Special Agent Darnell Barrett, Master Detective (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
neverasked4this) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
allthenotes2017-05-12 09:38 pm
neverasked4this) wrote in allthenotes2017-05-12 09:38 pm
Night 18, shortly after dusk
[There's new handwriting in everyone's notebooks, a neat lettering that has more character than print but isn't really script.]
I knew that driving straight through back to London from Dreadmond was inadvisable at best, but after everything I went through, I wanted nothing more than the comfort of home for the night in preparation for dealing with everything that I knew would follow. This was a particularly trying investigation . . . in more ways than one. Still, I must have been far more exhausted than I thought, as I no sooner parked in my carport and pulled my satchel into my lap in preparation for getting out of the car than I fell asleep right there in the driver's seat!
Now? Now, I cannot tell if I am awake or still asleep. There is no awareness in the back of my mind that this isn't real, as is usually the case in such dreams. I feel very much awake. However, to say that I am not where I would expect to be is a grave understatement. I have found myself in what looks to be a dorm room of some sort. Ten beds, though only one aside from the one I awakened in shows much sign of recent use. I have no recollection of having been moved, no half-lucid impressions like those when I was fished from the Irish Sea during my last - hopefully final! - visit to Blackpool. Yet, here I am, in a room that is as dim and barren as a mausoleum. My clothes were changed while I was unconscious, too. For what reason, I cannot fathom. I was dressed in some sort of drab uniform of an older style that I do not recognize. German, possibly, though I cannot say for sure. However, thankfully, all of my belongings - clothes, satchel, even the contents of my pockets - were in an antique steamer trunk at the foot of the bed. Curiously, it has my name on it, as does the journal in which I write this. The book has apparently belonged to, or been borrowed by, a number of others before me, as there are entries in here by many different hands. Still, it somehow seems right for me to write in it myself rather than pull a fresh journal from my satchel. I cannot explain this feeling, and it unsettles me even as I write this.
In any case, I have changed back into my own clothes, gathered and accounted for the rest of my things, and I will now venture forth to see if I can figure out just where I am. If I am truthful, I am not prepared to deal with a new case already. I am still reeling from everything Richard put me through. And what he said, specifically in regards to his claims about directing the course of my very life. Also Ankou, the death goddess, and having died. If, indeed, I did and she spared me. Still, I suppose if this doesn't prove a repeat of Dire Grove, my first visit - if I do not emerge into a snowstorm threatening to turn England into Antarctica again - then I should count myself lucky.
Even then, I find myself almost compelled to say, as I found myself saying many times last night and into this morning . . . time to face the horrors again.
I knew that driving straight through back to London from Dreadmond was inadvisable at best, but after everything I went through, I wanted nothing more than the comfort of home for the night in preparation for dealing with everything that I knew would follow. This was a particularly trying investigation . . . in more ways than one. Still, I must have been far more exhausted than I thought, as I no sooner parked in my carport and pulled my satchel into my lap in preparation for getting out of the car than I fell asleep right there in the driver's seat!
Now? Now, I cannot tell if I am awake or still asleep. There is no awareness in the back of my mind that this isn't real, as is usually the case in such dreams. I feel very much awake. However, to say that I am not where I would expect to be is a grave understatement. I have found myself in what looks to be a dorm room of some sort. Ten beds, though only one aside from the one I awakened in shows much sign of recent use. I have no recollection of having been moved, no half-lucid impressions like those when I was fished from the Irish Sea during my last - hopefully final! - visit to Blackpool. Yet, here I am, in a room that is as dim and barren as a mausoleum. My clothes were changed while I was unconscious, too. For what reason, I cannot fathom. I was dressed in some sort of drab uniform of an older style that I do not recognize. German, possibly, though I cannot say for sure. However, thankfully, all of my belongings - clothes, satchel, even the contents of my pockets - were in an antique steamer trunk at the foot of the bed. Curiously, it has my name on it, as does the journal in which I write this. The book has apparently belonged to, or been borrowed by, a number of others before me, as there are entries in here by many different hands. Still, it somehow seems right for me to write in it myself rather than pull a fresh journal from my satchel. I cannot explain this feeling, and it unsettles me even as I write this.
In any case, I have changed back into my own clothes, gathered and accounted for the rest of my things, and I will now venture forth to see if I can figure out just where I am. If I am truthful, I am not prepared to deal with a new case already. I am still reeling from everything Richard put me through. And what he said, specifically in regards to his claims about directing the course of my very life. Also Ankou, the death goddess, and having died. If, indeed, I did and she spared me. Still, I suppose if this doesn't prove a repeat of Dire Grove, my first visit - if I do not emerge into a snowstorm threatening to turn England into Antarctica again - then I should count myself lucky.
Even then, I find myself almost compelled to say, as I found myself saying many times last night and into this morning . . . time to face the horrors again.
Action!
[Still, he also wasn't going to assume. Including the young man's identity, despite the odds of there being more than one person in the garden at night in an easily-visible location.]
Excuse me? Good evening. I'm looking for someone who goes by the nickname Gale.
no subject
That'd be me. Good to see you didn't get lost on your way here.
[Standing up, the other obviously unusual thing about Sync is the fact he's wearing something that's not the servant uniform, instead in a black coat that's divided at the back to allow for great maneuverability]
no subject
For the most part, no. Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Gale.
[He offers his hand . . . and yeah, wonders how the teen is able to get away with wearing something other than the frightfully drab uniform
aside from sheer adolescent obstinacy.]Do you mind my asking your real name, now that we're off the journals? And . . . what did you mean by damage and the lord taking our names from us?
no subject
[He considers for a moment, before shaking that hand. No point being rude now]
I don't particularly mind, so long as you don't mess up and use it inside the castle. I'm Sync.
[He steps back and sits down on the edge of the fountain again]
The Lord has the ability to take a person's name from them. They can't say it, and to hear someone else say it causes them discomfort. By taking the person's name, he can bind the person to his will, forcing them to do what he wants them to. That's why no one uses their real name around those they don't trust, or within the castle itself.
no subject
Sync, pleased to meet you. And you have my word - no use where others might hear or read.
[He frowns at the explanation, pulling out a journal for note-taking - not the one he found upon arrival, but one of the ones from home. He's dressed in the ugly uniform he woke in, but the satchel slung across his trunk is his own. He settled on the lip of the fountain as well, a comfortable, conversational distance from Sync.]
I see. What can you tell me about this lord? And his methods for "taking" someone's name? What does he do with - or to - those whose names he's stolen? I assume he has a journal that gives him the same access we seem to have to each other...?
no subject
[Sil's written in the journals a few times, so if Darnell ever goes back over them, he'll eventually find something Sil's written]
How he takes a name, no one really knows. I assume it has something to do with his bloodline abilities. People from the world he's from have fae magic in their blood, and Leitner's line have some ability to manipulate memories. There was a night a few days ago where everyone either couldn't remember who they were, or thought they were a part of the castle's world.
What he does with those who's names he's taken varies. Those who can make things, he binds to him so they will continue making the things he wants, for example. Women he might bind for others reasons. [Sync is pretty sure he doesn't need to explain that, which is good, because he actually can't explain it well. His own knowledge on that sort of thing is severely lacking]
It all depends on how a person can be useful to him.
no subject
[Darnell nodded, writing the name down and making a mental note to go back through the other journal, the magical one, to see what evidence he could find of this Sil person.]
Leitner, is that the name of the lord? Lord of the castle, I'm assuming.
[Nope, definitely did NOT have to spell things out to Darnell regarding bound women.]
Any idea what determines if or when the lord does a binding on someone, assuming he's learned a name close enough to them to use?
no subject
[He shakes his head at the question]
No, but I'm pretty sure he has to do it in person. Even if he doesn't, his nature would make him want to. He's the type that likes to lord his power over someone to their face.
Ugh, thought I'd addressed the patches before now. 9,9
I've known a few of those in the past.
[Known and defeated. He'll stop this one too, whatever it is the monster's up to. He just . . . needs to figure out what the game is so he knows what he needs to focus on to go about doing so.]
What is it that Leitner's up to, do you know?
[He looked up again at Sync as he anticipated an answer . . . and couldn't help himself any longer.]
And . . . I'm sorry, I know it's off-topic, and you don't have to answer if this is rude, but are you . . . ah, all right? [He touched a finger to his own cheek about where one of Sync's malachite-looking patches was.]
((ooc: Darnell hasn't quite fully grasped yet that he's in over his head far deeper than is normal even for him. He thinks he'll be able to fix whatever's going on, because it's kind of his job. It's what he does. LOL not this time...or not the way he's thinking, at least.))
*pats*
[He has a feeling Darnell is going to try and fix things, and while Sync doesn't mind that fact, he also has a feeling that Darnell doesn't quite realise what he's up against]
Hm? Oh, these. [He lifted a hand to touch the patch, rubbing it gently] Yeah, I'm fine. They look like stone, but they're skin still. There's flowers in the garden here...
[He looks around for a moment before spotting some of the closed flowers in the far 'corner' of the clearing, pointing at them]
If they're open, don't go near them. They're fae magic; they'll put you to sleep and when you wake up you'll either have some small changes like these, or could end up entirely transformed into an animal. The garden is a safe place, but there's still some tricky things about it.