Vacation: Part 6, Vaniloquence and Visure

As I continue to share the details of this fateful vacation, I recognize what a fool I was. This goes beyond my underestimation of the witches Willbreak and Lyemirror. I was so focused on my quest to regain my connection with The Nameless One, that I failed to observe many critical datum around me. The prosperity I have gained over the last two decades, the independence and power, was all in danger. Yet I was focused on petty annoyances and debased myself as a mere plaything to the trivial manipulations of my companions. The ominous streets of Salem were but a stage upon which deeper schemes played out, and even as I pored meticulously over maps and theories, darker plans were set irrevocably in motion—plans whose consequences I would grasp far too late.

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The evening descended swiftly upon Salem, heavy with the day’s frustrations and an undercurrent of uneasy anticipation. Our disappointing search for the elusive Prophet had culminated in futile wanderings, petty annoyances, and magical distractions. Now, within our dilapidated lodgings—shielded from outside scrutiny only by Treachery’s manipulative enchantments—we gathered to chart our next steps.

I spread out the aged maps across a cracked table in Willbreak’s chamber, carefully noting the intersections of ley lines, historical disturbances, and reported supernatural phenomena. As I detailed potential locations, the witches' interest waned visibly. Scourge Lyemirror examined her fingernails with feigned boredom, while Treachery Willbreak gazed absently through the grimy window toward a distant storm, her eyes reflecting lightning from unseen skies.

“Your thoroughness is commendable,” Scourge remarked with mocking dryness, “but perhaps a touch overly methodical for our purpose.”

I raised an eyebrow, deliberately measured in my response. “Precision increases our likelihood of success—unless aimless wandering has suddenly become appealing.”

Treachery smiled slyly, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Sometimes intuition surpasses calculation, Jordan. Not everything can be neatly plotted on a map.”

“Intuition without foundation is mere guesswork,” I retorted calmly. “If you possess constructive insight, please, do share.”

Scourge and Treachery exchanged a conspiratorial glance. “There are whispers,” Scourge began slowly, as if revealing a great secret, “of a concealed archive beneath the old Pickman house. Records there might illuminate the Prophet’s whereabouts.”

I regarded her skeptically. “And you chose not to mention this until now—why exactly?”

“We presumed you'd appreciate the satisfaction of discovering it yourself,” Treachery replied lightly, her voice dripping with feigned innocence.

Their habitual withholding of information, designed as always to irritate, was unsurprising yet aggravating. I kept my composure, choosing not to reward their provocations. “Very well,” I said evenly. “If this archive truly exists, it could indeed expedite our search. We shall investigate.”

“Assuming, of course, that it does exist,” Scourge added, her eyes glittering enigmatically.

At that moment, the distant rumble of thunder heralded Typhon’s return. He stepped into the room, knuckles bruised and bloodied, a satisfied, predatory smile playing upon his lips. He settled into a chair heavily, exhaling with contentment as I watched him dispassionately.

“I trust your excursion was...therapeutic?” I asked pointedly.

He offered a curt nod. “They were unworthy adversaries.”

“Indeed,” I noted, mildly irritated. “Reports have already reached local authorities of disturbances near the Armory. Perhaps next time you might select targets less prone to attract undue attention? Discretion, Typhon, remains critical.”

He grunted acknowledgment, the closest approximation of agreement I expected. I returned to the maps, eager to regain control of our strategy. “Now, regarding these other potential—”

My words died as I realized the witches' attention had again shifted. Scourge and Treachery had withdrawn to a corner, huddled over a softly glowing crystal orb. Within it, flickering figures—male Olympians, their movements gracefully athletic—performed some vigorous sporting ritual. I felt my jaw tighten at their casual distraction.

“Is this truly an appropriate time for diversions?” I asked, my voice carefully controlled.

Treachery glanced up, amusement brightening her features. “Even diligent minds deserve moments of reprieve, Jordan.”

“Indeed,” Scourge agreed, eyes never leaving the orb’s shimmering images. “Inspiration may be found in unexpected places.”

“I fail to see how athletes halfway around the globe relate to our current endeavor,” I responded tersely.

“Perhaps you would understand,” Treachery replied gently, “if you weren’t quite so...constrained. There's value in appreciating excellence wherever it may appear.”

Recognizing the futility of debating their indulgences, I redirected my focus to the maps once again. Time, after all, was a resource slipping rapidly from our grasp, and their diversions only intensified the challenge of maintaining cohesion among our group. Each petty distraction—each willful indulgence—strained the delicate bonds tying this volatile alliance together, testing the limits of patience and strategy alike.

As I traced my fingertips over Salem’s shadowed streets depicted in faded ink, I felt an unsettling certainty grow: the complexities of this venture would not be resolved merely by locating the Prophet or surviving whatever trials awaited us here. Far darker revelations awaited back at Blytmoast Estate, hidden within familiar walls and waiting patiently for our return. This journey, I realized grimly, was merely prologue to deeper, more dangerous truths yet to unfold.