Dewey had opened the windows to let the summer breeze wash through the bookshop. He sat at the front counter, writing notes in his journal. The sunlight and soft swing music drifting from the gramophone brought a warm, honeyed atmosphere to the place. And as he waited for the next guest to arrive (through either entrance), he felt sleepier and sleepier, until he could barely keep his eyes open.
He sighed, then removed his glasses and set them on the counter. He crossed his arms on the desk and rested his head on them — just for a moment, he thought wearily, closing his eyes. And a moment passed, and Dewey was sound asleep.
So when someone did stumble through the Rift into the bookshop, Dewey didn’t hear them at first. The first person this visitor would see wouldn’t be a person at all. It would be a fluffy calico cat sitting on a bookshelf near the Rift. Her golden eyes were steady and intent as she stared at the pile of bones the lich had collapsed into, her tail swaying slightly behind the shelf.
The cat showed no sign of fear. If anything, it looked like she intended to guide him as soon as he noticed her. And she meowed at him, just in case he hadn’t spotted her yet. After all, she hadn’t been sitting on that shelf when he first stumbled through. She seemed to have appeared out of thin air, as though his sudden entrance had summoned her presence.
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Hunger was a dangerous, wily thing. It made her lightheaded and exhausted, impaired her typical focus and swiftness. The last time she’d tried to snatch some bread was a few days prior in the market. The merchant had caught her. She’d escaped, but not before receiving an angry welt across the back of her hand from his cane. The shame was worse than the sting. She relied on stealing for survival and took pride in her skill.
This time, though — this time, she was certain she could manage it. She’d retreated into the alleys in hopes of pickpocketing someone in more familiar territory. And lo and behold, here was someone.
She couldn’t tell whether they were wary of their surroundings. She believed they hadn’t noticed her yet, at least, which was... promising enough. In any case, this didn’t strike her as someone penniless. From their clothing alone, this seemed like someone who might have quite a bit of money for the taking.
She’d followed them for a while now, hidden in the early afternoon shadows, trying to decide when to slip a hand into their pocket. But the cobblestones were slick with rain from the previous night. And when her foot slipped, the faltering step seemed loud enough (in her anxious mind) to echo down the alley. She froze, her pulse pounding in her ears.
She could sprint away, yes. But something held her in place. A sudden, strange sense of curiosity about this unknown person, prickling up her spine and tightening in her chest as she held her breath in anticipation, waiting to see if they heard her stumble.
They say there is a witch that died of a broken heart. A fountain of blood forever pours from the wound in her torso. A couple may drink up her blood in silver goblets to test their faith in each other. If one should fail, they will be spirited away by the witch’s vengeful spirit. They say she will steal their heart for her own, but she can never fill the void.
Some even say she may awaken with a kiss or that her blood will grant immortality, for she would glow with such a soft heavenly light. Could a witch shed light so divine?
Her body sleeps in her family’s tomb, but her name has long been forgotten and the tomb was destroyed. Where it was, no one knows, but the legend is thought to have originated in a town called Bengfort. Passing on the story has become a tradition among local parents and some children talk about trying to find the ancient tomb.
Bengfort is a big town that awakens at 6 AM with the laborers continuing their work from the day before. Filling potholes, moving drain pipes, lifting beams, and just setting up to direct the morning commuters on the temporary one lane road. Park maintenance surveys the park to groom the flowers and bushes while volunteers collect garbage.
In some places, the road is still cobblestone. It isn’t a new town in the least. Short, square pillars line the main roadways with rings of iron, used to hitch horses, stuck into the sides with thick looped pins. A faded apothecary sign looks out at the town green and its bricked walkways. An old nearly dead oak tree shades a stone bench. At one end of the green is the town’s main church, although there are a few others. At the opposite end is the local bank.
Bengfort’s bank is larger than the usual town bank. It has large limestone pillars that have been eaten away with age. They look more round than ribbed. The interior has a high ceiling with large cylindrical lamps hanging down. The lobby floor is wide with a few couches, chairs and tables for people to get comfortable during the busy hours. Behind the teller wall is a steel barred door and stairs leading down to the vault.
The bank owner, on Saturdays, likes to arrive at the bank early to count money and balance books. She listens to Linkin Park while she completes this task, then, at 9:00, with all her coworkers arriving after 8:00, she opens the bank to the public.
This Saturday is just like any other. Early birds show up at the bank, hoping to cash in checks before they head in for a short day of work. A man arrives with his young daughter, who grows bored fast with waiting in line and is given permission to roam about as long as she stays within sight inside the bank. She grumbles about not being a baby anymore, but complies to the barest extent. She explores the inside of the bank and studies the slate stone flooring, lifting up rugs and patting each square. Her father shakes his head. He keeps her in the corner of his eye, the worry lines in his face deepening.
When asked what she is doing, she simply replies that she is looking for a lady in the floor. The adults laugh it off as a game. Maybe she’s lost her doll and is looking for it.
I was drawn in by the unique twists you put on a few common character traits, as well as the clever combination of them, and the realistic depiction of physical and mental trauma. Basically, a lot of stuff. (lightheartedlich)
What drew you to my blog? ~ always accepting
Ahh, thank you so much!! I’m so glad you like her character! And I try my best to portray the effects of trauma as realistically and carefully as possible, so it truly means a lot to know it comes across that way.
