Welcome to Gaia! ::

Lord Thornley Osmonton was feeling distinct unease, a sensation in his chest that had haunted him for a few days, that jolted him up at night and made him feel quite wretchedly sick as he went about his duties and pleasures. He had attempted to summarily ignore it but it had only grown stronger, seizing his gut as he valiantly dismissed it - it could not be disregarded, could not be brushed aside.

Thornley finally paused to consider it, and concluded that it was probably a warning, an intimation that his wilful little brother was up to no good again.

And so he ceased all activities to find Locke Osmonton, his bitter, bookish waif of a brother. He had never understood what catalyst had occurred to make him so contrary and distant after a delightful childhood of privilege and brotherly intimacy, but he had since gotten used to his antagonistic attitude, taking it in his gracious stride (conveniently forgetting the times he failed to control his temper) and eternally offering solace and understanding lest Locke ever turn back to being the sweet child he was.

Alas, that was not to be - certainly not now. Being as quiet and contrary as he was, no one had any idea where Locke was, and had been these few days. It was not uncommon for him to disappear for long tracts of time and emerge further hollow-eyed and speaking in more tongues than he had before. It was a talent he had that Thornley could not understand, but accepted.

This unease plaguing him, however, could not be disregarded. Thornley set off with a string of witnesses, starting with the chambermaids that had seen him emerge from his room, to the stableboys that glimpsed his distinctively tall and thin frame leaving the estate. He trailed his footsteps, pausing by the caretaker's hut to grasp at where he'd gone - a vague direction (Locke was a quick traveller). He arrived at a fork and finally found a businessman making his usual morning trip, once again following the path derived from a man's vague handwave. He stopped by a baker, and smiled sentimentally when told of his purchase, but was soon on the road again.

It was not lost on Thornley that he was making his way into undesirable territory, his well-tailored clothes and his golden hair looking increasingly out of place in the dankness of the area - even with Sunderland's dubious weather, this area seemed even more gloomy than usual. He did not fear, merely freeing his travel shortsword from the confines of his coat as a warning. It would be a foolish man to challenge an Osmonton son - at least, this Osmonton son, the future Earl of Ashford.

For a brief moment, as his purpose wavered and relented a moment of vanity, the unease returned: he wondered if that feeling was anxiety. No, Locke was slender but capable, and he would do him great injustice to think otherwise in this region of petty criminals. He stood taller, chest out and proud, and he made small talk with a shabbily-dressed street hawker (a generous smile and she seemed to swoon) before querying the potential whereabouts of his brother. He took care to be understanding and affable while speaking to the peasants, and persistent goodwill (truth be told, it was annoyance - Thornley never understood it like that though) triumphed - the morning was completely lost, but he was finally before a seedy, worn-down penny book depository...a place most unappealing to Thornley, but believably housing his wayward brother.

He entered after a deep breath and cleared his throat in the musty air of the establishment: its literature was well-suited to the area, a sprawling collection of gutter press stacked and littered about. Thornley wore an appropriate look of distaste on his face. He had no liking for literature, and such low-brow activity was completely despicable. Why, the crassness of such papers - this whore was clothed in nothing but loosened stays, her ample bosom almost spilling forth.

With an expression of supreme disdain over his manly curiousity, he peered within its pages.

For several moments.

He placed the document below a fashionable novel with a cover strongly resembling a distant countess cousin twice-removed, and proceeded to stiffly ask a man with a judgmental eye whether he had seen Locke Osmonton, second son of the Earl of Ashford, brother of Lord Thornley Osmonton.

...dark hair, large eyes, high cheekbones, slim.

And so Thornley now stood, eyeing a worn door to a private room that would not open. It would not do for him to wrench it off its hinges, and instead he rapped sharply and persistently, calling: "Locke!"

Shut it he did, although with a bit too much force - a hinge whined and he impatiently shoved it back into place, willing it to stay. "Were you looking at the pornography," he said sternly and conversationally, the content having been foremost in his comprehension (not his thoughts, mind) as he turned away from the half-broken door to face the rest of the room.

"That's all this hovel is good for, isn't it," he recalled the drivel that lay outside, shaking his head disapprovingly in a most superior fashion. "They're everywhere," a tug and his sleeve smoothed out, having been creased in the recovery of the hinge, "all that printed crudeness."

"I did not." He stated with finality, and a warning tone that this conversation was over. A severe pull at the hem, and he was impeccable once more, looking all the part of a future earl who had been greviously wronged and worse, accused of such debauchery. "If it's not the pornography you were here for, then what have you been doing, Locke?"

Thornley paused to take in the sight, not of uncouth piles of scantily-clad ladies, but of documents laden with authority. Even with his limited comprehension of literature, the age of the parchment and broken binding indicated ancient knowledge and perhaps, even power.

It was at this moment that he, very unwillingly, felt a tinge of shame. Thornley’s voice was a little quieter now, with a unhappy hint of humility. "What is all this about?"

Thornley rarely paid attention, to Locke's rambles - they were usually things that he would never pretend to thoroughly understand, and often of little practical consequence. Certain words, however, were unavoidably audible: Old Ways, something-craft, Wardwood, wardens. (At least they all lay in the same sentence.) They made him glance down at the documents again, eyes scanning fantastical illustrations of an unmistakeable forest.

"The Old Ways? Wardens?" He repeated with growing horror. "Brother, you are reading of magic? Superstition? Father will be furious -"

He had been absolutely right - all that anxiety, that unease that had haunted him would culiminate here, in this run-down construct of pornography and magic, in anticipation of Locke being up to no good. The sight of such arcane tomes and the images made his sickness even stronger: his brows creased and he stepped forward with an imploring look.

"- oh, no. No, Locke.” Thornley finished lamely, helpless against his childish spite. Of course Father would be furious, that was probably the point. This was Locke.

Those were the damning words. A well-read Locke was dangerous, but a Locke in action, determined to execute some sort of ridiculous plan to drag them all into the mud? His heart was heavy, the panic palpable and desperate - he looked up at the ceiling (it wasn't much of one), bemoaning why, why Locke had gone so bad, and so contrary, and why he was here, hoping to yet almost powerless to halt such stupidity that would set their father off for weeks. A special - that was another word for magical, stuff of myths - tree, that he intended to see...the consequences of such an excursion would be disastrous. The sinking feeling in his gut was increasingly foreboding.

"If we do this foolish thing," Thornley said, low and grim, "if we go off to the Wardwood right now and look at this tree, will you promise to cease this nonsense, come home with me and be a good boy?" He turned his gaze to Locke, blue eyes piercing. "I won't tell Father what you've done."