Vaesen: Of Stone & Steel: 02
Sven led the Society into the forge, a well-equipped space filled with tools, raw materials, and the glow of three burning hearths. The air was thick with heat, and the scent of molten metal and soot clung to everything. Anvils sat in neat rows, with unfinished ironwork waiting to be shaped by skilled hands. The rhythmic clanging of metal striking metal echoed in the background, a constant reminder of the forge’s never-ending work.
As the group took in their surroundings, Sven barked at a nearby apprentice. “Mats! How many times do I have to tell you not to leave a hammer by the forge?” Mats, a flustered young worker, quickly grabbed the tool, mumbling an apology. Sven shook his head. “The boy’s been here a while, but he still makes the same mistakes.”
Margareta stepped forward, holding up a candlestick she had crafted. The piece was remarkable—its twisting, flowing design seemed more grown than forged. Celeste studied the curves, mesmerized by how the patterns seemed to shift when viewed from different angles. The metal gleamed in the firelight, its intricate design almost hypnotic.
Gottfried, intrigued, asked, “What inspired you to craft this so intricately?”
Margareta shrugged. “Master Sven asked me to make it. I just followed where the metal wanted to go.”
Sigrid formally introduced the Society, and when Gottfried extended his hand, Margareta shook it without hesitation. Her grip was unexpectedly strong for someone her size. Even when Gottfried presented “The Fish,” his peculiar talisman, she remained unimpressed.
Sigrid then reached into her coat and produced Keenan. Margareta’s expression changed at once, her face lighting up. “A pup? Here?” She knelt, delighted, reaching out to pet the dog. “Did you bring him all this way?”
Meanwhile, Gottfried tested the candlestick with a drop of holy water. There was no reaction. He frowned slightly but said nothing.
Turning back to Margareta, he asked, “Have you been spending much time in the woods?”
She hesitated before nodding. “Sometimes.”
“Have you found anything strange?”
“No.”
“Any secret friends?” he asked with a sharp glance.
Margareta blinked. “I don’t have any friends.”
Gottfried frowned but let it drop. Instead, he turned his attention to Sven. “Tell us about the accident at the forge.”
Sven’s expression darkened as he closed the forge door. “The workmaster’s been pushing us too hard. He wants more production than our machinery can safely handle.”
The conversation shifted to August, the new workmaster who took over when the previous one retired. His changes to the forge were abrupt, demanding increased output without allowing time to train workers on new methods. The tension in Sven’s voice was clear; he did not approve of August’s leadership.
“Why such a rush?” Celeste asked.
Sven shook his head. “Money, most likely. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t repeat this to August.”
Mats scoffed. “Idiot doesn’t even talk to Sven or me when he comes by.” The group exchanged glances, processing the implications of his words. A moment of silence hung in the air, each of them drawing their conclusions before Sigrid finally broke it with a pointed question.
“Then who does he speak with?” Sigrid asked.
Everyone looked at Margareta. Her jaw tightened.
“He’s my boss,” she said uncertainly.
Gottfried leaned in abruptly, his intense gaze locking onto Margareta. She jolted slightly, caught off guard by his sudden proximity. “Does he come here just to see you?”
Margareta flinched, then crossed her arms. “Yes, but it’s just business.”
The group exchanged amused glances, clearly considering playing matchmaker, much to Margareta’s annoyance. “If he’s interested, he’s got a strange way of showing it,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.
Before the conversation could continue, Celeste withdrew the dagger they had obtained from Thorleif. Sven-Ola’s expression tensed at the sight of it, while Margareta looked genuinely surprised.
Celeste tapped the dagger against the candlestick. The sound was unnaturally clear as if echoing through a cavern. Margareta’s eyes widened slightly, her fingers tensing around the edge of her apron. She leaned in just a fraction, her expression shifting from curiosity to something closer to concern. It was as if she was hearing something the others could not, or perhaps understanding something unspoken in the resonance. Gottfried followed by ringing his handbell—but this time, the sound was snuffed out almost instantly.
Margareta’s brow furrowed in confusion, but Sven and Mats didn’t seem to notice anything strange.
Lowering his voice, Gottfried leaned in and whispered, “You might be in danger. If you need to talk, find us at the inn.”
With that, the Society departed, ready to continue their investigations. The forge’s warmth lingered on their skin as they stepped back into the crisp air of the village.
Sigrid and Celeste headed toward Fridhem Farm to speak with Grandmother Agnus, hoping to learn about Bergs-Erik. Meanwhile, Gottfried and Sebastian made their way to the church.
Gottfried stretched dramatically. “Zebestien! Carry me!”
Sebastian sighed, nodding with exaggerated patience. “Of course, sir.”
Gottfried grinned but then turned toward town. The weight of the past conversation still hung in the air, but he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “First, let’s stop at Ida’s for some soup.”
Sebastian sighed again but relented. “I find that acceptable, sir.”
The two set off, their banter lightening the mood as they moved deeper into the village, the mysteries of Grangshammar still unfolding around them.
The Society made their way back through the village, their path leading them past the dam where a group of workers struggled to repair the water wheel. The axle had snapped during the storm, and the damage was worse than expected. Gottfried slowed his pace, his keen eye catching something odd about the break. The edges of the fracture were unnaturally smooth as if immense force had been applied in a single, deliberate motion. Unlike a typical break caused by weather or wear, this one had no splintering or jagged edges—just a clean, almost surgical separation. It didn’t look like an accident. The fracture was too precise as if it had been forced apart rather than simply worn down or weathered.
Celeste noticed his hesitation. “You’re thinking sabotage?”
Gottfried nodded. “It’s possible. We should take a closer look.”
They stepped closer, but one of the workers—a burly man with arms thick from years of labour—quickly blocked their path. “This is a worksite. You lot need to leave.”
Ignoring the warning, Gottfried addressed the foreman. “That axle didn’t just snap—it looks like it was broken on purpose.”
The foreman barely looked up. “I don’t care what caused it. I just need it fixed. Move along.”
“If this was sabotage, it should be reported to the workmaster,” Gottfried insisted.
The foreman sighed, clearly running out of patience, and signalled to two imposing men nearby. The men exchanged glances before stepping forward, their broad shoulders and thick arms making their message clear. They stood with an air of quiet authority, ready to act if necessary. “I don’t care if it was a giant, a fool with a saw, or a gnome with an axe. We’ve got work to do. Now, clear off.”
Seeing no reason to argue further, the group left and returned to Ida’s. The inviting smell of potato and leek soup filled the air, providing a welcome contrast to the damp chill outside. They settled in for a meal, and as bowls were placed in front of them, Sebastian received a cup of tea alongside his.
“HE’S BRITISH!” Gottfried declared dramatically, drawing a few amused looks from the other patrons. The lighthearted moment briefly eased the tension, giving them a chance to reflect on the morning’s events.
Once their meal was finished, the party split up.
The road to the church was lined with young trees, the path smooth but steep. As they neared the top of the hill, they noticed something unusual—a massive bell, about three feet wide and five feet tall, resting on its side in the grass. The bronze surface was adorned with intricate Latin inscriptions, and verses from the Bible etched with precise craftsmanship. Moss had begun creeping up the sides, as though nature itself sought to claim it.
“This must have been the church bell,” Gottfried mused. “Odd that it hasn’t been put back up.”
Continuing onward, they reached the church itself—a grand octagonal building constructed from gleaming white stone. Its tall columns and elegant design made it clear that no expense had been spared in its construction. Despite its beauty, a sense of unease hung over the place, as though something unseen watched from the shadows.
Their attention was drawn to the broken cross above the structure. A deep diagonal crack split it in two, and scorch marks marred the stone around its base. According to local accounts, lightning had struck it—but something about the burns seemed unnatural. Stone didn’t usually scorch so easily. Gottfried ran a gloved hand over the cracks, frowning at the fine blackened streaks that refused to wipe away.
Sebastian, ever the analyst, attempted to line up the break in the cross with the snapped axle of the water wheel, trying to find a connection. If the damage to both structures had been caused by the same force, it could indicate a deliberate act rather than a natural event. However, the angles and locations didn’t seem to align in any meaningful way, leaving him with more questions than answers. He stepped back, exhaling sharply. “Nothing. No obvious link. Just coincidence, or something we’re not seeing yet.”
Leaving the mystery unsolved for now, they entered the church. Inside, golden crosses and elaborate decorations adorned the walls, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows over the richly ornamented interior. The scent of incense lingered in the air, adding to the solemn atmosphere. The silence felt heavier here, pressing in on them like a quiet warning.
Gottfried made his way toward a side office and knocked firmly. After a moment, the door opened, revealing a short man dressed in priestly robes.
“Good day, Father,” Gottfried greeted him smoothly. “A friend of mine is writing a book about local churches, and I wanted to visit this one on their behalf.”
The priest nodded, stepping aside to let them in. “Ah, a scholar. Our church has been fortunate in recent years. Olof Forsgren was instrumental in upgrading much of it.”
“Olof Forsgren?” Gottfried repeated, filing the name away.
“Yes, a benefactor,” the priest explained. “He’s not related to August, nor was he involved with the old workmaster, but he invested heavily in the church’s restoration. He seemed particularly interested in ensuring that every detail was perfect.”
Sebastian glanced toward the door, where the fallen bell still rested outside. “And the bell?”
The priest sighed. “It will stay there until I can find strong men to lift it back into place.”
His gaze flicked toward Sebastian, taking note of his fine clothing. “And you are?”
Sebastian gave a polite nod. “Gottfried’s manservant.”
The priest’s expression remained neutral, though a flicker of amusement played at the corners of his mouth. His gaze lingered on Sebastian for a moment longer than necessary, as if assessing something unspoken. He then shifted his weight slightly, folding his hands before him with an air of polite detachment. “It’s a shame the bell isn’t in its proper place. In the meantime, I make do with a handbell.”
Gottfried, sensing an opportunity, reached into his coat and pulled out his bell, ringing it sharply.
The priest flinched. “Please don’t do that. The echo—it’s unbearable.” He shook his head, frowning. “And why, exactly, do you carry a bell?”
Gottfried gave him a knowing smile. “I used to be a rector myself.”
The priest’s expression shifted slightly, but he said nothing. The silence between them stretched a moment longer than was comfortable before he finally turned to pour himself a cup of tea. “Well, I suppose that makes sense.”
Sigrid and Celeste made their way up to Fridhem Farm, the crisp autumn air filled with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke. Sigrid clutched a small bag of cinnamon buns, holding it just out of reach as both Celeste and Kenan eyed it longingly.
“Come on, just one,” Celeste pleaded, her eyes locked onto the pastries.
“You’ll ruin your appetite,” Sigrid countered, sidestepping Kenan’s determined sniffing as the dog trotted eagerly beside them. The pup whined softly, his nose twitching at the sweet aroma wafting from the bag.
As they neared the farm, a heavy stillness settled over the place. The house stood in quiet solitude, its windows dim and lifeless. Even the trees around the property swayed softly, their bare branches rustling as if whispering secrets. The path leading up to the door was lined with scattered leaves, untouched as though no one had passed through in some time.
“We’ll go in, offer our condolences for her son’s passing, and bring pastries,” Sigrid reminded Celeste. “And while we’re here, we’ll ask for stories.”
“For that book, you keep saying you’ll write?” Celeste teased.
Sigrid smirked. “Fiction, obviously.”
They knocked on the wooden door. No response.
After a moment, Sigrid tried the handle and found it unlocked. She hesitated before pushing it open slightly, peeking inside. The air inside was heavy, carrying the faint scent of dried herbs and woodsmoke. Near the hearth, an elderly woman lay wrapped in a heavy blanket, her breathing slow and steady in sleep. A single candle flickered on a small table beside her, its wax dripping into a worn holder.
“Agnes?” Sigrid called gently.
The old woman stirred, her sunken eyes opening slowly. “Come in, then,” she murmured, her voice thin and worn.
Sigrid stepped forward, her tone soft. “We heard you know many folk tales. Your grandson mentioned you might share some with us. Also, Ida sends her regards—and some pastries.”
Agnes attempted to sit up, moving slowly with effort. She looked even frailer than they had expected, her skin pale and thin, her hands trembling as she adjusted her blanket. The bed had been moved into the front room, likely for the warmth of the nearby fire. The flickering light cast deep shadows across her face, making her appear even more fragile.
Sigrid settled into a chair as Celeste searched for another blanket, draping it gently over the old woman’s lap. Agnes gave a slight nod of thanks before folding her hands in her lap, her gaze distant.
“Do you know of Bergs-Erik?” Sigrid asked.
At the mention of the name, Agnes froze. The colour drained from her face, and her breath hitched. Celeste felt the woman’s hand tremble beneath the covers.
“How do you know that name?” Agnes whispered, her voice suddenly tense.
“We met him,” Sigrid said cautiously. “Or at least, someone claiming to be him.”
Agnes’s lips parted, but instead of responding, she simply shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that,” she said quickly, though the stiffness in her posture suggested otherwise. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket, and her gaze flickered toward the dark corners of the room, as if afraid something might emerge from the shadows.
The air in the room felt heavier, and Celeste, sensing Agnes’ unease, gently steered the conversation away. “Tell us about the giants and gnomes,” she suggested with a warm smile. “What’s your favourite story?”
Agnes inhaled slowly, her rigid posture easing just a little. “The Nisse,” she murmured. “The little ones who help around the farms. If you treat them well, they bring good fortune. If you don’t…” She trailed off, her tired eyes holding a hint of warning.
“What happens if you don’t treat them well?” Celeste asked, leaning in slightly.
Agnes’s gaze grew distant. “They cause mischief at first—moving things, spoiling food. But if a family truly offends them, they can bring misfortune, illness, even death.”
Sigrid leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “Go on, tell us more.”
The back room of the church was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of old books and candle wax. The priest poured two glasses of wine and placed them on the table. Sebastian gave a polite shake of his head, declining the offer, while Gottfried took a sip, grimacing at its poor quality.
“What brings you here?” the priest asked, settling into his chair.
“An associate of ours is writing a book on local churches and folklore,” Gottfried explained, twirling the wine in his glass. “We thought you might have some interesting stories to share.”
The priest gave a small smile. “I don’t concern myself with old superstitions. My focus is on faith, not folk tales.”
Gottfried nodded and changed the subject. “What can you tell us about the storm?”
The priest’s expression darkened. “It came out of nowhere. A massive thunderclap, followed by a lightning strike so strong it knocked me to the floor.”
“Odd,” Gottfried mused. “Did anything else happen that night? Strange sights, sounds?”
The priest shook his head. “Nothing besides the wind and rain.”
It was clear he wouldn’t be much help. The two men exchanged pleasantries and prepared to leave. Just as they stepped into the main hall, a sudden, deafening crash echoed through the church like a harpsichord tumbling from above.
They froze, exchanging wary glances before turning toward the source of the noise.
At Fridhem Farm, the air inside Agnes’s home felt thick with unease. The scent of burning wood and dried herbs lingered, but there was something else, something unspoken in the heavy silence.
“Agnes,” Sigrid began softly, “do you know anything about August?”
The old woman’s frail hands tightened around her blanket. “Why do you ask?”
Sigrid hesitated. “Bergs-Erik wants to see him.”
Agnes’s expression turned cold. “Then let Bergs have him.”
