– A quiet keeper of books
Though I would gladly have lounged in idleness and devoured the entirety of Water and Ice, duty—or rather, impatience—found me first.
Midway through a blissful day-and-a-half binge of Season 2, several stern-faced individuals quite literally barged into my quarters. With arcane efficiency, they dressed me, bundled me up, and spirited me away to complete my registration. I appreciated the urgency, yet found their execution lacking in decorum. I voiced my objections with calm precision; they received them as statues receive rain—silent, unmoved, and utterly impervious.
My grievances lingered, but they were swiftly eclipsed by the privileges bestowed upon me. Not by the silent men, mind you, but by a crisp voice over the telephone.
They were as follows:
- Recognition as a high-ranking Arcanist within P.A.B.I., granting considerable authority—though Richard would supervise my conduct.
- Unlimited access to the Bureau’s arcane library.
- A ten percent increase in remuneration over standard pay at my rank.
- Priority claim on missions. And my particular favourite:
- A coupon redeemable for one complimentary walking stick.
Mundane at first glance, perhaps—until one learns the stick transforms into a firearm. A rifle, in fact. I confess I'm rather pleased.
At present, I sit in my quarters, savouring the final episode of Season 2. Twenty-eight episodes with standouts including “The Wright Way to Die", “The Abandonment of a Memory", “The Poison Called Love” and “The Return of the Desired". Each advanced the narrative admirably. “The Return of the Desired” strained credulity in Hendro’s survival, yet it delivered the series’ finest fight sequence. Someone, at long last, delivered Ricard the blow he so richly deserved.
The finale—“The End of the Beginning”—left me questioning Hendro’s true identity. And then they introduced Miyala: beautiful, voluptuous… and, as I already knew to my sorrow, a man in disguise.
I sighed deeply, closed the episode, dressed with care—ensuring my black gloves were properly donned—and stepped out. They had promised my badge within the hour. Two hours had passed.
At the dorm reception, I found Jules once more. Mercifully, he watched sports this time, not Water and Ice.
He glanced up, reached beneath the desk, and placed a small silver badge before me. I examined it carefully: the Bureau’s full name and insignia etched in fine detail, with “Exorcist” inscribed below, and beneath that, “The HangedMan".
I enquired politely what “Exorcist” signified.
“Frontline investigates and neutralises threats,” Jules explained with a shrug. “So we call them exorcists. Fits the job.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
I thanked him for his time and asked directions to redeem my walking-stick coupon. He pointed toward a nearby door and advised selecting the “Alicia Art of Walking” option.
I followed his guidance.
The room beyond resembled a gallery of canes: rows upon rows in every conceivable style and material. The air carried the rich scent of polished wood, supple leather, and faintly scented oils. The decor was sparse, yet the elegant arrangement of the canes lent it quiet dignity.
I approached the front counter and rang the bell. Silence. I rang again—then again. On the fourth chime, a groan rose from behind the counter, followed by a sleepy “I’m coming…”
Peering over, I beheld a woman sprawled in hazardous repose, one breast having escaped her shirt entirely. She showed no immediate inclination to rise, so I rang once more.
A normal man might have stared or flushed. I merely wished to procure my cane.
She finally stirred and stretched languidly—causing the second breast to slip free—then adjusted her clothing with casual indifference, as though such exposure were of no consequence.
I presented my badge. She ignored it at first, tidying her desk with deliberate slowness before accepting it. A few keystrokes later, she returned the badge and beckoned me to follow.
She led me to a secluded aisle lined with bone-handled canes, spreading her arms in a theatrical presentation. The display might have impressed had it not been festooned with an assortment of undergarments—some innocent, others decidedly provocative—draped across several pieces.
She held the pose expectantly. I offered a measured round of applause. It seemed to satisfy her.
Turning, she noticed the scattered garments and hastily gathered them. I ignored the flurry and examined the canes, gently displacing the occasional stray undergarment to view them properly.
Many struck me as overly ornate. Then I found it: black wood shaft, bird-skull handle. The balance felt perfect in my grasp.
I carried it back to the counter. The woman was now neatly folding her retrieved items into a basket, humming softly.
She glanced at the cane, smiled, and nodded approval. A few more keystrokes, a printed sheet, a thumbs-up.
I turned to depart, pausing at the threshold.
“Pray, what species furnished the skull for the handle?”
"Vulture", she replied without looking up.
I thanked her sincerely and left.
Back in my room, I set the cane on the bed and read the printed instructions: how to shift it between forms (cane to rifle), with notes on silencer mode and empowered ammunition. The transformation proved swift and accompanied by a distinctive “Caw”—a vulture’s call, presumably. I resolved to verify it later.
Satisfied, I returned the device to cane form and placed it beside the bed. My attention turned next to the arcane library.
I accessed the bureau's digital portal via the room computer, entered my callsign, and watched as the screen illuminated my badge briefly before dimming. Access granted.
I opened the spell compendium first. Though I wield the arcane with natural facility, this human vessel imposes constraints in the mortal realm; to avoid divine displeasure, one must study human methods.
I read swiftly. Human arcane development impressed me—yet the persistent reliance on verbal chants proved disappointing. Still, as a fae, the material presented little difficulty. I mastered numerous spells in short order.
Next came runes—tedious by comparison, yet I completed the beginner text.
Rising, I stretched, poured a glass of water in the kitchenette, and then settled in the living room and switched on the television. Temptation whispered of Season 3, but I browsed instead, selecting a film at random.
It bored me within minutes.
To test my newly acquired knowledge, I cast a simple divination. To my pleasant surprise, it revealed something actionable—my first opportunity as an exorcist.
I extinguished the screen, bathed once more, and retired early. Early to bed, early to rise. Tomorrow promised to be most diverting.