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Lying back on a bed in an empty hospital room, with Anders' ghoulish painting leering out at you, you let your mind wander. The pieces are starting to come together, and you're starting to see the picture. It all started – as much as anything starts or ends – in the dark southern continent. Amidst an oppressive air of blood and terror, your father called out and something answered him. Following him and his companions back home, it fell upon Anders first and nearly destroyed him. Dunblane knew something, and he was destroyed too. And your father?
No. Not him. Everything about his death has the scent of human hands.
There are still a few holes in your theory. There seems to be a long lull between the southern expedition and the first deaths, a span of over twenty years. Why? And why Anders, before anyone else – was his terror so great that it shone out like a beacon, eclipsing even your father's sins?
You don't have all the answers just yet, but you're getting there.
-
“You're absolutely sure that Doctor Darwin is okay with this?” Elle asks nervously, as you push the creaking wheelchair towards the front doors, “You have actually asked her, yes?”
“Of course I have,” you assure her, glancing down at Anders' motionless form, “Given that our friend here isn't in any danger of running away, she allowed it. I won't say that she was happy with it, but I think she realises that playing along will help get us out of her hair sooner rather than later.”
“Hm,” the oracle murmurs, opening the door so you can wheel Anders out. Even though day is still far off, the full moon casts a bright light down upon the land around you. Here in the north, it seems truly vast – obscenely swollen, swallowing up the blackness of the sky. Wheeling Anders down a grassy path, you step back and carefully examine his shadow.
The shadow is almost perfectly still, just as the man himself is almost motionless. There is only the slightest tremble as he breathes, his shadow shifting in time to his movements.
“There,” you whisper to Elle, “That's a good sign.”
“I'll take your word for that,” she replies, “Though I'm not sure if we should really put so much weight on the words of a man suffering from a serious nervous disorder.”
“You're right,” you agree, “We should be putting her trust in the Emanations instead.”
“That's...” Elle pouts, “That's completely asinine!”
You shrug. “Right now we're fumbling in the dark, grasping for whatever answers we can find. I've listened to oracles, Galseans and the Tomoe – a madman isn't that much of a stretch,” you explain, “Everyone strives towards the truth in their own way, and they all have lessons to learn from – even if it's just to avoid the mistakes they made.”
Elle considers this for a moment. “Fine,” she admits eventually, “I suppose you've got a point.”
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