Vaesen: Of Stone & Steel: 04
The fire crackled, its glow casting flickering shadows along the walls. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken fears.
Sigrid finally broke it. “Where do we find your old home, Agnes? If there are more stories about Bergs-Erik, we need to read them.”
Agnes took another slow breath, then met Sigrid’s gaze. “Deep in the woods. West of the village. Follow the old hunter’s trail past the birch grove. It’s been abandoned for years. If anything remains, it will be there.”
Sebastian stood. “Then that’s where we go next.”
Agnes nodded but said nothing more.
After their conversation with Agnes, the group turned their attention to another unsettling discovery—the coarse grey hair entangled with the golden bead. As they examined it more closely, they noticed its odd texture. It was much rougher than goat hair, incredibly strong, and, most bizarrely, it seemed to subtly change colour depending on its surroundings. It clearly wasn’t human, nor did it belong to Agnes, whose own hair was a dull mix of grey and brown.
Curious, they brought it to Agnes, who studied it with a deep frown. “This isn’t thread, nor any kind of fabric I know of,” she muttered, rolling it between her fingers. “It’s something else entirely.”
Determined to get answers, Gottfried dug through his books, flipping through pages filled with folklore and supernatural creatures. Eventually, he came across references to Vaesen—ancient beings tied to forests and mountains, some of which were rumoured to shift their appearance at will. If the hair’s ability to change colours was any indication, it likely belonged to one of these creatures.
As they prepared to leave, Gottfried pulled Lasse aside, pressing a silver coin into his palm. “Keep an eye on Margareta,” he said with a knowing smirk. “Think of it as your first assignment for the agency.”
Lasse frowned, staring at the coin, then at Gottfried. “The what?”
Gottfried only grinned and walked off, leaving Lasse standing there, completely baffled but holding onto the coin nonetheless.
Back in town, their young informant—the urchin keeping watch on the manor—came running up to them. “No one’s left except for a servant,” he reported between breaths. “Went out and came back pretty quick. That’s it.”
The group exchanged glances but decided to keep watch a little longer.
Their next stop was the forge, where the clang of metal against metal echoed through the night air. The glow of the main furnaces flickered brightly, illuminating the workers still hammering away. The fact that the forge was running so late into the night struck them as odd.
“They’re working overtime,” Sigrid noted. “That’s not normal.”
“It reeks of the Workmaster’s influence,” Gottfried muttered. “No one pushes a forge this hard unless something is pressing.”
Inside the tool forge, they found one of the apprentices still working. After a brief conversation, he allowed them to take the candlestick they had examined earlier, assuring them that the smith would receive their note explaining its absence. Before leaving, Gottfried took the opportunity to discreetly pour a small vial of holy water into the forge’s cooling basin.
The apprentice frowned. “Is that… normal?”
Gottfried gave him an easy smile. “Better safe than sorry.”
The apprentice scratched his head but ultimately shrugged and went back to his work.
By the time they returned to the inn, the once-quiet establishment was now buzzing with conversation and laughter. The scent of warm food filled the air as villagers and travellers alike enjoyed their evening meals.
The group found their usual table and took a moment to enjoy the familiarity of their surroundings. Dill stew and hot tea were served as a welcome comfort after the long day.
As they ate, Ida approached and placed a wax-sealed envelope in front of Gottfried. “This arrived for you,” she said before walking off.
Breaking the seal, Gottfried pulled out the letter. The handwriting was shaky, as though written by an unsteady hand. The note was addressed to “The Professor,” from the Director. It expressed surprise at learning there was a professor in town and extended an invitation for tea the following morning.
The group exchanged thoughtful glances.
“We might be able to use this to our advantage,” Sigrid suggested. “If the Director isn’t fully aware of what’s happening, we could sway him against the Workmaster.”
Sebastian leaned back, considering. “It wouldn’t be difficult. The Workmaster isn’t well-liked. If we play this right, we could gather some useful allies.”
Gottfried set the letter down and nodded. “That’s a conversation for tomorrow. But before we think about alliances, I believe it’s time for something more direct.”
Celeste raised an eyebrow. “You mean the candlestick?”
Gottfried nodded. “A séance. We need to know what connection this artefact has to Margareta.”
They agreed to conduct the ritual in Sebastian and Gottfried’s room, which had already been prepared with salt and holy water for protection. The space was rearranged, with the candlestick placed at the centre of a small bedside table, their chosen focal point. The air grew thick with anticipation as they focused their energy on the object.
As the séance took hold, the room seemed to darken at the edges, as if the candlelight itself was being swallowed by the surrounding shadows. Then, images flickered through their minds.
Margareta stood at the forge, hammer in hand. But something was off. Her expression was blank, her eyes glassy and unfocused. Her lips moved, but the words she whispered were incomprehensible—a hushed, eerie language none of them recognized. The fire cast flickering, unnatural shadows as she worked, shaping the metal with eerie precision.
The vision wavered, shifting, revealing fleeting glimpses of something watching her. A presence, unseen but deeply felt, hovering just beyond the light of the forge.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the séance ended. The candle flickered violently before going out, plunging the room into silence.
One thing was clear—something, or someone, had been influencing Margareta. And whatever it was, its hold on her wasn’t broken yet.
The group turned their attention back to the candlestick, preparing themselves for whatever the séance might reveal. The room was silent except for the rhythmic flicker of the candle, the wax pooling slowly beneath the flame. As they focused, the air thickened, pressing in around them like an unseen weight. The dim glow of the candle wavered, casting restless shadows against the walls. Their vision blurred, and one by one, they slipped into a trance.
The first vision formed in the haze. A dense forest stretched endlessly before them, its towering trees casting elongated shadows in the pale moonlight. A young woman in a flowing wedding dress drifted toward the tree line, her posture graceful but hesitant, her hands trembling at her sides. The mist curled around her ankles as she stepped deeper into the woods, swallowed whole by the darkness.
The scene shifted, pulling them further into the vision. Now, deep within the forest, the woman stood before a massive cliff face. As if obeying an unspoken command, the solid rock split apart, revealing a dark, gaping entrance. Without hesitation, she stepped forward. The moment her figure disappeared beyond the threshold, the stone sealed itself shut, as though the very earth had consumed her.
The vision flickered again. A woman’s hand reached outward, pale fingers trembling. A golden bead, strung onto a delicate thread, dangled from her wrist, catching the faintest slivers of light. A man’s hand met hers, fingers brushing before locking together in an unspoken promise. Another shift—the same woman’s hand, but now adorned with an iron bracelet. The man’s hand reached again, but the moment he touched the metal, he recoiled violently, as if burned by an invisible force.
The visions came faster now. Two young girls stood outside a simple cottage, laughter on their lips as they played near a grazing goat and sheep. The sky above was golden with the warmth of the afternoon sun. But something lurked at the edge of the clearing—a shadow, a presence watching from the treeline. A tall silhouette, unmoving, waiting.
The scene flickered again. The house appeared once more, but the animals were gone. The cottage stood weathered and empty, its walls dull with abandonment. Yet, the shadowy figure remained, its watchful presence unchanged.
The visions continued in an endless loop. Time passed in flickers of light—morning, noon, dusk, night—each cycle revealing the woman’s silhouette stepping into the house, again and again. But with each repetition, the shape of the shadow shifted. The figure grew taller, its form elongating, its movements becoming unnatural. The fine details of a woman blurred, twisted, stretched. What had once been human became something else—something monstrous.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the visions shattered. The group gasped as they were yanked back to reality, the breath stolen from their lungs. The room around them was eerily still, the lingering echo of something unseen pressing at the edges of their senses. The candle sputtered, its flame flickering weakly before finally going out, plunging them into complete darkness.
Celeste blinked, her pulse still racing. “We all saw that, didn’t we?”
Sigrid exhaled shakily. “That wasn’t just my Sight. That was something else. Something real.”
A heavy silence settled over them. This wasn’t just a glimpse into the past—this was something alive, something that had remained, lingering just beyond the veil of the present.
With the séance concluded, they retreated to their rooms. But sleep did not come easily. Outside, the forge roared with relentless activity, the clang of hammer on metal echoing through the streets as if the very town was stirring with restless energy.
Gottfried sat awake, poring over his books, flipping through pages filled with stories of creatures and curses. He searched for any record of humans transforming into Vaesen but found nothing that perfectly matched what they had witnessed. The closest references were vague, ancient myths of those who wandered too deep into the woods and never returned the same.
Sigrid, still unsettled by the visions, picked up her pen and began writing. The ink bled onto the parchment as she tried to capture the chaos of the night, to make sense of what they had seen. But no words could fully capture the feeling that gnawed at the edges of her mind.
Outside, the night stretched on, restless and unyielding. The forge burned bright, casting its eerie glow into the sky as if the town itself refused to sleep. And in the darkness, the echoes of the past whispered a warning, one that none of them yet understood.
Tuesday 1st November 1859
The following morning, the group made their way back to the manor. The previous night’s rain had turned the streets into slick paths of mud, and a heavy chill clung to the air. The town was quiet, an uneasy stillness hanging over it as if waiting for something to break the silence. As they approached the grand estate, they noticed the same horses still tied outside, their flanks damp with morning mist, a clear sign they hadn’t been ridden since the night before.
Sigrid stepped forward and knocked firmly on the heavy wooden door. A long pause followed before it creaked open, revealing the same maid from the previous day. She studied them with wary eyes but stepped aside without a word, leading them up a grand staircase to a richly furnished parlour.
The manor’s interior was exquisite, every detail carefully curated. Ornate wallpaper lined the walls, heavy velvet drapes framed tall windows, and intricately carved wooden furniture filled the room. It carried the unmistakable air of an English estate, yet something about the house felt hollow—too perfect, too polished. There was no sign of the Workmaster, and the house was unsettlingly quiet.
Moments later, an older man entered, his steps slow and deliberate as he leaned on the arm of a servant for support. His frail frame and trembling hands hinted at illness, and he hesitated at the sight of four visitors rather than one.
Gottfried stepped forward, offering a courteous nod. “Director, we appreciate you meeting with us. I am Gottfried, and this—” he gestured toward Sigrid, “—is my personal writer. We have some concerns regarding the forge that we’d like to discuss.”
The Director settled into a chair with a tired sigh, his hands gripping the armrests. “The forge? What concerns?”
Gottfried waited a moment before continuing, his voice measured. “The town was built around the forge nearly three centuries ago, and from what we’ve gathered, it has long been a source of stability here. But we’ve been hearing unsettling reports. Are you aware of the damage to the water wheels caused by the storm the other day?”
The Director frowned, his expression shifting between confusion and concern. “I was aware of the storm, but I had no knowledge of any lasting damage. If there were serious issues at the forge, I should have been informed.” He glanced between them, his grip tightening on the armrests. “Why has no one brought this to my attention?”
Gottfried allowed the weight of the revelation to settle before continuing. “Director, there is something else you need to be aware of. The Workmaster has been pushing the workers to their limits, forcing them to prioritize output over safety. This has created an environment where accidents happen—avoidable ones. Lives have been lost because of this negligence.”
The Director’s hands clenched slightly against the armrests. “No one has informed me of this. Deaths? How could such things happen without my knowledge?”
Gottfried exchanged a glance with Sigrid, who spoke next. “Director, Hals Fridhem has passed.”
The Director’s face changed instantly, his expression shifting from mild confusion to sorrow. “Hals… That is terrible news. How is his son, Lasse?”
“Managing,” Sigrid replied softly. “But struggling. He could use support.”
The Director exhaled slowly, nodding. “He was always a good man. This is a great loss.”
Gottfried nodded grimly. “That is precisely our concern. But there is more.”
The Director’s gaze sharpened. “What more?”
Gottfried hesitated for a moment before choosing his words carefully. “There have also been troubling rumours regarding his interest in one of the apprentices. An inappropriate interest.”
The Director’s expression darkened. “Who?”
“That is not for us to disclose,” Gottfried said smoothly. “But it is something that requires immediate attention.”
The Director exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “This is troubling news indeed. I cannot ignore this. I will look into it personally, and if what you say is true, action will be taken.”
Gottfried nodded. “We feel it pertinent to speak with August. Would you be willing to arrange a meeting?”
The Director hesitated before nodding. “Yes. I will have my maid schedule it. And arrange one for me as well—I need to hear his explanations firsthand.”
The group exchanged glances before Gottfried gave a small bow. “Thank you, Director. You have much to consider.”
The Director let out a weary sigh. “That I do.”
As the group was led out, Gottfried’s attention caught on a slightly ajar door in the hallway. Just as they passed, he leaned close and whispered, “We are vengeance, and your time is coming.”
The door slammed shut.
The cold drizzle soaked through their cloaks as they made their way toward the forest, searching for Agnes’ old home. The muddy trails slowed their pace, their boots sinking into the softened ground. The towering trees loomed overhead, skeletal in the grey morning light, their branches swaying as though whispering among themselves.
After what felt like hours of navigating the dense underbrush, they found it—a crumbling, rotting house barely standing against time. The roof sagged inward, one side had partially collapsed, and vines curled through shattered windows. The air around it was heavy, the silence thick, as if the very forest was holding its breath.
Sigrid stepped forward and tested the door. It didn’t budge. “It’s stuck.”
Sebastian rolled up his sleeves, took a steadying breath, and stepped forward. With a determined set to his jaw, he clenched his fists and delivered a solid punch to the wooden door. The aged wood cracked under the impact, sending a deep, resonant sound through the empty house. The group exchanged brief, startled glances, but Sebastian didn’t pause. He struck again, and then a third time, until with a final, resounding blow, the door splintered inward, groaning in protest before collapsing into the dust-filled room beyond..
Inside, the house was deathly silent. Dust clung to every surface, disturbed only by a faint trail of footprints in the dirt-covered floor. The air smelled of decay, damp wood, and something faintly metallic.
Gottfried moved to the centre of the room, placing his hands over Celeste’s crystal ball. He inhaled deeply, focusing his energy. “Great Lady of the Woods, hear our call.”
Nothing happened. The room remained still.
Sigrid sighed, crossing her arms. “Well, that was anticlimactic.”
Celeste frowned. “Something is here. I can feel it. It just doesn’t want to answer.”
Meanwhile, Sebastian had noticed something unusual. He pointed to the floor. “Tracks. Someone has been here recently.”
They followed the faint prints, leading them toward a small bundle of canvas tucked beneath an old, broken table. Sebastian carefully lifted the bundle and unwrapped it.
Inside were two rusted iron nails and a small leather-bound book, its cover cracked with age, the pages yellowed and brittle. The writing inside was faded, but legible, though none of them had time to examine it further.
A sound outside made them freeze.
A branch snapped.
Then another.
The ground beneath them trembled ever so slightly, sending a faint vibration up their legs. Sigrid instinctively reached for her dagger, while Sebastian shifted his stance, readying himself. Celeste’s breath caught in her throat as she clutched her crystal ball, her pulse quickening. The silence that followed felt too heavy, too deliberate. Then, the rumble came again, deeper this time, as if something massive had stirred just beneath the surface.
Then, from just past the porch —a roar.
