[i]That[/i] hadn’t been what Morgan expected.

Something about Tragellan had felt…strange, in her approach; so much so that she almost hadn’t recognized it. Finely-tuned eavesdropper’s ears managed to completely miss anything the Client or, for that matter, anyone else might have said - Morgan’s mind was elsewhere. Scents, emotions, a heavy psychic presence; for a long, slow moment Tragellan was to Morgan what a fine, sweet Cuban cigar might be to a terminal nicotine addict. She hid her surprised with careful practice, shifting in her seat and reigning in those parts of her that wanted, [i]needed[/i] to leap over the table toward Tragellan and for one blinding second….

Instead she forced herself to fill that information away, pushing the scent, the [i]feeling[/i] of Tragellan away from her mind. Something to ask about when the opportunity arose, doubtless, but not now. Morgan made a considerable effort of will to wrench her attention back to the matter at hand, coming back to herself while Tragellan busied herself with the meeting room’s displays. 

Despite her efforts - or, rather, because of them - the client barely registered on Morgan’s awareness, leaving her almost blank in a way that she never quite got used to. She was upset, of course. Adamant in her belief in her sister’s actions, which interested Morgan. Was she being too insistent? Could her version of the truth be taken as holy writ? Had Madeline placed her sister on some kind of pedestal, she wondered. Something else to watch for, she supposed.

A moment later, and the screen at the far end of the room flickered to life. The photos managed to be both brutal and clinical, and the accompanying narration and interjection made the scene all the more so. Morgan took the information in, let it float in her mind, allowed the pieces of fact and conjecture find their own places to connect. The others spoke, and she let her gaze drift around the room. Sensible suggestions, all of them, and her own thoughts contracted around some of the same questions. In particular, this new group of friends, and the change in Cassandra’s behavior. Her attention sharpened when new sounds flickered into the room, tinny and distant - voicemails.

Morgan cleared her throat, “There are - or there were, I suppose - cults in that part of Maine. Something to do with the climate, perhaps. Long nights, cold winters, short summers. People start to look for answers in dark places.” She leaned forward.

“I remember one, the Lachallan Society, from…well. Some time ago.” She shifted in her seat, “They were…different. Organized, quiet. And their leader was a man with real power, with the kind of personality to start nations and lead wars. A terrible combination.” Morgan watched Madeline, her gaze slightly to one side of meeting he eyes.

“At the time, he called himself William Crease, though I suspect that wasn’t his real name.” Morgan’s eyes focused inward, pulling up an old memory, “It seemed like no one could quite find where he came from, to tell the truth. He had been touched by [i]something[/i], a being not of this world. Something that gave him the power to walk in dreams and steal thoughts and whispered in his mind. Crease almost had an entire town under his sway before he was stopped.” She looked around to the other members of the Group.

“Or, I suppose I should say, before he was [i]discovered[/i]. Crease got sloppy, started moving too quickly.” She drummed her fingers on the table, “People started disappearing, and some of them showed up again, talking about the sky and the breaking of time, or just laughing to themselves. Some of those people disappeared again, others went to sanitariums. He brought [i]attention[/i] to himself.”

“The confrontation was…ugly. On many levels. Churches burned, bodies left in the streets. All quietly swept away before anyone could get too excited about it. And because this campfire story needs an appropriate ending, I should say that Crease was never found.” Morgan looked over at Madeline and Tragellan, “It would be far too neat to assume we’re dealing with the same person. But Crease wasn’t alone. Like I said, people look for answers in dark places in that part of the country.”

“On a more mundane note, there are details about the weapon that intrigue me,” Morgan said. “That particular configuration is unusual to the point that it may be a clue in and of itself. When we get to Portland, I should like to examine it, if that’s at all possible.” She glanced at Tragellan, “You did say to pack a bag, yes? Are travel arrangements made, or shall we inform you when we arrive?”

[hider=I can do privileged information, too!]

Anyone familiar with the Lachallan Society case, information about which is available from the FBI via FOIA request, will know that the case spanned 1932-1941, with the largest amount of activity from 1939-1941. There are few photographs available officially; none show Morgan, though some have clearly been redacted for unclear reasons. Case notes do not deviate strongly from Morgan’s summary. 

If Malone has seen the unexpurgated file, she will know that many case notes are attributed to an “Agent M.B.” A woman who could be Morgan appears in one photograph, in the center of a town square and surrounded by shredded, torn bodies. Behind her are two crumpled men wearing dark suits; they are labeled “Agent C.M.” and “Agent L.S.” on the reverse. Opposite the woman is a man with a narrow spear in his hands and with some kind of sigil glowing on his exposed forearms. The spear has pierced completely through the woman; her jacket is resting on the tip protruding from her back. The photo has captured her in mid-air, as the spear-wielder apparently lifted her off the ground. This photo does not appear at all in FOIA requests.

[/hider]