to have fallen like a curtain; instead, there was a new fire between the gentlemen—the brightly blazing flame of curiosity.

"Is there no further information?" asked Kyle. 

But the tutor only shook his head. "For the Order, it is more of a formality. About a month ago, the local village priest fell from the chapel bell tower. About two weeks later, a young girl died in an incident at a construction site, and three days ago, the innkeeper died unexpectedly. From the accounts, these accidents sound plainly like accidents." for a few moments; the tutor was silent. 

His dark eyes focused on his glass and the liquid sloshing in it, clinging to the rim yet unable to escape its glass prison. Humanity out there was the same. They were locked in their prison of deceptive safety, unwilling or unable to face what lurked outside. Sheep that would be lost alone if they dared to jump the fence. But that was precisely what the Order was responsible for. To make them feel safe at their gate and protect them from what lurked outside their perception. So when one of these people finally noticed something was wrong, something had to be very bad. Slowly, the man with the slightly greying hair and the meticulously trimmed whiskers raised his penetrating eyes.

"The constable who wrote this is an old comrade from the war. Unusually, he should address me with such a request," he added. Even the two bloody beginners understood what that meant. Men from the war had seen and experienced many gruesome things, and they did not turn to old comrades for help without reason. Especially not to someone with such obscure interests and strange connections as Lord Sunderbrandy without a good reason.

Kyle's fingers drummed thoughtfully on the back of the chair and absorbed in his own thoughts; he didn't even notice that he was being given a reproachful look.

"It could be God knows what..."

"Or just nothing." added the doctor's polished voice.

"And what is the name of the destination of our journey?" 

There was a rustling sound, and the person sitting next to him handed him the third piece of paper from the file. Emblazoned on a worn, old map were thick letters in black letters: Dartmoor. In the middle of nowhere was circled a name of a small spot that was probably meant to represent a town or, rather, a tiny village.

"St George."

England, West Coast
Devonshire,
Exeter Central Station
3 November 1898, 5:41 pm

A loud, shrill whistle made his head jerk up abruptly. The world faded for a fraction of a second, then took on blurred colours and reformed only after repeated blinking. His mind jerked as if a grain of sand had fallen unexpectedly into the gearbox and had to start again. It took him a moment to shed the last sticky threads of the dream and realise that he had not been in the Hall of Silence for a long time.

Several times the dark, curved lashes fluttered while his forehead wrinkled, and his mind slowly processed the image outside the window. Only one or two tracks led through the brick hall, which was comparatively tiny by London standards. The soot of the trains mostly blackened the red bricks. The heavy smoke from the locomotive drifted off through the large circular openings at the two fronts of the hall, while at either side were large arched windows. Two platforms. And a large, slanted sign reading EXETER.

A groan escaped him as he ran his fingers over his eyes, towards his nose and down the bridge of his nose. His partner was pulling his luggage from the rack above his head and cast a disparaging glance over his shoulder.

"It's about time you woke up," he said as if it were a crime to have fallen asleep on a train. "The carriage is waiting."

Chapter artwork: The Hall Of Silence by TheKomor_San.

All collected artwork & other sketches etc. can be found in the chapter *ARTWORKS*.