Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

[scantilycladsnail]

Janus, the Wandering Interpreter​

Janus is a black-furred Goatkin of unremarkable lineage—no great family name, no ancestral expectations. He was never tied to any particular craft or tradition, instead finding himself drawn to the rhythms of speech, the way words carried meaning, the way language wove itself into the fabric of daily life.

Once a student under Mordecai’s guidance, Janus was a quiet but perceptive learner, known for his keen ear and uncanny ability to pick up dialects and nuances with ease. He had no extraordinary strength, no particular skill in the physical arts, but where others relied on force or craft, he had always relied on understanding.

Janus lives in a modest home within the Trade District, a lively sector near the market, not far from Ephraim’s healing temple. His dwelling is small but cluttered—a place full of scrolls, scattered notes, and objects left behind by travelers he’s helped over the years. He never intended to become the city’s unofficial translator, but with the arrival of Chatterbuck, it simply became his calling.

Despite his intellect, Janus has never sought authority—he prefers to be an observer rather than a leader. He’s a bridge between the insular culture of Ramura and the outside world, someone the Hearth-Keepers occasionally consult when dealing with foreign kin. He enjoys the work, even if it means mediating misunderstandings caused by his overeager Soulvow.

Chatterbuck, The Polyglot Jackalope​

Chatterbuck is, in all ways, the opposite of Janus. Where Janus is calm and measured, Chatterbuck is everywhere at once, bursting with energy, words, and an insatiable curiosity about everything.

Appearance:​

• A small, round jackalope covered in fluffy, storm-gray fur.
• Twisting ram horns curl back over his head, accentuating his oversized, twitching ears that catch even the faintest whispers.
• His tail constantly scribbles glowing letters in the air, forming partial words and phrases in different languages before they dissolve into nothing.
• His nose is always wiggling, as if sniffing out new idioms, turns of phrase, and gossip to latch onto.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s ears flicked slightly at the mention of the name, recognition settling into his features. “I know him,” he said, voice even, though there was a trace of familiarity in his tone. “Janus was once one of mine—quiet, sharp, always listening more than speaking. A fitting Soulvow for him, really.” He exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly before nodding toward Jupiter. “I’ll make note to visit him before the arrivals. If translation is needed, best to ensure he’s aware of what’s coming.”

Jupiter didn’t react beyond a simple nod of acknowledgment. She knew he would handle it. She had given him the information, and that was enough.

With that, Mordecai turned, his long stride carrying him away from the gates and toward the heart of the Trading District. Wrath padded at his side, his movements fluid and easy, but his attention flickered—his nose twitching as a familiar scent drifted on the morning air.

Ephraim.

Even through the hum of market chatter, the scent of fresh parchment and dried herbs carried from the direction of her healing temple. Wrath slowed for half a second, his ears perking, his body subtly angling toward the path that would lead them there. A soft whine left him, a hesitant, hopeful sound.

Mordecai sighed. “Not now,” he murmured, his tone firm but lacking in harshness. He reached down, pressing a hand lightly against Wrath’s head, scratching between his ears in a grounding motion. “We have work to do."

Wrath hesitated but obeyed, letting out a small huff before falling back into step beside him.

The streets of the Trade District were already alive despite the early hour—merchants arranging their wares, kin moving between the stalls, the air thick with the scent of spiced bread, ripe fruit, and ink-dried scrolls. Mordecai navigated through it all with ease, his presence noted but largely unremarked upon. Ramura was not a place where Hearth-Keepers walked with undue reverence. He was simply another figure in the weave of the city, as much a part of its rhythm as anyone else.

At last, he stopped in front of a modest home tucked between the bustling trade stalls, its doorway half-hidden by hanging charms and parchment scraps fluttering lightly in the breeze. He lifted a hand, rapping his knuckles against the wood.

“Janus,” he called out, voice carrying just enough weight to be heard beyond the noise of the market.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Mordecai’s knock landed firm against the wooden door—once, twice—before the slightest pressure against it sent it sprawling open with a slow, creaking groan.

That was wrong.

Janus was particular. His door was never left ajar, never anything less than securely latched, a quiet form of control in a world that often pressed too closely. But now, it stood open, revealing the dim interior of a space that should not have been empty.

The air inside carried a faint trace of ink and parchment, but something was missing. The usual quiet hum of movement—papers rustling, the scratch of a quill, the muttered rehearsals of foreign words—was absent. The house wasn’t ransacked, not in any obvious way, but it wasn’t right either.

Scrolls sat unevenly stacked on his worktable, some half-unrolled, one with a fresh blot of ink dried where it had clearly been abandoned mid-stroke. A ceramic cup rested on a low table near the sitting area, tea inside long gone cold, a ring of undisturbed dust forming around the base as if it had been untouched for far longer than it should have.

Near the doorframe, a coat had been left hanging—but the woven satchel Janus always carried with him was nowhere to be seen.

And then, the most damning absence.

Chatterbuck.

There was no quiet murmuring, no excited bursts of mixed-language chatter filling the silence. The little jackalope was never not present, always darting, always listening, always translating snippets of street conversation that no one asked for. The lack of his energy left the room feeling hollow, a void where sound should have existed.

A single parchment, half-tucked beneath a smooth river stone, fluttered faintly in the draft from the open door. The writing on it was Janus’ own—steady, careful, deliberate—but the ink near the end was smudged, the final line unfinished.

“—meet at the usual place. Something strange—”

And then, nothing.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai turned the parchment between his fingers, his gaze flickering over the smudged ink, the unfinished message. The weight of it settled heavily in his mind—Janus was deliberate, careful. He would not leave a note incomplete unless something had interrupted him.

His jaw tensed, the only outward sign of the unease creeping into his thoughts.

“Wrath.”

At the call, Wrath stilled mid-step, ears perking, his tail lowering into a slow, controlled movement. His bright eyes flicked toward Mordecai, reading the shift in his demeanor instantly.

“Check the place out.”

Without hesitation, Wrath obeyed. His form rippled, melting seamlessly into his shadowy essence as he phased through the walls, through the half-open scroll cases, his skeletal head drifting in and out of sight like a wisp of something untethered. His low, guttural growl hummed faintly in the still air as he searched, nosing through the unseen spaces, seeking something out of place.

Mordecai took his own measured steps through the home, running his fingers lightly over the uneven stacks of parchment, tracing the edges of a half-spilled inkpot that had gone unnoticed in the quiet disorder. His eyes flicked to the coat by the door—left behind. But the satchel? Missing.

He reached the small ceramic cup near the sitting area and pressed his fingertips lightly against its side. Cold. Not just left behind in haste, but untouched for far longer than a simple absence would suggest.

His gaze shifted back to Wrath, waiting, watching as his Soulvow drifted weightlessly through the space. He trusted Wrath to find what he could not see—to pick up the scent of something beyond the ordinary.

Janus was not the type to disappear without reason. And Chatterbuck? The excitable little jackalope was never quiet.

Something was wrong.

 

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Core Mechanics​

• Base Roll: All actions use 1D12.
• Soulvow Bonus: If applicable, characters add a D4, D5, or D6 based on their Soulvow Level.
• Character Tiers (Power Levels):
  • Level 1 (Standard characters): No re-rolls. Must take their first result.
  • Level 2 (Notable figures, e.g., Mordecai): 1 re-roll per roll. Must keep the better result.
  • Level 3 (Legends, major figures): 2 re-rolls per roll. Must keep the best result.

---

Soulvow Levels (Connection Strength)​

• Level 1 (New Bond): Adds 1D4.
• Level 2 (Developed Connection): Adds 1D5.
• Level 3 (Kindred Spirits, Soulbound): Adds 1D6.

Mechanically, this means deeper bonds give a stronger probability boost, reinforcing their narrative weight.

---

Mordecai:
Character Level: 2
Soulvow Level: 3

 

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The quiet inside Janus' home was deceptive. It wasn’t the stillness of a place merely left empty—it was the kind of silence that suggested something had been left unfinished.

The scent of dried parchment and cooling ink still clung to the air, but beneath it, something softer—floral, faint, almost lost beneath the more distinct aromas of the home. Yet, there it was, lingering in the fibers of the woven rugs, dusting the edges of the scroll-laden table. A closer look revealed why—tucked near the corner of the room was a small bundle of ceremony remnants. Delicate blossom petals still clung stubbornly to the folds of fabric, caught within the creases of discarded garments. The faintest trace of festival incense lingered, suggesting that Janus had, without a doubt, been at the Blossom-Bonding Festival just the night before.

But the placement was off. There was no careful folding, no intentionality to how they had been set aside. It looked as if they had been dropped, as if whatever came after had pulled Janus’ attention too quickly for him to deal with them properly.

Then, on the low wooden table near the center of the room, a piece of pottery sat, new and unmarked by dust. A modest cup, simple in form, but fresh—the clay had yet to fully settle into its cured state, the glaze still catching the dim light just a little too cleanly.

Still, the most unsettling detail sat in the farthest corner of the room, where the wooden planks bore a mark they should not have. The floorboards had splintered inward, as if something with weight had pressed too hard into them, leaving behind a jagged imprint—a paw shape. Canine, but too large for any ordinary hound. The wood had cracked under the force, the indent too clean, too deep, as if whatever had made it had not just stepped, but landed with impact.

The mark should have been fresh, yet it was oddly smooth at the edges, as if time had passed around it strangely, as if it belonged to a moment that didn’t align with the rest of the scene.

Beyond these, the room was still filled with the small, lived-in details of Janus’ daily habits—a half-rolled scroll marked with notes from a study session, a cup of ink left open beside a quill, stray scraps of fabric that had once belonged to a robe now altered. And yet, none of these things were wrong—they simply were, left behind as if Janus had only stepped out for a moment, as if he had expected to return.

But he hadn’t.

And neither had Chatterbuck.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath’s shadowy, skeletal head phased through the floorboards before solidifying into its physical form. The flickering wisp of his essence coalesced into something tangible as he prowled forward, stepping beside Mordecai with an expectant prod at his side. Mordecai didn’t acknowledge him at first, his focus locked onto the low wooden table.

He reached for the clay cup, running his thumb over its smooth surface. It was fresh—too fresh. The glaze still held the sheen of something newly cured, untouched by time or dust. He turned it in his hands before lowering it to Wrath’s snout.

“Ulysses’ new Soulvow, remember?”

Wrath peered up at him. Even through the hollow voids of his skull, the expression was unmistakable—silent recognition, an unspoken agreement.

Mordecai placed the cup back down with care, but Wrath had already shifted his attention. The companion let out a low bark, padding toward the farthest corner of the room. His nose hovered over the splintered floorboards, where the deep, jagged imprint of an oversized paw marred the wood. He sniffed once, then again—this time with a growl rumbling low in his chest.

Mordecai knelt beside him, tracing his fingers along the edges of the mark. It was smooth, too smooth, as if time had passed around it in an unnatural way. His expression darkened as Wrath’s fur bristled, shadows flickering erratically around him in response.

After a beat of silence, Mordecai exhaled, straightening.

“Seems like we’ll be paying Ephraim a visit sooner than expected.”

With that, he turned and stepped out, Wrath falling into stride beside him.

The market stirred with its usual life as they passed through the Trade District, but neither paid it any mind. Wrath, once restless and prone to distraction, kept his pace measured, his energy simmering beneath a layer of disciplined focus. Even as they neared the healing temple, his usual excitement remained curbed—no eager clawing at the door, no bounding ahead. His past marks of impatience still marred the wood, faded but visible, yet this time, he simply waited.

Mordecai knocked.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The door swung open with an easy motion, revealing Ephraim mid-movement, fastening the last tie on the belt of her robe. Her hair was still damp at the ends, a sign of her morning routine, and the scent of dried herbs clung lightly to the air behind her.

She blinked once, then smiled, warmth flickering through her expression the moment her gaze landed on Mordecai. “Well, this is a nice surprise,” she mused, smoothing her sleeves with a practiced motion. “You’re here early. Did Wrath drag you here, or you just eager to follow up with me after our date?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai hesitated for just a beat, caught momentarily off guard. Even in the quiet glow of the early morning, Ephraim carried an effortless kind of beauty, the kind that made it easy to forget why he was here in the first place. He exhaled a short chuckle, scratching idly behind his ear.

“Consider me guilty,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “I do enjoy spending time with you. Almost as much as my Hearth-Keeper duties.” He met her gaze, holding it just a moment longer before adding, softer, “If I had the choice, I’d much rather spend more time with you.”

His words were lighthearted, but there was truth in them, enough that Wrath gave a slow, knowing flick of his tail. He liked Ephraim, always had. Usually, he would’ve pushed his way forward by now, eager for attention, but this time he only lingered at Mordecai’s side—alert, ears flicking, his focus still half-anchored in the weight of what they had found.

Mordecai’s own expression shifted, the warmth still lingering but tempered now with something else. He straightened slightly, tone easing into something more deliberate.

“How was the rest of your night?” he asked. “Did you get a chance to speak with Ulysses? Has he shown you his Soulvow yet?”

It was a gentle pivot, a nudge toward something that could ground him before bringing up what truly brought him here.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s smile softened as she caught the weight behind his words, warmth flickering behind her amber eyes. For a fleeting second, she looked as if she might say something in return—something more than a teasing quip or a simple acknowledgment—but instead, she exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she returned to tying her apron properly.

“Flatterer,” she murmured, though there was no real admonishment in her voice.

She finished with the knot, smoothing the fabric over her waist before glancing toward the back of the temple, where the doorway led into the larger home she and Ulysses shared. The faintest remnants of candlelight still flickered in the hall beyond, casting shadows across the wooden beams.

“He came home late,” she said, brushing an errant curl behind her ear. “I didn’t see him until this morning—well, barely. He was already half-asleep again when I found him.” A small, amused huff followed. “I only caught a glimpse of the Mud Djinn before he disappeared off to bed. It was brief, but Ulysses seemed fine. Tired, but that’s not unusual for him.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai flicked an ear, letting out a thoughtful “hm” as he turned the new information over in his mind. Wrath remained as he was—still, watchful, the same quiet intensity lingering in his stance.

Mordecai’s gaze drifted over the temple, tracing the familiar elements of its space. The warmth of candlelight, the faint scent of dried herbs steeped into the wood, the subtle weight of tranquility that settled in the air. Everything about this place was an extension of Ephraim—steady, grounding, filled with the kind of quiet care that made it easy to forget, even for a moment, the reason he was here.

His fingers tapped idly against his wrist before he glanced back at her. “Is he still here, half-asleep?” he asked, his tone carrying an easy lilt, though the question was edged with something else—an underlying thread of intent.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim tilted her head slightly, watching him with quiet curiosity before nodding.

“Yes, he is,” she said, waving a hand toward the door at the back. “He’ll probably sleep through anything short of an earthquake, but if you want to try your luck, be my guest.”

She studied Mordecai for a beat longer, catching the subtle thread of intent woven into his otherwise casual question. Her smile lingered, though there was a knowing edge to it now.

“Official Hearth-Keeper stuff, I assume?” she added, arms crossing lightly as she leaned against the nearby table.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

His room:
Ulysses’ room bore the unmistakable influence of a potter’s touch. Clay dust lingered in the grooves of the wooden floor, caught in the faint sheen of morning light that filtered through the window. Along the shelves, nestled between books and parchment, sat an array of hand-thrown vessels—some simple and unglazed, others adorned with intricate carvings or faint, swirling glazes. A large, unfinished bowl rested on the desk, its edges still uneven, waiting for the final pass of a steady hand. Near the hearth, a small collection of cups and vases clustered together, their surfaces worn smooth from use, each one a quiet testament to the rhythm of creation.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai didn’t smile. His gaze lingered somewhere distant for a moment before he exhaled, his voice measured but carrying the weight of something heavier.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

There was no resentment in his tone, no frustration aimed at Ulysses—only the quiet burden of something he wasn’t ready to name. Something that, if not now, would ripple outward in time.

“I just need to talk to him for a bit.” He glanced back at Ephraim, offering a reassuring smile, the kind meant to temper worry even if it couldn’t erase it. “And don’t trouble yourself over waking him up.”

At that, he looked down to Wrath. The skeletal goat-hound stirred, shaking his fur out before moving forward, silent and certain. Mordecai followed suit but paused as he reached Ephraim, his hand finding her shoulder in a brief but familiar gesture—a squeeze, a slow, absentminded rub of his thumb against the fabric of her sleeve. Then, without another word, he stepped after Wrath, making his way toward the back of the temple.

The steady rhythm of Ulysses’ snoring was unmistakable, an easy giveaway even before Wrath began pacing outside his room. Wrath cast a glance up at Mordecai, ears flicking, waiting for the inevitable.

Mordecai slid the door open with a smooth motion.

“Ulysses.”

No response. Expected. He let out a quiet sigh before glancing down at Wrath and giving a small nod.

In an instant, Wrath bolted forward and leapt onto the bed, landing with his full weight squarely on Ulysses’ chest. The impact earned a muffled grunt, but Wrath was hardly finished—he immediately began bouncing, his skeletal paws pressing down, then lifting, then pressing down again in rapid succession. His tongue, a flickering mass of shadowy essence, lolled out of his maw as he panted playfully, looming over Ulysses with a gleeful enthusiasm that made no room for sleep.

The bed creaked under the assault, and Mordecai crossed his arms, watching with the patience of someone who had witnessed this routine more times than he could count.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ulysses woke with a startled grunt, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp exhale as Wrath’s weight pressed down on him again. He groaned, half-conscious, blinking blearily against the morning light that seeped through the window. His hand sluggishly swiped at Wrath’s bony form, an instinctive but ineffective attempt to push him off, only for the creature to gleefully shift just out of reach before bouncing again.

“Gods, alright, alright—” His voice was thick with sleep, rasping as he tried to regain his breath. He squinted up at Mordecai, his brows furrowing in half-hearted irritation before he flopped an arm over his face. “M-mordecai?”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath settled back slightly, though he remained persistent, giving Ulysses another insistent prod with his nose.

Mordecai clicked his tongue. Instantly, Wrath leapt off the bed, padding back to his side before turning to sit, his hollow gaze fixed expectantly on Ulysses.

“Get up.”

Mordecai’s tone wasn’t harsh, but it was firm—stern in the way that left little room for argument. “Put on some clothes and meet me in the common area.” He had already turned to leave when he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And don’t think about sneaking in another few minutes of sleep,” he added, voice carrying a knowing edge. “Wrath would be more than happy to wake you again.”

Wrath's tail gave a single, eager thump against the floor, as if in agreement.

With that, Mordecai stepped out, making his way through the quiet space of Ephraim and Ulysses’ shared home. He settled onto the floor of the common area, hands resting idly against his knees, gaze distant as he waited.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ulysses sat frozen for a beat, his fingers tightening around the edge of his blanket. He knows. The realization settled like a stone in his gut, heavy and unmoving.

The night before flickered through his mind in pieces—disjointed, blurred at the edges, like something half-remembered from a fever dream. But it wasn’t a dream. The weight of it still clung to his skin, lingering in the stiffness of his limbs, in the faint, phantom press of something that shouldn’t have followed him home.

He swallowed, forcing his breath to steady. He had to move, had to pull himself together before he gave too much away.

His movements were slower than usual as he pushed himself out of bed, rolling his shoulders before reaching for the shirt slung over the back of a chair. His hands were steady—mostly. He flexed his fingers, willing away the faint tremor before pulling the fabric over his head.

By the time he stepped toward the door, his expression was neutral, his posture loose. Casual. Normal. But there was no mistaking the way his breath hitched—just for a moment—when he reached for the handle.

He exhaled once, sharp and quiet, then stepped out to face Mordecai.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai remained seated as Ulysses entered the room, his posture steady, unshaken. Wrath lay beside him, head lifted, his hollow gaze fixed on Ulysses with silent scrutiny. The skeletal hound didn’t stir, but there was something in the way he watched—still, intent, waiting.

Mordecai’s own stare held the same weight, studying Ulysses for a beat longer than necessary before he finally spoke.

“Quite the experience, you and your Mud Djinn yesterday.” His tone was measured, unreadable, the kind that left little room for evasion.

He let the moment settle, watching for the smallest shift, the slightest hesitation.

“How did the rest of your festivities go?” His voice was calm, but pointed. “I assume you were out with friends. Ephraim mentioned you got home late.”

There was no accusation in his words, no overt demand—just the kind of quiet expectation that made it clear Ulysses' answer mattered.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ulysses shifted his weight slightly, rolling a shoulder as if to shake off the scrutiny pressing down on him.

“I did,” he admitted truthfully, keeping his tone easy, unbothered. “It’s been great. The Mud Djinn and I have already made some pieces together.”

There was a slight pause—a fraction too long, a breath held just a beat too long before exhaling. His fingers brushed idly over the fabric at his wrist, an unconscious movement, something to keep his hands occupied. He didn’t lie, but there was an edge of avoidance, a careful sidestep around anything more than necessary.

His eyes flicked toward Wrath, who remained unmoving, watching. The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have, stretching just long enough that he felt the weight of it pressing at his ribs.

He forced a small, casual huff of laughter. “Don’t tell me you’re here for a Hearth-Keeper inspection.” His lips quirked in a half-smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You could’ve at least let me wake up first.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai didn’t react. Not to the shift in Ulysses’ posture, not to the forced ease in his voice, not even to the flicker of something just beneath his words—something carefully sidestepped, left unsaid. Wrath remained just as unmoving, just as watchful, his empty gaze making no room for pretense.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Mordecai’s tone was light, but deliberate, letting the words settle with no rush to fill the silence. He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll be looking forward to what you promised to make me.”

A brief pause. Just enough to let the moment stretch, but not enough to feel unnatural.

Then, as if shifting the subject casually, he asked, “Did you happen to see Janus at the festival?” His voice carried no immediate weight, no sharp edge, only the effortless cadence of conversation. “I know you two tend to spend time together. Figured you might’ve run into him.”

It was a simple question, yet one placed with quiet precision—laid gently, but unmistakably in Ulysses' path.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ulysses blinked. It was quick—too quick, like he had already been preparing for the next part of the conversation, and Mordecai had shifted the ground beneath him before he could find steady footing.

“Oh—yeah,” he said, a little too readily. Then, realizing that eagerness didn’t match the casual air he was trying to keep, he added, “I mean, yeah, he seemed fine.” A pause. “Tired, maybe. But, y’know, we all were.”

He gave a small, lopsided smile, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Didn’t really talk much, though. Just, uh, saw him in the crowd. Like I said—busy night.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s gaze sharpened, narrowing slightly. Across from him, Wrath shifted—not much, just enough to make his presence known. His tail flicked once, the shadows around him giving the faintest twitch, like something restless stirring beneath the surface.

“Are you sure?” Mordecai asked, his voice even, but edged with something quieter—something that pressed in just enough to make space feel smaller.

He leaned forward slightly, not aggressive, not forceful, but deliberate. His stare didn’t waver. He wasn’t just asking. He was waiting.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ulysses nodded, as if reaffirming his own words. “Yeah, just saw him in passing. Didn’t really stop to talk—like I said, everything was moving fast.” His hands fidgeted slightly at his sides, rubbing the hem of his sleeves. “Festival’s like that sometimes, right? One moment you’re somewhere, next thing you know, hours are gone.”

He let out a breath, rolling his shoulders in a way that was meant to look casual but landed somewhere between forced and restless. “Honestly, I didn’t stick around too late myself. After the lantern lighting, I just—” He hesitated for half a second, then pushed forward, like he was settling into his own story. “I went home. Started working on my first pots.”

He gave a half-laugh, a little self-conscious, trying to sell the normalcy of it. “Didn’t even realize how late it got ‘til I looked up and the candles were almost out. Guess I got caught up in it. First time actually making my own, y’know?” He gestured vaguely with his hands. “Didn’t leave after that. Just stayed in, kept working.”

PERCEPTION:
Ulysses just established two key pieces:

1. He saw Janus at the festival. He described this as a passing moment, nothing of importance—just a glance in the crowd.
2. He went home after the lantern lighting and started working on his first pottery. He emphasized that he got caught up in it, lost track of time, and never left after that.

The problem?

Janus had a new piece of pottery in his home—one that was fresh, unfinished in a way that suggested it had been gifted or delivered before his disappearance.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

“That’s interesting,” he mused. “You’re right—big events like this, it’s easy to lose track of people. Time passes fast. But you said you saw Janus in passing… and yet, you also said you went home after the lantern lighting, too caught up in your first pieces to leave again.”

His tone wasn’t accusatory, not yet. Just thoughtful. Observant. But there was weight behind it, a steady pressure woven into his words.

He stepped away, letting his gaze drift idly around the room as he spoke. “I actually went to visit Janus this morning,” he continued. “Had some Hearth-Keeper business I needed his help with, but—” He stopped, turning back to face Ulysses, his voice dropping slightly, more deliberate now.

“He wasn’t there.”

Wrath didn’t move. He remained exactly where he was, head up, watching, unmoving.

“The place felt… off. Strange, even. But I did notice something—a fresh piece of pottery. Still uncured, still new.” Mordecai’s steps were slow as he crossed the space, closing the gap between them, though his tone remained light, almost conversational. “Janus isn’t really the type to take up pottery himself. But a friend of his? A friend with a passion for it?” His gaze flickered, steady now. “I could see that friend wanting to gift him something new.”

Silence stretched for a beat before he continued, his voice measured.

“You said you never left last night.” His words weren’t quite a question, more of a gentle nudge toward the space between what Ulysses had said and what he knew. “But Ephraim was with me, and she mentioned you got home late. After she arrived.”

He let that settle before adding, quieter now, “So—are you sure that’s exactly what happened?” He held Ulysses’ gaze, the weight of it unmistakable.

“Or should I ask Ephraim to assist me too in understanding this story?"

Wrath still hadn’t moved, still hadn’t so much as twitched. His eyes remained locked on Ulysses, patient. Waiting.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ulysses blinked, his smirk faltering just slightly as Mordecai’s words settled in.

Janus wasn’t there.

His posture stiffened, the easy rhythm of his breathing hitching for just a fraction of a second.

His fingers curled slightly.

“That—” His voice caught, forcing him to clear his throat. “That can’t be right.” He shook his head, brows knitting together. “Janus wouldn’t just—he wouldn’t just disappear.” There was a flicker of genuine worry in his voice now, the first crack in the veneer.

But Mordecai wasn’t relenting, and the more he spoke, the more Ulysses could feel it—the way the story was starting to unravel. With Mordecai standing there, laying it all out like pieces on a table, the edges weren’t lining up.

And Ephraim—

His stomach twisted.

“No.” The word came out sharper than intended. His gaze snapped to Mordecai, and for a moment, something raw flashed behind his eyes. “She doesn’t—Ephraim doesn’t need to be involved in this.” His voice had a quiet urgency now, his stance shifting, shoulders tightening. “I don’t—I didn’t—”

He stopped himself, exhaling sharply through his nose.

Mordecai was watching him, waiting. Wrath hadn’t moved, but Ulysses could feel the weight of his stare, pressing into him like a presence all its own.

He swallowed, his voice quieter when he spoke again.

“I didn’t mean to lie,” he said, and this time, it was almost an admission. His hands fidgeted at his sides, restless.

For the first time, he looked away. “I don’t want trouble,” he murmured. “I just—I just need to think.”