Arcanum Tales Chapter 3 page 3 of 5

The screams had started not long after the mage had left the Bentley, and the Boil listened indifferently as they increased in volume and intensity. The wet slap of metal on flesh, the crack of breaking bone, the whimpering cries of the helpless. And then laughter, twisted and jovial, followed again by the screams, even louder than before.

A broken figure was thrown through the front window, tearing the mounted bars from the outside wall, and falling upon them in a bloodied heap on the ground. Sebastian spat upon the man as he ran by, a sling already upon his shoulder. Willoughsby's estate was on the other side of Tarant, across Garrillon Bridge and well into the east quarter. The mage had at least a quarter of an hour on him, and Sebastian still had a stop to make along the way.

The Automaton was still untested, but no matter-he had something else just for the occasion.

Edward Willoughsby awoke with a start, the embers in the fireplace glowing brightly but without flame, and the light of the moon falling dimly through the curtained windows of the den. The house was completely silent beyond the slight rustle of the elm trees against the great glass panes of the manor's faзade windows. He shook the sleep from his head, the last remnants of his dreams fading as he looked to the mantle clock for the hour. He couldn't see in the low light, and pulled out the pocket-watch he'd shown Perriman hours before.

The watch read half past two, but had stopped. Willoughsby chided himself for his neglect in winding it-there was never an excuse for oversight or soft-mindedness. He rose to check the time against the mantle clock, noticing for the first time that the house was unnaturally cold. He'd have Lorham check the boilers in the morning.

The mantle clock read half past two.

It was then Willoughsby understood the gravity of his situation; what was meant by the house being both silent and dark, why two clocks stopping at precisely the same moment was so much more than rare coincidence. And so, when he heard footsteps directly behind him, he was not surprised to turn and find a man lowering himself into the chair that he had been occupying only moments before.

"Greetings, Mr. Willoughsby." The man settled into the chair, crossing his legs and pulling a handkerchief from his vest pocket. Even in the dim light, Willoughsby could make out a nasty wound on the man's face, a deep gash that ran from his left earlobe to the tip of his chin. He dabbed at it with the handkerchief, his eyes never leaving those of the gnome. "You'll forgive my uninvited visit at this late hour, but we've business to attend to, and I'm afraid it just can't wait."

"Of course, of course. Please, make yourself comfortable." Willoughsby moved slowly, gesturing to an empty chair opposite the man. "Would you mind if I sat down?"

"Not at all."

Willoughsby walked to the chair, and took a seat.

"Can I offer you something to drink? Or perhaps a dressing for your wound? Frightful looking thing..."

"No, thank you. Both are quite unnecessary. I don't think I'll be here long enough to enjoy your hospitality."

"I see." The implications of the statement were apparent to Willoughsby. "Well, it seems that you're aware of my identity, sir, as well as my address, but I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Might I ask who you are?"

"My name, really, is unimportant. But you may call me Worthing. Mr. Worthing."

At a lazy gesture from the mage the embers in the fireplace cracked and exploded into a roaring fire, sending forth a rush of heat and burning ash. The flames burned brightly and many-colored, twisting and undulating, creating maniacal patterns. For a moment it was almost unbearable, but then, with another gesture, the flames settled to an acceptable level, conducive to both comfort and conversation. Willoughsby ventured a look toward the stairs.