The Vacation: Part 3, The Journey Out

What began as a desperate attempt to mend the fractured bonds between me and the Nameless One was about to spiral into a nightmarish odyssey, fraught with ancient evils and dubious allies. As I sit here, quill in hand, I must admit to the folly that would lead us to that point—an ill-fated decision made in haste, born of exhaustion and hubris. And so, with the twins and Witches Willbreak and Lyemirror in my company, we set forth by way of the Witch City to seek a haunted mountain peak referred to in a certain green vellum text.

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Rain thrashed the windows of the Lesser Library as I inspected the weathered pulp, etched with ornate Fraktur letters, “Über Seltsame Orte und Ihre Mythen: Der Unaussprechliche Gipfel” by F. W. von Junzt. My fingertips traced ink bled into coarse fibers—ghostly stains of indeterminate origin.

Scourge Lyemirror’s jagged fingernail tapped languidly on the pamphlet. “Ah, that henge,” she mused, a sly gleam illuminating her ashen features. “Those spirits are always a pleasure to visit. Don’t you agree, dear Willbreak?”

Lyemirror met my gaze, the familiar smirk curling her lips. “Your grand plan required refinement. A spirit guide through the mists shall hasten our journey.”

“The mists,” I said, measured and composed, “are treacherous but known to me. Summoning spirits might invite unintended consequences.”

“Confidence,” she retorted with faint amusement, “is commendable. Overconfidence, however, proves fatal.”

I acquiesced, curiosity overshadowing disdain. Observing her methods could yield future advantage. Thus, we proceeded to the sodden lawns beneath skies churning with unrest.

With charcoal drawn from her black smoldering bag, Lyemirror sketched eldritch symbols upon the damp earth—sigils that writhed at the corners of vision. Treachery lit incense whose tendrils writhed, caressing symbols like serpentine lovers.

Lyemirror's incantation resonated through air thick with expectancy, “Invocare eques umbrae.” She scattered enchanted oats and apple slices, glistening with subtle curses. I regarded the offerings skeptically.

“Spirits,” she noted coolly, “appreciate acknowledgment.”

The mists parted reluctantly, releasing a spectral steed whose mane flowed like liquid moonlight, eyes pools of ancient sorrow. Lyemirror's offering ensnared the noble spirit, shadow overtaking brilliance, pride succumbing to malevolence woven in the desert.

“Poor dietary choices,” Lyemirror sighed theatrically. “But sacrifices for convenience are inevitable.”

The spirit yielded, dignity consumed by the ornate bridle. Its ethereal majesty reduced to servitude beneath Lyemirror’s triumph.

Willbreak chuckled softly, eyes gleaming. “Such is the price of indulgence—a meager treat reducing greatness to servitude.”

Ignoring their theatrics, I commanded, “Prepare the carriage. Departure in two hours.”

As I took my seat in the carriage, I noticed Oleander poring over a cheap paperback, pages illuminated by the pale glow of her eyes. They were filled with illustrations of cryptids and mythical beasts. Her sketches adorned the margins with imagined dissections and anatomical notes. “Progenitor, do you think we'll encounter any of these on our journey?” she asked in a high, cold monotone, her eyes gleaming with a mix of scientific curiosity and something darker. I dismissed her with a noncommittal murmur but made a mental note of her new obsession.

With all in barely acceptable order, we embarked. The Estate's towers vanished behind us, swallowed by an eager mist—as if the old place was glad to see me go after my brief return. An unnatural fog embraced the carriage, its tendrils more possessive than menacing. The muffled groans of Willbreak's discarded progeny, forming the carriage's frame, provided a comforting lullaby. As we descended the main drive, the fog grew thicker, with a hungry eagerness clinging to us. The further we traveled, the darker and more oppressive the mist became, until it seemed as though we moved through a solid substance, the very air grating against the walls of the carriage. It began to moan and cry in pain. I could barely make out the twisted forms of Willbreak’s offspring, enchanted by Lyemirror, their deformed shapes clawing their way through the suffocating gray.

We emerged from the Cryptwood through an ancient henge, where the air was thick with remnants of forgotten rites, and the earth still hummed with the energy of sacrifices made under countless moons.

Upon reaching the edge of the henge, Scourge Lyemirror dismounted. Without a word of gratitude, she removed the bridle from the spectral steed. The creature's form flickered weakly, its strength sapped by the journey and the witch's binding.

“Be gone,” she commanded with a dismissive wave.

The poor creature staggered away, its once-majestic presence reduced to a fading wisp. It disappeared into the shadows, perhaps to find solace or perhaps to dissipate entirely.

Watching the spirit vanish, Scourge turned to us with feigned concern. “I do hope it finds its way,” she said. “It's so easy to get lost when one's purpose has been... exhausted.”

I met her gaze impassively. “A fate that befalls many who outlive their usefulness,” I remarked, irony lacing my words.

She smirked subtly, clearly savoring her small victory. Her propensity for manipulating lesser beings was a tiresome display of overcompensation. I noted the way her eyes flickered with self-satisfaction—a trait that could be exploited under the right circumstances.

“Our path,” Lyemirror declared, eyes aflame with arcane energies, “lies southeast.”

I recalibrated maps beneath their scrutinizing eyes. The witches’ manipulations wearied me, yet this game held value still.

“Must we indulge in more of these theatrics?” I inquired. “Time is a resource even you cannot manipulate.”

She glanced at me sidelong. “Efficiency is paramount. This ritual will expedite our journey.”

“See that it does,” I replied coolly. “I have little patience for unnecessary diversions.”

Treachery Willbreak sauntered over, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “Always eager to reach the end, aren't you? Sometimes the journey offers… unexpected pleasures.”

Typhon shifted impatiently, tension crackling audibly about him. “Patience,” I cautioned. “Violence awaits inevitably.”

Treachery whispered seductively, diverting Typhon’s fury into anticipation of future carnage. Lyemirror resumed her rites, the henge pulsating with latent potency, shadows elongating as entities of profound darkness circled the periphery.

Scourge began chanting, low and resonant. Phantom lights moved among the trees, coalescing into immense spectral equines, prideful and menacing. She unleashed curses, binding the most formidable among them, reducing its majesty to smoldering ashes collected within crystalline confines.

As the rite concluded without incident, Typhon’s unused aggression simmered dangerously. Trouble loomed inevitably.

Rain again drummed its discontent against the mundane warehouse shelter in Salem, a city forever shrouded in historical shadows. The witches’ smug amusement at Typhon’s temper grated, and my son’s storm passed, leaving ominous stillness.

Through rain-streaked windows, I contemplated the Prophet awaiting us. Each storm we weathered now seemed mere prelude, a whisper compared to the tempests gathering ahead.

With weary resignation, I awaited dawn, certain only that our descent had barely begun.