It's All In A Name: The Foxxfyrre Chronicles Episode Eight
The Foxxfyrre Chronicles Episode Eight
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| Dinner With The Mayor |
It’s all in a name
They departed the Inn with the morning fog still clinging to the thatched eaves. Foxxfyrre had his map at the ready, while Rennie, ever the quartermaster, had secured two wine-skins of fresh water and a pair of thick bacon butties for the hike.
They moved past the short main street and onto a well-beaten path. The Weeping Hollows was a diverse study in topography. According to the Roman fresco back at the Inn, the coast was a jagged rim of bluffs protecting flat farmlands that bled into marshy hollows. However, Foxxfyrre’s map—the "true" map—dictated a much more rugged, vertical reality beyond the marshes.
As they reached the edge of a crescent-shaped salt marsh, Foxxfyrre drew a penknife and carved a clean, deliberate X into the bark of a gnarled oak.
Rennie watched the fox, his ears swiveling. "Breadcrumbs, mate?"
"In a manner of speaking. Look at the architecture of the landscape, Rennie. That marsh ahead is a perfect crescent. On the village map, the path veers east to avoid a knoll. But look north."
Rennie squinted. "I see a wooded hill to the northwest and the path curling away. Exactly like the painting."
"Except the cylinder map shows no knoll. It shows a steep, rocky foothill and a path that continues due north, deep into the woods. We are standing at a geometric contradiction." Foxxfyrre stepped forward. "I suspect that X marks the threshold of the 'scrapped' reality."
They spent the next few hours working with clinical precision, marking a perimeter along the invisible seam where the eyes saw a knoll but the map demanded a mountain. Foxxfyrre was careful not to cross. Not yet.
They paused for lunch, the bacon butties providing a much-needed grounding. Afterward, they resumed the survey. Rennie happened to glance over as Foxxfyrre was marking a tree near the shimmering edge of the marsh. He froze.
The mana wisps emanating from Foxxfyrre’s fur weren't just flickering; they were surging. The faint, tired blue of the morning had been replaced by a brilliant, blinding blue-white intensity. But that wasn't the most alarming part.
"Foxx! Your arm!" Rennie scrambled toward him. "It's gone, mate! You've lost the whole left side!"
Foxxfyrre didn't flinch. He held up his right hand to halt the wallaby’s advance. "Stand back, Rennie. Do not cross the line."
"But I can see your mana!" Rennie shouted. "It’s... it's glowing like a star past the empty space where your shoulder should be!"
"Precisely," Foxxfyrre said, his voice regaining its sharp, resonant baritone. He slowly withdrew his left arm from the 'nothingness,' and as he did, his fur and limb flickered back into existence. "That confirms it. The village is not a sanctuary; it is a siphon. By placing my arm past the boundary and into the hidden realm, I am no longer being drained. I am recharging from the source."
"So the Fae are behind the cage," Rennie breathed.
"The evidence is mounting. But we must turn back. We have a dinner date with the Mayor, and I suspect the hospitality will be just as curated as the geography."
A horse-drawn carriage was waiting outside the Inn when they returned. The driver, a somber man in dark livery, tipped his hat. "For Mr. Foxxfyrre and his acquaintance?"
"I’m Foxxfyrre. This is Reynaldo," the fox replied as they climbed into the velvet interior.
The carriage carried them away from the wattle-and-daub village and toward a rising estate on the cliffs. As they approached, Foxxfyrre’s eyes narrowed. The manor was not ancient timber and plaster; it was a sprawling Queen Anne revival made of crisp red brick and limestone, complete with an ornate, splashing fountain in the center of the carriage-way. It looked brand new. It looked... wrong.
A silent butler led them into a dining room where the table was set with surgical precision for three. He poured two glasses of a deep Cabernet Sauvignon. "The mistress of the house will be with you momentarily."
Foxxfyrre ignored the wine, his eyes locked on a massive portrait above the hearth. It depicted a stern Lord Huxelley standing behind a young girl with golden curls. Iola. The portrait was hauntingly realistic—the kind where the eyes seem to track your every move. But Iola’s eyes were different. In the flickering candlelight, they seemed to possess a faint, painted glow.
They were so intent on the portrait that they didn't hear her enter.
"Good evening, gentlemen. I am Siofra Huxelley."
The woman was elegant, her movements fluid and impossibly quiet. As they stood to greet her, she waved them back down. "Please, sit. I have no patience for rigid formalities. I imagine you are both quite curious as to why I’ve summoned you."
"Siofra," Foxxfyrre said, tasting the name. "A beautiful choice. Irish, if I recall?"
"My mother’s heritage," she replied with a practiced smile.
"And it translates to 'fairy' or 'sprite,' does it not?"
"You are well-versed in nomenclature, Mr. Foxxfyrre."
"A hobby," Foxxfyrre replied smoothly. "You were saying? About why you need us?"
"Yes. I need—" She was interrupted by the butler, who leaned in to whisper a message. She frowned slightly. "If you will excuse me, I shall only be a moment."
As she slipped from the room, Rennie leaned in. "Well? Is it her? Is she the wolf in the sheep’s clothing?"
"Not everything is what it seems, Rennie," Foxxfyrre whispered, his eyes fixed on the portrait above the fire.
"You think she's a fake?"
"I think she is wearing a name like a mask. Look at the portrait, Rennie. Look at Iola’s eyes."
Rennie looked up. His breath hitched. The painted eyes of the little girl in the portrait, which had been glowing moments ago, were now dull, flat, and dark.
"The light left the painting the moment 'Siofra' walked into the room," Foxxfyrre murmured, his own blue-white mana beginning to pulse with a warning orange tint. "She isn't the daughter's ghost. She is the one who took her."
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| Suggestion: INN Space and the Adventures of Dursten Sh'awtz |
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