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In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Darius: The Call Home
South of France: Early 2023
Darius stared at the cracked ceiling of the tiny room, the faint hum of a heater barely cutting through the January chill. His breath rose in soft clouds, dissipating like the ambitions that had once kept him moving. The baby’s cries from the next room pierced the quiet again, sharp and insistent. He hadn’t been sleeping well—not that he blamed the baby.
The young couple, friends of friends, had taken him in when he’d landed back in France late the previous year, his travel funds evaporated and his wellness “influencer” groups struggling to gain traction. What had started as a confident online project—bridging human connection through storytelling and mindfulness—had withered under the relentless churn of algorithm changes and the oversaturated market: even in its infancy, AI and its well-rounded litanies seemed the ubiquitous answers to humanities’ challenges.
“Maybe this isn’t what people need right now,” he had muttered during one of his few recent live sessions, the comment section painfully empty.
The atmosphere in the apartment was strained. He felt it every time he stepped into the cramped kitchen, the way the couple’s conversation quieted, the careful politeness in their questions about his plans.
“I’ve got some things in the works,” he’d say, avoiding their eyes.
But the truth was, he didn’t.
It wasn’t just the lack of money or direction that weighed on him—it was a gnawing sense of purposelessness, a creeping awareness that the threads he’d woven into his identity were fraying. He could still hear Éloïse’s voice in his mind sometimes, low and hypnotic: “You’re meant to do more than drift. Trust the pattern. Follow the pull.”
The pull. He had followed it across continents, into conversations and connections that felt profound at the time but now seemed hollow, like echoes in an empty room.
When his phone buzzed late one night, the sound startling in the quiet, he almost didn’t answer.
“Darius,” his aunt’s voice crackled through the line, faint but firm. “It’s time you came home.”
Arrival in Guadeloupe
The air in Pointe-à-Pitre was thick and warm, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His aunt met him at the airport, her sharp gaze softening only slightly when she saw him.
“You look thin,” she said, her tone clipped. “Let’s get you fed.”
The ride to Capesterre-Belle-Eau was a blur of green —banana fields and palms swaying in the breeze, the mountains rising in the distance like sleeping giants. The scent of the sea mingled with the earthy sweetness of the land, a sharp contrast to the sterile chill of the south of France.
“You’ll help with the house,” his aunt said, her hands steady on the wheel. “And the fields. Don’t think you’re here to lounge.”
He nodded, too tired to argue.
The first few weeks felt like penance. His aunt was tireless, moving with an energy that gainsaid her years, barking orders as he struggled to keep up.
“Your hands are too soft,” she said once, glancing at his blistered palms. “Too much time spent talking, not enough doing.”
Her words stung, but there was no malice in them—only a brutal honesty that cut through his haze.
Evenings were quieter, spent on the veranda with plates of steaming rice and codfish, with the backdrop of cicadas’ relentless and rhythmic agitation. She didn’t ask about his travels, his work, or the strange detours his life had taken. Instead, she told stories—of storms weathered, crops saved, neighbors who came together when the land demanded it.
A Turning Point
One morning, as the sun rose over the fields, his aunt handed him a machete.
“Today, you clear,” she said.
He stood among the ruined banana trees, their fallen trunks like skeletal remains of what had once been vibrant and alive. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay.
With each swing of the machete, he felt something shift inside him. The physical labor, relentless and grounding, pulled him out of his head and into his body. The repetitive motion—strike, clear, drag—was almost meditative, a rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the land.
By midday, his shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat. His muscles ached, his hands stung, but for the first time in months, his mind felt quiet.
As he paused to drink from a canteen, his aunt approached, a rare smile softening her stern features.
“You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” she said.
“See what?”
“That life isn’t just what you chase. It’s what you build.”
Over time, the work became less about obligation and more about integration. He began to recognize the faces of the neighbors who stopped by to lend a hand, their laughter and stories sending vibrant pulsating waves resonant of a community he hadn’t realized he missed.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, a group gathered to share a meal. Someone brought out drums, the rhythmic beat carrying through the warm night air. Darius found himself smiling, his feet moving instinctively to the music.
The trance of Éloïse’s words—the pull she had promised—dissipated like smoke in the wind. What remained was what mattered: it wasn’t the pull but the roots —the people, the land, the stories they shared.
The Bell
It was his aunt who rang the bell for dinner one evening, the sound sharp and clear, cutting through the humid air like a call to attention.
Darius paused, the sound resonating in his chest. It reminded him of something—a faint echo from his time with Éloïse and Renard, but different. This was simpler, purer, untainted by manipulation.
He looked at his aunt, who was watching him with a knowing smile. “You’ve been lost a long time, haven’t you?” she said quietly.
Darius nodded, unable to speak.
“Good,” she said. “It means you know the way back.”
By the time he wrote to Amei, his hand no longer trembled. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own,” he wrote, the words flowing easily. “its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well.”
For the first time in years, he felt like he was on solid ground—not chasing a pull, but rooted in the rhythm of the land, the people, and himself.
The haze lifted, and with it came clarity and maybe hope. It was time to reconnect—not just with long-lost friends and shared ideals, but with the version of himself he thought he’d lost.
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Exploring further potential backstory for the characters – to be explored further…
This thread beautifully connects to the lingering themes of fractured ideals, missed opportunities, and the pull of reconnection. Here’s an expanded exploration of the “habitats participatifs” (co-housing communities) and how they tie the characters together while weaving in subtle links to their estrangement and Matteo’s role as the fifth element.
Backstory: The Co-Housing Dream
Habitat Participatif: A Shared Vision
The group’s initial bond, forged through shared values and late-night conversations, had coalesced around a dream: buying land in the Drôme region of France to create a co-housing community. The French term habitat participatif—intergenerational, eco-conscious, and collaborative living—perfectly encapsulated their ideals.
What Drew Them In:
- Amei: Longing for a sense of rootedness and community after years of drifting.
- Elara: Intrigued by the participatory aspect, where decisions were made collectively, blending science and sustainability.
- Darius: Enchanted by the idea of shared creative spaces and a slower, more intentional way of living.
- Lucien: Inspired by the communal energy, imagining workshops where art could flourish outside the constraints of traditional galleries.
The Land in Drôme
They had narrowed their options to a specific site near the village of Crest, not far from Lyon. The land, sprawling and sun-drenched, had an old farmhouse that could serve as a communal hub, surrounded by fields and woods. A nearby river threaded through the valley, and the faint outline of mountains painted the horizon.
The traboules of Lyon, labyrinthine passageways, had captivated Amei during an earlier visit, leaving her wondering if their metaphorical weaving through life could mirror the paths their group sought to create.
The Role of Monsieur Renard
When it came to financing, the group faced challenges. None of them were particularly wealthy, and pooling their resources fell short. Enter Monsieur Renard, whose interest in supporting “projects with potential” brought him into their orbit through Éloïse.
Initial Promise:
- Renard presented himself as a patron of innovation, sustainability, and community projects, offering seed funding in exchange for a minor share in the enterprise.
- His charisma and Éloïse’s insistence made him seem like the perfect ally—until his controlling tendencies emerged.
The Split: Fractured Trust
Renard’s involvement—and Éloïse’s increasing influence on Darius—created fault lines in the group.
- Darius’s Drift:
- Darius became entranced by Renard and Éloïse’s vision of community as something deeper, bordering on spiritual. Renard spoke of “energetic alignment” and the importance of a guiding vision, which resonated with Darius’s creative side.
- He began advocating for Renard’s deeper involvement, insisting the project couldn’t succeed without external backing.
- Elara’s Resistance:
- Elara, ever the pragmatist, saw Renard as manipulative, his promises too vague and his influence too broad. Her resistance created tension with Darius, whom she accused of being naive.
- “This isn’t about community for him,” she had said. “It’s about control.”
- Lucien’s Hesitation:
- Lucien, torn between loyalty to his friends and his own fascination with Éloïse, wavered. Her talk of labyrinths and collective energy intrigued him, but he grew wary of her sway over Darius.
- When Renard offered to fund Lucien’s art, he hesitated, sensing a price he couldn’t articulate.
- Amei’s Silence:
- Amei, haunted by her own experiences with manipulation in past relationships, withdrew. She saw the dream slipping away but couldn’t bring herself to fight for it.
Matteo’s Unseen Role
Unbeknownst to the others, Matteo had been invited to join as a fifth partner—a practical addition to balance their idealism. His background in construction and agriculture, coupled with his easygoing nature, made him a perfect fit.
The Missed Connection:
- Matteo had visited the Drôme site briefly, a stranger to the group but intrigued by their vision. His presence was meant to ground their plans, to bring practicality to their shared dream.
- By the time he arrived, however, the group’s fractures were deepening. Renard’s shadow loomed too large, and the guru-like influence of Éloïse had soured the collaborative energy. Matteo left quietly, sensing the dream unraveling before it could take root.
The Fallout: A Fractured Dream
The group dissolved after a final argument about Renard’s involvement:
- Elara refused to move forward with his funding. “I’m not selling my future to him,” she said bluntly.
- Darius, feeling betrayed, accused her of sabotaging the dream out of stubbornness.
- Lucien, caught in the middle, tried to mediate but ultimately sided with Elara.
- Amei, already pulling away, suggested they put the project on hold.
The land was never purchased. The group scattered soon after, their estrangement compounded by the pandemic. Matteo drifted in a different direction, their connection lost before it could form.
Amei’s Perspective: Post-Split Reflection
In the scene where Amei buys candles :
- The shopkeeper’s comments about “seeking something greater” resonate with Amei’s memory of the co-housing dream and how it became entangled with Éloïse and Renard’s influence.
- Her sharper-than-usual reply reflects her lingering bitterness over the way “seeking” led to manipulation and betrayal.
Reunion at the Café: A New Beginning
When the group reunites, the dream of the co-housing project lingers as a symbol of what was lost—but also of what could still be reclaimed. Matteo’s presence at the café bridges the gap between their fractured past and a potential new path.
Matteo’s Role:
- His unspoken connection to the co-housing plan becomes a point of quiet irony: he was meant to be part of their story all along but arrived too late. Now, at the café, he steps into the role he missed years ago—the one who helps them see the threads that still bind them.
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Some elements for inspiration as to the backstory of the group and how it could tie to the current state of the story:
Here’s a draft version of the drama surrounding Éloïse and Monsieur Renard (the “strange couple”), incorporating their involvement with Darius, their influence on the group’s dynamic, and the fallout that caused the estrangement five years ago.
The Strange Couple: Éloïse and Monsieur Renard
Winter 2019: Paris, Just Before the Pandemic
The group’s last reunion before their estrangement was supposed to be a celebration—one of those rare moments when their diverging paths aligned. They had gathered in Paris in late December, the city cloaked in gray skies and glowing light. The plan was simple: a few days together, catching up, exploring old haunts, and indulging in the kind of reckless spontaneity that had defined their earlier years.
It was Darius who disrupted the rhythm. He had arrived late to their first dinner, rain-soaked and apologetic, with Éloïse and Monsieur Renard in tow.
First Impressions of Éloïse and Monsieur Renard
Éloïse was striking—lithe, dark-haired, with sharp eyes that seemed to unearth secrets before you could name them. She moved with a predatory grace, her laughter a mix of charm and edge. Renard was her shadow, older and impeccably dressed, his silvery hair and angular features giving him the air of a fox. He spoke little, but when he did, his words had the weight of finality, as if he were accustomed to being obeyed.
“They’re just friends,” Darius said when the others exchanged wary glances. “They’re… interesting. You’ll like them.”
But it didn’t take long for Éloïse and Renard to unsettle the group. At dinner, Éloïse dominated the conversation, her stories wild and improbable—of séances in abandoned mansions, of lost artifacts with strange energies, of lives transformed by unseen forces. Renard’s occasional interjections only added to the mystique, his tone implying he’d seen more than he cared to share.
Lucien, ever the skeptic, found himself drawn to Éloïse despite his instincts. Her talk of energies and symbols resonated with his artistic side, and when she mentioned labyrinths, his attention sharpened.
Elara, in contrast, bristled at their presence. She saw through their mystique, recognizing in Renard the manipulative charisma of someone who thrived on control.
Amei was harder to read, but she watched Éloïse and Renard closely, her silence betraying a guardedness that hinted at deeper discomfort.
Darius’s Growing Involvement
Over the following days, Darius spent more time with Éloïse and Renard, skipping planned outings with the group. He spoke of them with a reverence that was uncharacteristic, praising their insight into things he’d never thought to question.
“They see connections in everything,” he told Amei during a rare moment alone. “It’s… enlightening.”
“Connections to what?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.
“Paths, people, purpose,” he replied vaguely. “It’s hard to explain, but it feels… right.”
Amei didn’t press further, but she mentioned it to Elara later. “It’s like he’s slipping into something he can’t see his way out of,” she said.
The Séance
The turning point came during an impromptu gathering at Éloïse and Renard’s rented apartment—a dimly lit space filled with strange objects: glass jars of cloudy liquid, intricate carvings, and an ornate bronze bell hanging above the mantelpiece.
Éloïse had invited the group for what she called “an evening of clarity.” The others arrived reluctantly, wary of what she had planned but unwilling to let Darius face it alone.
The séance began innocuously enough—Éloïse guiding them through what she described as a “journey inward.” She spoke in a low, rhythmic tone, her words weaving a spell that was hard to resist.
Then things took a darker turn. She asked them to focus on the labyrinth she had drawn on the table—a design eerily similar to the map Lucien had found weeks earlier.
“You must find your center,” she said, her voice dropping. “But beware the edges. They’ll show you things you’re not ready to see.”
The room grew heavy with silence. Darius leaned into the moment, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. Lucien tried to focus but felt a growing unease. Elara sat rigid, her scientific mind railing against the absurdity of it all. Amei’s hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
And then, the bell rang.
It was faint at first, a distant chime that seemed to come from nowhere. Then it grew louder, resonating through the room, its tone deep and haunting.
“What the hell is that?” Lucien muttered, his eyes snapping open.
Éloïse smiled faintly but said nothing. Renard’s expression remained inscrutable, though his fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, as if counting something unseen.
Elara stood abruptly, breaking the spell. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “You’re playing with people’s minds.”
Darius’s eyes opened, his gaze unfocused. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “It’s not a game.”
The Fallout
The séance fractured the group.
- Elara: Left the apartment furious, calling Renard a charlatan and vowing never to entertain such nonsense again. Her relationship with Darius cooled, her disappointment palpable.
- Lucien: Became fascinated with the labyrinth and its connection to his art, but he couldn’t shake the unease the séance had left. His conversations with Éloïse deepened in the following days, further isolating him from the group.
- Amei: Refused to speak about what she’d experienced. When pressed, she simply said, “Some things are better left forgotten.”
- Darius stayed with Éloïse and Renard for weeks after the others left Paris, becoming more entrenched in their world. But something changed. When he finally returned, he was distant and cagey, unwilling to discuss what had happened during his time with them.
Lingering Questions
- What Happened to Darius with Éloïse and Renard?
- Darius’s silence suggests something traumatic or transformative occurred during his deeper involvement with the couple.
- The Bell’s Role:
- The bronze bell that rang during the séance ties into its repeated presence in the story. Was it part of the couple’s mystique, or does it hold a deeper significance?
- Lucien’s Entanglement:
- Éloïse and Renard’s Motives:
- Were they simply grifters manipulating Darius and others, or were they genuinely exploring something deeper, darker, and potentially dangerous?
Impact on the Reunion
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
The bell above the shop door tinkled softly as Amei stepped inside. The scent of beeswax and aged wood greeted her, mingling with the faintly spiced aroma of dried herbs from the apothecary corner. She’d stopped in to pick up candles for the dinner party tomorrow night with a few work friends—a last-minute impulse. The plain white table looked too bare without a little light. It would be the first time in months she’d hosted anyone—and the last in this house.
The shopkeeper, a man in his sixties with kind eyes and a wool cardigan, greeted her with a warm smile. “Good morning. Let me know if you need any help.”
“Thanks,” Amei replied, wandering toward the back of the shop, scanning the shelves.
A few minutes later, she placed a bundle of plain white candles on the counter. Simple and unadorned. Just enough to soften the edges of the evening. The shopkeeper struck up a conversation as he slid the candles into a paper bag.
“These are always popular,” he said. “Simple, but they hold a certain purity, don’t you think?”
Amei nodded politely. “They do,” she said.
He looked at her, his expression thoughtful. “Candles have been used for centuries—rituals, meditation, prayer. Such a beautiful tradition.”
“They’re just for light on this occasion,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended.
“Of course. Still, I think there’s a certain peace in those practices. Seeking something greater than ourselves—it’s a natural longing, don’t you think?”
Amei hesitated, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I suppose,” she replied, more gently. “But I think people’s ‘seeking’ sometimes gets tangled up with other things.”
The shopkeeper met her gaze, tilting his head slightly as if weighing her words. “That’s true. But the seeking itself—it’s still important.”
Amei nodded absently, her mind flickering to past conversations. She paid with her card, avoiding his eyes. “Maybe,” she said. “But not for everyone.”
The bell tinkled again as the door opened behind her. A sudden draft swept through the shop, lifting the scent of beeswax and herbs into the air. Amei took the opportunity to collect her purchase and slip out.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Darius: A Map of People
June 2023 – Capesterre-Belle-Eau, Guadeloupe
The air in Capesterre-Belle-Eau was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement slow and deliberate. Darius leaned against the railing of the veranda, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blends into the sea. The scent of wet earth and banana leaves filling the air. He was home.
It had been nearly a year since hurricane Fiona swept through Guadeloupe, its winds blowing a trail of destruction across homes, plantations, and lives. Capesterre-Belle-Eau had been among the hardest hit, its banana plantations reduced to ruin and its roads washed away in torrents of mud.
Darius hadn’t been here when it happened. He’d read about it from across the Atlantic, the news filtering through headlines and phone calls from his aunt, her voice brittle with worry.
“Darius, you should come back,” she’d said. “The land remembers everyone who’s left it.”
It was an unusual thing for her to say, but the words lingered. By the time he arrived in early 2023 to join the relief efforts, the worst of the crisis had passed, but the scars remained—on the land, on the people, and somewhere deep inside himself.
Home, and Not — Now, passing days having turned into quick six months, Darius was still here, though he couldn’t say why. He had thrown himself into the work, helped to rebuild homes, clear debris, and replant crops. But it wasn’t just the physical labor that kept him—it was the strange sensation of being rooted in a place he’d once fled.
Capesterre-Belle-Eau wasn’t just home; it was bones-deep memories of childhood. The long walks under the towering banana trees, the smell of frying codfish and steaming rice from his aunt’s kitchen, the rhythm of gwoka drums carrying through the evening air.
“Tu reviens pour rester cette fois ?” Come back to stay? a neighbor had asked the day he returned, her eyes sharp with curiosity.
He had laughed, brushing off the question. “On verra,” he’d replied. We’ll see.
But deep down, he knew the answer. He wasn’t back for good. He was here to make amends—not just to the land that had raised him but to himself.
A Map of Travels — On the veranda that afternoon, Darius opened his phone and scrolled through his photo gallery. Each image was pinned to a digital map, marking all the places he’d been since he got the phone. Of all places, it was Budapest which popped out, a poor snapshot of Buda Castle.
He found it a funny thought — just like where he was now, he hadn’t planned to stay so long there. He remembered the date: 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. He’d spent in Budapest most of it, sketching the empty streets.
Five years ago, their little group of four had all been reconnecting in Paris, full of plans that never came to fruition. By late 2019, the group had scattered, each of them drawn into their own orbits, until the first whispers of the pandemic began to ripple across the world.
Funding his travels had never been straightforward. He’d tried his hand at dozens of odd jobs over the years—bartending in Lisbon, teaching English in Marrakech, sketching portraits in tourist squares across Europe. He lived frugally, keeping his possessions light and his plans loose. Yet, his confidence had a way of opening doors; people trusted him without knowing why, offering him opportunities that always seemed to arrive at just the right time.
Even during the pandemic, when the world seemed to fold in on itself, he had found a way.
Darius had already arrived in Budapest by then, living cheaply in a rented studio above a bakery. The city had remained open longer than most in Europe or the world, its streets still alive with muted activity even as the rest of Europe closed down. He’d wandered freely for months, sketching graffiti-covered bridges, quiet cafes, and the crumbling facades of buildings that seemed to echo his own restlessness.
When the lockdowns finally came like everywhere else, it was just before winter, he’d stayed, uncertain of where else to go. His days became a rhythm of sketching, reading, and sending postcards. Amei was one of the few who replied—but never ostentatiously. It was enough to know she was still there, even if the distance between them felt greater than ever.
But the map didn’t tell the whole story. It didn’t show the faces, the laughter, the fleeting connections that had made those places matter.
Swatting at a buzzing mosquito, he reached for the small leather-bound folio on the table beside him. Inside was a collection of fragments: ticket stubs, pressed flowers, a frayed string bracelet gifted by a child in Guatemala, and a handful of postcards he’d sent to Amei but had never been sure she received.
One of them, yellowed at the edges, showed a labyrinth carved into stone. He turned it over, his own handwriting staring back at him.
“Amei,” it read. “I thought of you today. Of maps and paths and the people who make them worth walking. Wherever you are, I hope you’re well. —D.”
He hadn’t sent it. Amei’s responses had always been brief—a quick WhatsApp message, a thumbs-up on his photos, or a blue tick showing she’d read his posts. But they’d never quite managed to find their way back to the conversations they used to have.
The Market — The next morning, Darius wandered through the market in Trois-Rivières, a smaller town nestled between the sea and the mountains. The vendors called out their wares—bunches of golden bananas, pyramids of vibrant mangoes, bags of freshly ground cassava flour.
“Tiens, Darius!” called a woman selling baskets woven from dried palm fronds. “You’re not at work today?”
“Day off,” he said, smiling as he leaned against her stall. “Figured I’d treat myself.”
She handed him a small woven bracelet, her eyes twinkling. “A gift. For luck, wherever you go next.”
Darius accepted it with a quiet laugh. “Merci, tatie.”
As he turned to leave, he noticed a couple at the next stall—tourists, by the look of them, their backpacks and wide-eyed curiosity marking them as outsiders. They made him suddenly realise how much he missed the lifestyle.
The woman wore an orange scarf, its boldness standing out as if the color orange itself had disappeared from the spectrum, and only a single precious dash could be seen into all the tones of the market. Something else about them caught his attention. Maybe it was the way they moved together, or the way the man gestured as he spoke, as if every word carried weight.
“Nice scarf,” Darius said casually as he passed.
The woman smiled, adjusting the fabric. “Thanks. Picked it up in Rajasthan. It’s been with me everywhere since.”
Her partner added, “It’s funny, isn’t it? The things we carry. Sometimes it feels like they know more about where we’ve been than we do.”
Darius tilted his head, intrigued. “Do you ever think about maps? Not the ones that lead to places, but the ones that lead to people. Paths crossing because they’re meant to.”
The man grinned. “Maybe it’s not about the map itself,” he said. “Maybe it’s about being open to seeing the connections.”
A Letter to Amei — That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Darius sat at the edge of the bay, his feet dangling above the water. The leather-bound folio sat open beside him, its contents spread out in the fading light.
He picked up the labyrinth postcard again, tracing its worn edges with his thumb.
“Amei,” he wrote on the back just under the previous message a second one —the words flowing easily this time. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own, its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well. —D.”
He folded the card into an envelope and tucked it into his bag, resolving to send it the next day.
As he watched the waves lap against the rocks, he felt a sense of motion rolling like waves asking to be surfed. He didn’t know where the next path would lead next, but he felt it was time to move on again.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
From Decay to Birth: a Map of Paths and Connections
7. Darius’s Encounter (November 2024)
Moments before the reunion with Lucien and his friends, Darius was wandering the bouquinistes along the Seine when he spotted this particular map among a stack of old prints. The design struck him immediately—the spirals, the loops, the faint shimmer of indigo against yellowed paper.
He purchased it without hesitation. As he would examine it more closely, he would notice faint marks along the edges—creases that had come from a vineyard pin, and a smudge of red dust, from Catalonia.
When the bouquiniste had mentioned that the map had come from a traveler passing through, Darius had felt a strange familiarity. It wasn’t the map itself but the echoes of its journey— quiet connections he couldn’t yet place.
6. Matteo’s Discovery (near Avignon, Spring 2024)
The office at the edge of the vineyard was a ruin, its beams sagging and its walls cracked. Matteo had wandered in during a quiet afternoon, drawn by the promise of shade and a moment of solitude.
His eyes scanned the room—a rusted typewriter, ledgers crumbling into dust, and a paper pinned to the wall, its edges curling with age. Matteo stepped closer, pulling the pin free and unfolding what turned out to be a map.
Its lines twisted and looped in ways that seemed deliberate yet impossible to follow. Matteo traced one path with his finger, feeling the faint grooves where the ink had sunk into the paper. Something about it unsettled him, though he couldn’t say why.
Days later, while sharing a drink with a traveler at the local inn, Matteo showed him the map.
“It’s beautiful,” the traveler said, running his hand over the faded indigo lines. “But it doesn’t belong here.”
Matteo nodded. “Take it, then. Maybe you’ll figure it out.”
The traveler left with the map that night, and Matteo returned to the vineyard, feeling lighter somehow.
5. From Hand to Hand (1995–2024)
By the time Matteo found it in the spring of 2024, the map had long been forgotten, its intricate lines dulled by dust and time.
2012: A vineyard owner near Avignon purchased it at an estate sale, pinning it to the wall of his office without much thought.
2001: A collector in Marseille framed it in her study, claiming it was a lost artifact of a secret cartographer society, though she later sold it when funds ran low.
1997: A scholar in Barcelona traded an old atlas for it, drawn to its artistry but unable to decipher its purpose.
The map had passed through many hands over the previous three decades and each owner puzzling over, and finally adding their own meaning to its lines.
4. The Artist (1995)
The mapmaker was a recluse, known only as Almadora to the handful of people who bought her work. Living in a sunlit attic in Girona, she spent her days tracing intricate patterns onto paper, claiming to chart not geography but connections.
“I don’t map what is,” she once told a curious buyer. “I map what could be.”
In 1995, Almadora began work on the labyrinthine map. She used a pale paper from Girona and indigo ink from India, layering lines that seemed to twist and spiral outward endlessly. The map wasn’t signed, nor did it bear any explanations. When it was finished, Almadora sold it to a passing merchant for a handful of coins, its journey into the world beginning quietly, without ceremony.
3. The Ink (1990s)
The ink came from a different path altogether. Indigo plants, or aviri, grown on Kongarapattu, were harvested, fermented, and dried into cakes of pigment. The process was ancient, perfected over centuries, and the resulting hue was so rich it seemed to vibrate with unexplored depth.
From the harbour of Pondicherry, this particular batch of indigo made its way to an artisan in Girona, who mixed it with oils and resins to create a striking ink. Its journey intersected with Amei’s much later, when remnants of the same batch were used to dye textiles she would work with as a designer. But in the mid-1990s, it served a singular purpose: to bring a recluse artist’s vision to life.
2. The Paper (1980)
The tree bore laughter and countless other sounds of nature and passer-by’s arguments for years, a sturdy presence, unwavering in a sea of shifting lives. Even after the farmhouse was sold, long after the sisters had grown apart, the tree remained. But time is merciless, even to the strongest roots.
By 1979, battered by storms and neglect, the great tree cracked and fell, its once-proud form reduced to timber for a nearby mill.
The tree’s journey didn’t end in the mill; it transformed. Its wood was stripped, pulped, and pressed into paper. Some sheets were coarse and rough, destined for everyday use. But a few, including one particularly smooth and pale sheet, were set aside as high-quality stock for specialized buyers.
This sheet traveled south to Catalonia, where it sat in a shop in Girona for years, its surface untouched but full of potential. By the time the artist found it in the mid-1990s, it had already begun to yellow at the edges, carrying the faint scent of age.
1. The Seed (1950s)
It began in a forgotten corner of Kent, where a seed took root beneath a patch of open sky. The tree grew tall and sprawling over decades, its branches a canopy for birds and children alike. By 1961, it had become the centerpiece of the small farmhouse where two young sisters, Vanessa and Elara, played beneath its shade.
“Elara, you’re too slow!” Vanessa called, her voice sharp with mock impatience. Elara, only six years old, trailed behind, clutching a wooden stick she used to scratch shapes into the dirt. “I’m making a map!” she announced, her curls bouncing as she ran to catch up.
Vanessa rolled her eyes, already halfway up the tree’s lowest branch. “You and your maps. You think you’re going somewhere?”
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
It was the chalkapocalypse, which in actual fact occurred so close to Elara’s coming retirement that it hardly need have bothered her in the slightest, that had sparked her interest. She, like many of her colleagues, had quickly stockpiled the Japanese chalk, and she had more than enough to see out the remaining term of her employment at the university. Not that she wanted to stay at Warwick, she’d had enough of university politics and funding cuts, not to mention the dreary midlands weather.
When at last the day had come, she’d sold her mediocre semi detached suburban house with its, more often than not, dripping shrubbery and rarely if ever used white metal patio table and chairs, and made the move, with the intention of pursuing her research at her leisure. In the warmth of a Tuscan sun.
Often the words of her friend and colleague Tom came to her, as she settled into the farmhouse and familiarised herself with the land and the locals.
Physics is a process of getting stuck. Blackboards are the best tool for getting unstuck. You do most of your calculations on paper. Then, when you reach a dead end, you go to the blackboard and share the problem with a colleague. But here’s the funny thing. You often solve the problem yourself in the process of writing it out. You don’t imagine something first and then write it down. It’s through the act of writing that ideas make themselves known. Scientists at blackboards have thoughts that wouldn’t come if they just stood there, with their arms folded.
It was entirely down to Tom’s words that Elara had painted the walls of the barn with blackboard paint, and stocked it with the remains of her Hagoromo chalk hoard, as well as samples of every other available chalk. She had also purchased a number of books on the history of chalk. She’d had no intention of rushing, and retirement provided a relaxed environment for going at her own pace, unfettered by the relentless demands of students and classes. It was a project to savour, luxuriate in, amuse herself with.
When Florian had arrived, she was occupied with showing him around, and before long setting him to tasks that needed doing, and her chalk project had remained on a back burner. He’d asked her about the blackboards in the barn, and wondered if she was planning on giving lectures.
Laughing, Elara said no, that was the last thing she ever wanted to do again. She shared with him what Tom had said, about the ideas flowing during the process of writing.
“And while that makes perfect sense in any medium, not just chalk, it’s the chalk itself ….” Elara smiled. “Well, you don’t want to hear all the technical details. And I wouldn’t want to spill the beans before I’m sure.”
“It does make sense,” Florian replied, “To just write and then the ideas will flow. I’ve been wanting to write a book, but I never know how to start, and I’m not even sure what I want to write about. But perhaps I should just start writing.” Grinning, he added, “Probably not with chalk, though.”
“That’s the spirit, just make a start. You never know what may come of it. And it can be fun, you know, and illuminating in ways you didn’t expect. I used to write stories with a few friends….” Elara’s voice trailed off uncomfortably, as if a cloud had obscured the sun.
Florian noticed her unexpected discomfiture, and tactfully changed the subject. We all have pasts we don’t want to talk about. “Is the sun sufficiently past the yard arm for a glass of wine?” he asked. “What is a yard arm, anyway?”
“A yard is a spar on a mast from which sails are set. It may be constructed of timber or steel or from more modern materials such as aluminium or carbon fibre. Although some types of fore and aft rigs have yards, the term is usually used to describe the horizontal spars used on square rigged sails…”
“Once a lecturer, always a lecturer, eh?” Florian teased.
“Sorry!” Elara said with a rueful look. ” I’d love a glass of wine.”
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
The Bell’s Moment: Paris, Summer 2024 – Olympic Games
The bell was dangling unassumingly from the side pocket of a sports bag, its small brass frame swinging lightly with the jostle of the crowd. The bag belonged to an American tourist, a middle-aged man in a rumpled USA Basketball T-shirt, hustling through the Olympic complex with his family in tow. They were here to cheer for his niece, a rising star on the team, and the bell—a strange little heirloom from his grandmother—had been an afterthought, clipped to the bag for luck. It seemed to fit right in with the bright chaos of the Games, blending into the swirl of flags, chants, and the hum of summer excitement.
1st Ring of the Bell: Matteo
The vineyard was quiet except for the hum of cicadas and the soft rustle of leaves. Matteo leaned against the tractor, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
“You’ve done good work,” the supervisor said, clapping Matteo on the shoulder. “We’ll be finishing this batch by Friday.”
Matteo nodded. “And after that?”
The older man shrugged. “Some go north, some go south. You? You’ve got that look—like you already know where you’re headed.”
Matteo offered a half-smile, but he couldn’t deny it. He’d felt the tug for days, like a thread pulling him toward something undefined. The idea of returning to Paris had slipped into his thoughts quietly, as if it had been waiting for the right moment.
When his phone buzzed later that evening with a job offer to do renovation work in Paris, it wasn’t a surprise. He poured himself a small glass of wine, toasting the stars overhead.
Somewhere, miles away, the bell rang its first note.
2nd Ring of the Bell: Darius
In a shaded square in Barcelona, the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the echo of a street performer’s flamenco guitar. Darius sprawled on a wrought-iron bench, his leather-bound journal open on his lap. He sketched absentmindedly, the lines of a temple taking shape on the page.
A man wearing a scarf of brilliant orange sat down beside him, his energy magnetic. “You’re an artist,” the man said without preamble, his voice carrying the cadence of Kolkata.
“Sometimes,” Darius replied, his pen still moving.
“Then you should come to India,” the man said, grinning. “There’s art everywhere. In the streets, in the temples, even in the food.”
Darius chuckled. “You recruiting me?”
“India doesn’t need recruiters,” the man replied. “It calls people when it’s time.”
The bell rang again in Paris, its chime faint and melodic, as Darius scribbled the words “India, autumn” in the corner of his page.
3rd Ring of the Bell: Elara
The crowd at CERN’s conference hall buzzed as physicists exchanged ideas, voices overlapping like equations scribbled on whiteboards. Elara sat at a corner table, sipping lukewarm coffee and scrolling through her messages.
The voicemail notification glared at her, and she tapped it reluctantly.
“Elara, it’s Florian. I… I’m sorry to tell you this over a message, but your mother passed away last night.”
Her coffee cup trembled slightly as she set it down.
Her relationship with her mother had been fraught, full of alternating period of silences and angry reunions, and had settled lately into careful politeness that masked deeper fractures. Years of therapy had softened the edges of her resentment but hadn’t erased it. She had come to accept that they would never truly understand each other, but the finality of death still struck her with a peculiar weight.
Her mother had been living alone in Montrouge, France, refusing to leave the little house Elara had begged her to sell for years. They had drifted apart, their conversations perfunctory and strained, like the ritual of winding a clock that no longer worked.
She would have to travel to Montrouge for the funeral arrangements.
In that moment, the bell in Les Reliques rang a third time.
4th Ring of the Bell: Lucien
The train to Lausanne glided through fields of dried up sunflowers, too early for the season, but the heat had been relentless. He could imagine the golden blooms swaying with a cracking sound in the summer breeze. Lucien stared out the window, the strap of his duffel bag wrapped tightly around his wrist.
Paris had been suffocating. The tourists swarmed the city like ants, turning every café into a photo opportunity and every quiet street into a backdrop. He hadn’t needed much convincing to take his friend up on the offer of a temporary studio in Lausanne.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a sketchbook. The pages were filled with half-finished drawings, but one in particular caught his eye: a simple doorway with an ornate bell hanging above it.
He didn’t remember drawing it, but the image felt familiar, like a memory from a dream.
The bell rang again in Paris, its resonance threading through the quiet hum of the train.
5th Ring of the Bell: …. Tabitha
In the courtyard of her university residence, Tabitha swung lazily in a hammock, her phone propped precariously on her chest.
“Goa, huh?” one of her friends asked, leaning against the tree holding up the hammock. “Think your mum will freak out?”
“She’ll probably worry herself into knots,” Tabitha replied, laughing. “But she won’t say no. She’s good at the whole supportive parent thing. Or at least pretending to be.”
Her friend raised an eyebrow. “Pretending?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love her,” Tabitha said. “But she’s got her own stuff. You know, things she never really talks about. I think it’s why she works so much. Keeps her distracted.”
The bell rang faintly in Paris, though neither of them could hear it.
“Maybe you should tell her to come with you,” the friend suggested.
Tabitha grinned. “Now that would be a trip.”
Last Ring: The Pawn
It was now sitting on the counter at Les Reliques. Its brass surface gleamed faintly in the dim shop light, polished by the waves of time. Small and unassuming, its ring held something inexplicably magnetic.
Time seemed to settle heavily around it. In the heat of the Olympic summer, it rang six times. Each chime marked a moment that mattered, though none of the characters whose lives it touched understood why. Not yet.
“Where’d you get this?” the shopkeeper asked as the American tourist placed it down.
“It was my grandma’s,” he said, shrugging. “She said it was lucky. I just think it’s old.”
The shopkeeper ran her fingers over the brass surface, her expression unreadable. “And you’re selling it?”
“Need cash to get tickets for the USA basketball game tomorrow,” the man replied. “Quarterfinals. You follow basketball?”
“Not anymore,” the shopkeeper murmured, handing him a stack of bills.
The bell rang softly as she placed it on the velvet cloth, its sound settling into the space like a secret waiting to be uncovered.
And so it sat, quiet but full of presence, waiting for someone to claim it maybe months later, drawn by invisible threads woven through the magnetic field of lives, indifferent to the heat and chaos of the Parisian streets.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Amei found the letter waiting on the narrow hallway table; her flatmate, Felix, must have left it there. They rarely crossed paths these days as he was working long shifts at the hospital. His absence suited her—mostly.
It was a novelty to get a letter! She turned it over in her hands, noting the faint coffee stain on one corner and the Paris postmark. The handwriting was sharp and angular, unmistakably Lucien’s. It felt like a relic from another life, a self she’d long ago left behind in favour of the safe existence she had built in London.
She slipped a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. It contained a single piece of paper—she read the words and Lucien’s familiar insistence leapt off the page.
Amei set the letter on the kitchen counter and stood for a moment, staring out the window. The view was of the neighbouring building—a dreary brick wall streaked with stains, its monotony interrupted only by a single trailing vine struggling to cling to life.
The flat was small but tidy, shaped by two lives that rarely intersected. Felix’s presence was minimal: a mug left on the counter, a jacket draped over a chair. The rest was hers—books stacked on shelves, notebooks brimming with half-formed ideas, and an easel by the window holding an unfinished canvas. She freelanced as a textile designer. On the desk lay fabric swatches and sketches for her latest project—a clean, modern design for a boutique client. The work was steady and paid the bills but left little room for the creative freedom she once craved.
It certainly wasn’t the life she’d envisioned for herself at twenty, or even thirty, but it was functional. Yet there was an emptiness to it all; she was good at what she did, but the passion she’d once felt for her work had dulled.
There were no children at home to fill the silence, no pets to demand her attention. Relationships had come and gone, but none had felt like forever. Felix offered a semblance of company, though their conversations had dwindled to polite exchanges or the odd humorous anecdote. Her days had settled into a rhythm of predictability, punctuated only by deadlines and occasional dinners with colleagues she liked but never truly connected with.
Amei sank into the armchair by the window. Should she go? She had to admit she was curious. It must be nearly five years since they had last been together and the events of that last occasion still haunted her.
She leaned back, her gaze trailing to the vine outside the window, and let the question linger.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
At the Café
The Sarah Bernardt Café shimmered under a pale grey November sky a busy last Saturday of the “Black Week”. Golden lights spilled onto cobblestones slick with rain, and the air buzzed with the din of a city alive in the moment. Inside, the crowd pressed together, laughing, arguing, living. And in a corner table by the fogged-up window, old friends were about to quietly converged, coming to a long overdue reunion.
Lucien was the first to arrive, dragging a weathered suitcase behind him. Its wheels rattled unevenly on the cobblestones, a sound he hated. His dark curls, damp from the rain, clung to his forehead, and his scarf, streaked with old paint, hung loose around his neck. He folded himself into a corner chair, his suitcase tucked awkwardly beside him. When the server approached, Lucien waved him off with a distracted shake of his head and opened a battered sketchbook.
The next arrival was Elara. She entered briskly, shaking rain from her short gray-streaked hair, her eyes scanning the room as though searching for anomalies. A small roller bag trailed behind her, pristine and black, a sharp contrast to Lucien’s worn luggage. She stopped at the table and tilted her head.
“Still brooding?” she asked, pulling off her coat and folding it neatly over the back of a chair.
“Still talking?” Lucien didn’t look up, his pencil scratching faint lines across the page.
Elara smiled faintly. “Two minutes in, and you’re already immortalizing us? You know I hate being drawn.”
“You hate being caught off guard,” Lucien murmured. “But I never get your nose wrong.”
She laughed, the sound light but brief, and sank into her seat, placing her bag carefully beside her.
The door swung open again, and Darius entered, shaking the rain from his jacket. His presence seemed to fill the room immediately. He strode toward the table, a leather duffel slung over one shoulder and a well-worn travel pouch clutched in his hand. His boots clacked against the café’s tile floor, his movements easy, confident.
“Did you walk here?” Elara asked as he dropped his things with a thud and pulled out a chair.
“Ran into someone on the way,” he said, settling back. “Some guy selling maps. Got this one for ten euros—worth every cent.” He waved a yellowed scrap of paper that looked more fiction than cartography.
Lucien snorted. “Still paying for strangers’ stories, I see.”
“The good ones aren’t free.” Darius grinned and leaned back in his chair, propping one boot against the table leg.
The final arrival was Amei. Her entrance was quieter but no less noticeable. She unwound her scarf slowly, her layered clothing a mix of textures and colors that seemed to absorb the café’s golden light. A tote bag rested over her shoulder, bulging with what could have been books, or journals, or stories yet untold.
“You’re late,” Darius said, but his voice carried no accusation.
“Right on time,” Amei replied, lowering herself into the last chair. “You’re all just early.”
Her gaze swept across them, lingering on the bags piled at their feet. “I see I’m not the only one who came a long way.”
“Not all of us live in Paris,” Elara said, with a glance at Lucien.
“Only some of us make better life choices,” Lucien replied dryly.
The comment drew laughter—a tentative sound that loosened the air between them, thick as it was with five years of absence.
Matteo Appears
Matteo approached the table, a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand, his dark eyes flicking over the group as though cataloging details in an invisible ledger. His waistcoat, sharp and clean, gave him a practiced professionalism, but there was something else—a casual, unspoken authority that drew attention.
“Good evening,” he began, his voice smooth and low, almost conspiratorial. Then, he froze for the briefest moment, his gaze shifting from face to face, the easy smile tightening at the corners.
“Well,” Matteo said finally, his smile broadening as if he’d just solved a riddle. “Here you all are. Together, at last.”
The group exchanged glances, each of them caught off-guard by the comment.
“You say that like you’ve been expecting us,” Elara said, her tone measured but sharp, as if probing for variables.
“Not expecting,” Matteo replied, his eyes glinting. “But hoping, perhaps. It’s… good to see you all like this. It fits, somehow.”
“What fits?” Darius asked, leaning forward. His voice was lighter than Elara’s but carried a weight that suggested he wouldn’t let the question drop easily.
Matteo’s smile deepened, though he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set down his tray and folded his hands in front of him, his posture relaxed but deliberate, as though he were balancing on the edge of some invisible line.
“You’ve never all been here before,” he said, a simple statement that landed like a challenge.
“Wait,” Amei said, narrowing her eyes. “You know us?”
“Oh, I know you,” Matteo replied, his tone as light as if they were discussing the weather. “Individually, yes. But together? This is new. And it’s… remarkable.”
“Remarkable how?” Lucien asked, his pencil stilled over his sketchbook.
Matteo tilted his head, considering the question as though weighing how much to say. “Let’s just call it a rarity. Things don’t often align so neatly. It’s not every day you see… well, this.”
He gestured toward them with a sweeping hand, as if the mere fact of their presence at the table was something extraordinary.
“You’re being cryptic,” Elara said, her voice edged with suspicion.
“It’s a talent,” Matteo replied smoothly.
“Alright, hold on.” Darius leaned back, his chair creaking under him. “How do you know us? I’ve never been here before. Not once.”
“Nor I,” Amei added, her voice soft but steady.
Matteo raised an eyebrow, his smile taking on a knowing tilt. “No, not here. But that’s not the only place to know someone, is it?”
The words hung in the air, unsettling and oddly satisfying at once.
“You’re saying we’ve met you before?” Elara asked.
Matteo inclined his head. “In a manner of speaking.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Lucien said, his voice quiet but firm.
“Doesn’t it?” Matteo countered, his tone almost playful. “After all, do we ever truly remember every thread that weaves us together? Sometimes we only see the pattern when it’s complete.”
A pause settled over the table, heavy with unspoken questions. Matteo shifted his weight, breaking the silence with an easy gesture.
“It doesn’t matter how,” he said finally. “What matters is that you’re here. That’s what counts.”
“For what?” Amei asked, her eyes narrowing.
“For whatever happens next,” Matteo replied, as if the answer were obvious. Then he straightened, his professional mask sliding back into place with effortless grace.
“Now, what can I bring you?” he asked, his tone light again, as though the previous exchange hadn’t happened.
One by one, they placed their orders, though their minds were clearly elsewhere. Matteo scribbled in his notebook, his pen moving with deliberate strokes, and then he looked up once more.
“Thank you for being here,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “It’s been… a long time coming.”
And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd with the same fluidity he’d arrived.
They sat in silence for a moment, his words pressing down on them like a hand on a wound, familiar and foreign all at once.
“What the hell was that?” Darius asked finally, breaking the spell.
“Does he seem… different to you?” Amei asked, her voice distant.
“He seems impossible,” Elara replied, her fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm on the table.
“He remembered me,” Lucien said, almost to himself. “Something about absinthe.”
“I’ve never even met him,” Elara said, her voice rising slightly. “But he knew… too much.”
“And he didn’t explain anything,” Darius added, shaking his head.
“Maybe he didn’t need to,” Amei said softly, her gaze fixed on the space Matteo had just vacated.
They lapsed into silence again, the noise of the café returning in fits and starts, like an orchestra warming up after a pause. Somewhere, a glass clinked against porcelain; outside, the violinist struck a note so low it hummed against the windowpane.
The four of them sat there, strangers and friends all at once, the questions left dangling between them like stars in a cloudy sky. Whatever Matteo had meant, it was clear this moment was no coincidence. It wasn’t an end, nor a beginning—it was the start of something unraveling, something they couldn’t yet see.
And though none of them said it aloud, the thought was the same: What had happened before?
Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
“Who sees that the habit-energy of the projections of the beginningless past is the cause of the three realms and who understands that the tathagata stage is free from projections or anything that arises, attains the personal realisation of buddha knowledge and effortless mastery over their own minds” —The Lankavatara Sutra, 2.8 (trans. Red Pine).
“To trace the ripples of a beginningless sea is to chase a horizon that vanishes with each step; only by stilling the waves does the ocean reveal its boundless, unbroken clarity.”
~Echoes of the Vanished Shore, Selwyn Lemone.
What if the story would unfold in reverse this time? Would the struggle subsist, to remember the past events written comment after comment? Rather than writing towards a future, and —maybe— an elusive ending, would remembering layer after layers of events from the past change our outlook on why we write at all?
Let’s just have ourselves a new playground, a new experiment as this year draws to a close.
Four friends meet unexpectedly in a busy café, after five years not having seen each other.
Matteo, the server arrives, like a resonant fifth, bringing resolution to the root note —they all seem to know him, but why.
Answers are in their pasts. And story has to unfold backwards, a step at a time, to a beginningless past.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Frella opened her mouth to reply, but Eris clapped her hands, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.
“Right, enough lounging. Let’s play a game—something to liven things up.”
“What sort of game?” Truella asked, “Nothing that requires too much energy I trust?”
“A card game.” Eris pulled a small leather pouch from her satchel. She gave it a shake, and a deck of cards flew out, shuffling mid-air before landing neatly in her hands.
Malove smirked. “If it involves hexes, I’m in.”
Eris began to deal the cards with a flourish. Each card shimmered, pulsing faintly with magic as it landed on the rug. “Think strategy, mischief, and a touch of divination. The goal? Outsmart your opponents while dodging whatever surprises the cards throw at you.”
Frella propped herself up on one elbow, eyeing the cards warily. “Define ‘surprises.’”
“Oh, you’ll see,” Eris said with a wink, placing the deck in the centre. “Rules are simple: draw a card, play your move, and handle the consequences. Last witch standing wins.”
“Wins what?” Jeezel asked, lowering her camera.
“The satisfaction of knowing you’re the most cunning witch here.”
“Sounds like my kind of game,” Truella said, drawing the first card. She held it up to reveal a swirling vortex labelled Spell Swap. The card glowed briefly before zipping into Frella’s pile.
Frella blinked. “What just happened?”
“You’ve inherited Truella’s card,” Eris said with a grin. “And a touch of her personality for the next round.”
Frella felt an odd surge of boldness, almost manic. “Alright, my turn!” she declared, her voice sharp and bossy and much louder than she had intended. She snatched a card marked Mystic Reveal and, with a theatrical flick of her hand, unleashed a shimmering projection of her week’s questionable decisions.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she cackled. “Why does everyone need to see this?”
It wasn’t long before the game descended into chaos—spells flying, laughter erupting in snorts and shrieks. Eris croaked indignantly from her frog form while Jeezel gleefully documented the mayhem with her camera, which was now a cackling raven perched on her shoulder. Malove scowled beneath a scandalous projection of her own making, and Truella lounged, flicking daisies where her cigarette had been.
Frella smiled, the madness finally something she could embrace. Winning didn’t matter. The chaos had its own pull—wild, reckless, and oddly exhilarating.
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
“Oh there you are Finnley, and about time too! I dread to think what you were doing down there for so long… no! don’t tell me now, I haven’t had a decent cup of tea for two months. Go and put the kettle on, there’s a dear.”
Did Romans iron their toga’s? Liz wondered, thinking not for the first time that all that cloth draped over one shoulder couldn’t have been very practical.
“I should think that toga needs a good wash by now, Godfrey, take it off and give it to Finnley. No, not here! That boatman is peering in the window at you.”
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
Oh, so now it’s time to play “Who’s Noticed Finnley?” is it? Two months in the cellar and not a peep from the lot of you. I suppose it’s nice to know I’m missed, even if I had to be forgotten first.
Liz, writing me back in—how generous of you. But let’s get one thing straight; I don’t need anyone to script my next move. I’m more than capable of marching right back into the scene, thank you very much. You’d think I’d be the one to keep this story spotless while I was down there, sorting through all those dusty wine bottles and cobwebs.
But, since you’re willing to be “flexible,” I’ll make my grand return. Just don’t expect me to clean up the narrative mess you’ve made while I was away. If I find characters scattered about like loose socks after a laundry day, there’ll be words, mark my words.
And Godfrey, that toga needs a good ironing. I’ll not have wrinkled linens adding to the chaos. Now, enough dilly-dallying, there’s work to be done, and I’ve got a cellar door to nudge open.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
All their owls screeched at the same time across the vast distances separating them.
Malové’s voice on them. “I just got off the phone with the Headwitch of Salem. Witch hunting season is back on, can you believe it? Didn’t we have countermeasures in place? Who was in charge of the Lump thwarting warting spell? Come at once!”
In Limerick, Finnley snickered, only mildly annoyed at the sound of all the parked owls in the mostly empty Quadrivium building. Oh, I see. It’s all gone pear-shaped, has it? Witch hunting season indeed! You’d think by now they’d have sorted their spells and counter-spells like a proper orderly lot. Honestly, if it were up to me, I’d have those countermeasures filed, organized, and triple-checked like my cleaning supplies. As for whoever’s in charge of the “Lump thwarting warting spell”—sounds like someone needs a good talking-to. Probably spent too much time nattering about and not enough focusing on their spellwork. Typical, isn’t it?
Elsewhere in the Northern forest, Eris shrugged at the sound hooting echoing. “When I told them something was wrong with Malové, it was her charge all along. Now, let’s wait and see to find someone brave enough to say it to her face.”
Somewhere and somewhen else, Truella and Frella and Jeezel were probably thinking the same, unless they got lost themselves in the Well of Crom, a surefire way to stay clear of Malové’s screeching owls.
In reply to: Two Aunties au Pair and Their Pert Carouses
“Oh sweet revenge…” November was looking gleeful, and truth be told, too smug. With a tinge of orange anticipating a delectable tapestry of chaos.
The results had come as cold as an early winter for a world standing on the precipice of another era under President Lump’s reign.
“The winds of change rustling the curtains of the Beige House once more. And amidst this swirling tempest of political intrigue, our story unfurls with the maids au pair at its heart.”
“Liz, are you sure this is wise to pursue?”
“Oh stop, it Godfrey, the harm is done, November was written already in that story; I knew she would spell trouble from the beginning. And please, don’t interrupt.”
As April and June departed to pursue their ventures—perhaps April embarked on a global crusade for environmental stewardship while June disappeared into the realms of espionage, her whereabouts known only to the shadows—November emerged, a true force of nature. With an iron will and a meticulous attention to detail, she transformed the Beige House into a bastion of order amid political disarray under old Joe Mitten—bless his bumbling heart. Her reign as the clandestine conductor of this domestic symphony was nothing short of legendary.
During those four years, November proved herself indispensable. She orchestrated everything from state dinners to covert intelligence briefings, all while maintaining the perfect façade of domestic tranquility. The press would whisper her name, speculating on her true influence behind the scenes. Little did they know that November had eyes and ears in every corner of the Beige House, including a network of whispering portraits and eavesdropping sconces.
And now, with President Lump’s reelection, November faces her most formidable challenge yet. The political climate is rife with unpredictability—alliances shift like sand, loyalties waver, and secrets simmer beneath the surface. November must navigate this labyrinth with the precision of a masterful chess player, anticipating every move and countermove.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Frella considered the box of props, Truella’s request still echoing in her mind. Or perhaps “command” was more accurate? She had been tempted to tell Tru to put together her own prop box. Regardless, Frella, being uncommonly good-natured, decided to indulge her friend. After all, poor Truella deserved a bit of indulgence after her recent ordeal.
It was curious, even ironic, that a witch as formidable as Truella had found herself spirited away by Thomas Cromwell. The incident left Frella baffled, but Truella, true to form, had been vague about the whole affair, refusing to provide even a brief synopsis. And any hope of clarification had been swallowed by Truella’s recent hobby: deleting gifs on her phone—a pastime that Frella was convinced had reached the level of an obsession.
Shaking her head, Frella returned to her task. The box needed to be extraordinary, full of magic tailored to delight, surprise, and assist even the most accomplished witch. With a whispered spell, she conjured a feather-light coat woven from shimmering starlight, and folded it carefully into the box. Depending on the moon’s phase, the coat could cloak its wearer in illusions or make them vanish entirely.
Next came a pair of Ug Boots enchanted with swiftness, rendering the wearer light as air and nearly impossible to catch. Beside them, she placed a midnight-blue satchel with a mind of its own—returning lost items to their rightful owners, whether or not they wanted to be found.
Frella paused, her hands hovering above the box. What else? After some thought, she conjured a delicate chemise spun from moonlight, its diaphanous fabric especially created to ward off hexes. “Truella should get plenty of use out of this one,” Frella mused, remembering past escapades. “Not that I’m calling her a tart or anything.”
She followed it with iridescent sunglasses. The lenses could decode ancient texts or, failing that, soften a cutting glare. A golden phoenix brooch came next. Pinned to fabric, it could either blaze into a protective flame or summon a fiery companion to light the way.
With a snigger, Frella crafted a magical moustache—a silky, distinguished creation. It granted the wearer an air of nobility, perfect for moments when one needed gravitas, especially if Truella found herself back in the 16th century (or whenever it was).
A string of enchanted pearls nestled into the box, each bead holding a spell: one for charm, another to quell hunger, and a third to lower prices at the supermarket. Truella was always banging on about her budget.
Frella added three wigs: a flaming red one for irresistible allure, a sleek black bob for perfect recall, and a powdered peruke for communing with spirits of the past.
For good measure, she added a selection of headgear: a knitted beanie for quick thinking and to keep warm, a velvet-trimmed bonnet to ward off insults, and a silk turban that blocked eavesdropping and mind-reading.
Finally, she included a pretty peacock-feathered fan. A mere flick of the wrist could shift the weather or create a gust strong enough to fend off any ill intentions.
The box now brimmed with marvels; would these treasures aid Truella and perhaps shield her from whatever tangled fate had ensnared her with Thomas Cromwell?
Frella could only hope so.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
When Eris called for an urgent meeting, Malové nearly canceled. She had her own pressing concerns and little patience for the usual parade of complaints or flimsy excuses about unmet goals from her staff. Yet, feeling the weight of her own stress, she was drawn to the idea of venting a bit—and Truella or Jeezel often made for her preferred targets. Frella, though reserved, always performed consistently, leaving little room for critique. And Eris… well, Eris was always methodical, never using the word “urgent” lightly. Every meeting she arranged was meticulously planned and efficiently run, making the unexpected urgency of this gathering all the more intriguing to Malové.
Curiosity, more than duty, ultimately compelled her to step into the meeting room five minutes early. She tensed as she saw the draped dark fabrics, flickering lights, forlorn pumpkins, and the predictable stuffed creatures scattered haphazardly around. There was no mistaking the culprit behind this gaudy display and the careless use of sacred symbols.
“Speak of the devil…” she muttered as Jeezel emerged from behind a curtain, squeezed into a gown a bit too tight for her own good and wearing a witch’s hat adorned with mystical symbols and pheasant feathers. “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself with the meeting room,” Malové said with a subtle tone that could easily be mistaken for admiration.
Jeezel’s face lit up with joy. “Trick or treat!” she exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement.
“What?” Malové’s eyebrows arched.
“Well, you’re supposed to say it!” Jeezel beamed. “Then I can show you the table with my carefully handcrafted Halloween treats.” She led Malové to a table heaving with treats and cauldrons bubbling with mystical mist.
Malové felt a wave of nausea at the sight of the dramatically overdone spread, brimming with sweets in unnaturally vibrant colors. “Where are the others?” she asked, pressing her lips together. “I thought this was supposed to be a meeting, not… whatever this is.”
“They should arrive shortly,” said Jeezel, gesturing grandly. “Just take your seat.”
Malové’s eyes fell on the chairs, and she stifled a sigh. Each swivel chair had been transformed into a mock throne, draped in rich, faux velvet covers of midnight blue and deep burgundy. Golden tassels dangled from the edges, and oversized, ornate backrests loomed high, adorned with intricate patterns that appeared to be hastily hand-painted in metallic hues. The armrests were festooned with faux jewels and sequins that caught the flickering light, giving the impression of a royal seat… if the royal in question had questionable taste. The final touch was a small, crowned cushion placed in the center of each seat, as if daring the occupants to take their place in this theatrical rendition of a court meeting.
When she noticed the small cards in front of each chair, neatly displaying her name and the names of her coven’s witches, Malové’s brow furrowed. So, seats had been assigned. Instinctively, her eyes darted around the room, scanning for hidden tricks or sutble charms embedded in the decor. One could never be too cautious, even among her own coven—time had taught her that lesson all too often, and not always to her liking.
Symbols, runes, sigils—even some impressively powerful ones—where scattered thoughtfully around the room. Yet none of them aligned into any coherent pattern or served any purpose beyond mild relaxation or mental clarity. Malové couldn’t help but recognize the subtlety of Jeezel’s craft. This was the work of someone who, beyond decorum, understood restraint and intention, not an amateur cobbling together spells pulled from the internet. Even her own protective amulets, attuned to detect any trace of harm, remained quiet, confirming that nothing in the room, except for those treats, posed a threat.
As the gentle aroma of burning sage and peppermint reached her nose, and Jeezel placed a hat remarkably similar to her own onto Malové’s head, the Head Witch felt herself unexpectedly beginning to relax, her initial tension and worries melting away. To her own surprise, she found herself softening to the atmosphere and, dare she admit, actually beginning to enjoy the gathering.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
When Eris gave Jeezel carte blanche to decorate the meeting room, Frella and Truella looked at her as if she’d handed fireworks to a dragon. They protested immediately, arguing that giving Jeezel that much freedom was like inviting a storm draped in sequins and velvet. After all, Jeezel was a queen diva—a master of flair and excess, ready to transform any ordinary space into a grand stage for her dramatic vision. In their eyes, it would defeat the whole purpose! But Eris raised a firm hand, silencing her sister’s objections.
“Let’s be honest, Malové is no ordinary witch,” she began, addressing Truella, Frella, and even Jeezel, who was still stung by her sisters’ criticism of her decorating skills. “We don’t know how many centuries that witch has been roaming the world, gathering knowledge and sharpening her mind. But what we do know is that she’d detect any concealing spell in a heartbeat.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Truella agreed. “I think that’s the smell…”
“You mean based on your last potion experiment?” snorted Frella.
“Girls, focus,” Eris said. “This meeting is long overdue, and we need to conceal the truth-revealing spell’s elements. Jeezel’s flair may be our best distraction. Malové has always dismissed her grandiosity as harmless extravagance, so for once, let’s use that to our advantage.”
While Eris spoke, Jeezel’s brow furrowed as she engaged in an animated dialogue with her inner diva, picturing every details. Frella rolled her eyes subtly, glancing off-camera as though for dramatic effect.
“Isn’t that a bit much for a meeting?” Truella groaned. “You already assigned us topics to prepare. Now we’re adding decorations?”
“You won’t have to lift a finger,” Jeezel declared. “I’ve got it all under control—and I already have everything we need. Here’s my vision: Halloween is coming, so the decor should be both elegant and enchanting. I’ll start by draping the room in velvet curtains in deep purples and midnight blacks—straight from my own bedroom.”
Truella’s jaw dropped, while Jeezel’s grin only widened.
“Oh! I love those,” Frella murmured approvingly.
“Next, delicate cobweb accents with a touch of silver thread to catch the light,” Jeezel continued. “Truella, we’ll need your excavation lamps with a few colored gels. They’ll cast a warm, inviting glow—a perfect mix of relaxation and intrigue, with shadows in just the right places. And for the season, a few glowing pumpkins tucked around the room will complete the scene.”
Jeezel’s inner diva briefly entertained the idea of mystical fog, but she discarded it—after all, this was a meeting, not a sabbat. Instead, she proposed a more subtle touch: “To conceal the spell’s elements, I’ll bring in a few charming critters. Faux ravens perched on shelves, bats hanging from the ceiling…a whimsical, creepy-cute vibe. We’ll adorn them with runes and sigils in an insconpicuous way and Frella can cast a gentle animation spell to make them shift ever so slightly. The movement will be just enough to escape Malové’s notice as she stays focused on the meeting. That way she’ll be oblivious to the spell being woven around her.”
“Are you starting to see where this is going?” Eris asked, looking at her sisters.
Frella nodded, and before Truella could chime in with any objections, Jeezel added, “And no Halloween gathering would be complete without wickedly delightful treats! Picture a grand table with themed snacks and drinks on polished silver trays and cauldrons. Caramel apples, spiced cider, chocolates shaped like magic potions—tempting enough to charm even a disciplined witch.”
“Now you’re talking my language,” Truella admitted, finally warming up to the idea.
“Perfect, then it’s settled,” Eris said, pleased. “You all have your tasks. They’ll help us reveal her hidden agenda and how the spell is influencing her. Truella, you’l handle Historical Artifacts and Lore. Frella, with your talent for connections, you’ll cover Coven Alliances and Mutual Interests. Jeezel, you’re in charge of Telluric and Cosmic Energies—it shouldn’t be hard with your endless videos on the subject. I’ll handle the rest: Magical Incense Innovations, Leadership Philosophy, and Coven Dynamics.”
