[CENTER][img]https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/e5fd7346-eed0-4416-8203-58b0d230afe3/dfejck1-acd63414-d837-481c-99cf-28b8bff5451c.png/v1/fill/w_1280,h_255,strp/helstrom_logo_png___disney__variant_by_bats66_dfejck1-fullview.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7ImhlaWdodCI6Ijw9MjU1IiwicGF0aCI6IlwvZlwvZTVmZDczNDYtZWVkMC00NDE2LTgyMDMtNThiMGQyMzBhZmUzXC9kZmVqY2sxLWFjZDYzNDE0LWQ4MzctNDgxYy05OWNmLTI4YjhiZmY1NDUxYy5wbmciLCJ3aWR0aCI6Ijw9MTI4MCJ9XV0sImF1ZCI6WyJ1cm46c2VydmljZTppbWFnZS5vcGVyYXRpb25zIl19.o_zc3HzkCTNgjCxz6r38rpjFrfuVdzZHwVP-FJPYMN4[/img][/CENTER][indent][sub][COLOR=#B22222]#1.02:[/COLOR] We Kill The Flame[/sub][sup][right][I][COLOR=#B22222][b]Previously:[/b][/COLOR] [I][url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5416587]#1.01[/url][/I][/I][/right][/sup][/indent][sub][hr][/sub][INDENT]
[INDENT]Amelia's shop wasn't hard to find. It stood, dusty and dark, amidst boarded-up units and a couple of run-down bodegas; a few dive bars and a derelict betting shop stood out as the key highlights of an otherwise dead street.

A small brass bell rang dull and muted as Daimon pushed through the door that was more dirt and duct-tape than serviceable wood. He stood amongst a thrall of forgotten knick-knacks and bric-a-brac, feeling claustrophobic between tightly-packed racking shelves and glass cabinets. The low ceiling did little to help the overall oppressive atmosphere of the shop, and Daimon ducked beneath a beaded and obviously-fake mini-chandelier light-fixture - price tag faded and dangling - as he approached the counter. 

"Amelia?" Daimon called out to the empty air. There was a dog-eared book laid open on the counter and half a mug of lukewarm coffee next to it; whoever [i]was[/i] here couldn't be far. A small call-bell stood on the glass to Daimon's left; he pressed it, but instead of the expected soft 'ding' it only elicited a small and quiet [i]crunch[/i] sound that felt distinctly organic. A few cockroaches fled from beneath the bell and disappeared out of sight, undoubtedly into the bosom of thousands of their brethren. Daimon shivered in disgust. He knocked on the countertop instead, three sharp raps echoing through the shop. "Hello?"

There was a rustling from beyond the doorway behind the counter, followed by shuffling footsteps, a few bumps, a significantly louder [i]thump[/i], and then the appearance of an unkempt, grey-haired woman. Her arms were laden with a large stack of books and small boxes that careened this way and that as they towered over her head, threatening to topple completely with every step. Daimon quickly moved around the counter, seizing her first by the shoulders to steady the teetering woman, before taking a sizeable chunk of the stack from her and setting them down on the counter as she did the same. The books for the most part seemed to be leather-bound antiques and collector's editions, while the boxes were non-descript, un-marked, and rattled when he shook them.

"Can I help you, young man?" The woman asked, not even looking at him - she was back to her book, her eyes flicking across the page quickly as she brought the remains of her coffee up to nicotine-stained teeth. Daimon frowned, retrieving the letter he’d received this morning and putting it down over the book she was reading. 
“I’m Daimon Helstrom. I think you want my help.”

The woman sported a frown of her own, eyes flicking over the words on the letter as she read and re-read the contents.
“How unusual.” She finally said, with an apathetic tone that indicated it wasn’t unusual whatsoever, and handed the letter back. Daimon sighed. 
“Are you Amelia?” He asked, the beginnings of irritation bubbling beneath the surface of an otherwise calm demeanour.
“Sure am.” Amelia replied, nose still in her book. 
“And your son is missing?”  
“Sure ain’t.”
“So he’s been found already?”
“Mister, I don’t have any kids.”

Daimon grumbled, realising he should have seen this coming. The letter had already spoken of fleeting and mercurial memory; it should have come as no surprise that she remained burdened by some bizarre affliction.
“If you don’t have any [i]relevant[/i] business sir, I’ll ask you to leave.”

Daimon grumbled again and seized Amelia’s face in one hand. She spluttered in surprise and protested, but Daimon held her strong. Their eyes finally met, and Daimon saw it undeniably: a fog behind the eyes, a muffling cloud that sat within Amelia, quelling this and that, preventing undesirable thoughts and emotions. It was vile magic - but magic all the same. He began to whisper gently, chanting quiet rituals as his free hand spun fingers about Amelia’s head. Slowly, Amelia calmed, her voice growing soft and her protests ceasing; the more Daimon chanted, the deeper she fell into the trance - and then, shadows appeared in the wake of Daimon's tracing fingers, smoke coalescing behind his movements and being drawn into his palm. Soon, there was a visible wreath of a thick, gray, smoke-like substance about Daimon's hand that glimmered in the light, and seemed to pulse and throb. It was the essence of a hex, and without it she was free to think clearly. As Daimon ended the chanting and spun the cloud about itself, tightening it into a compact, thread-like material, a long-absent lucidity returned to Amelia; at which point, she promptly burst into tears.

"Charlie!" She cried, screaming names through heavy sobs that wracked through her body and shook her shoulders. She looked so much smaller now, like she'd withdrawn into herself. Daimon held her by the shoulders as she wept, unsure what to do. She heaved, fat tears pooling in her eyes and pouring down her cheeks; it was several uncomfortable minutes before she began to settle, and even then tears freely flowed ceaselessly, and her words were intermingled with sniffles and spoken in a weary, cracking voice.

"My Charlie...gone, for weeks now - dead, I know it. A mother knows it! In her bones, in her stomach, in her breast. It sits deep in you, deeper than you thought you were, than you thought you had. It's the worst thing there is. All the love poured into your child, come back as pain, as absence. My Charlie's dead, and I have to keep on living."
She collapsed onto a stool that sat in the corner, and Daimon knelt in front of her. 
"And I was numb to it - but you did somethin' didn't you. Took the numbness away. But you let me remember him. Let the grief in."
She paused, taking a deep, ragged breath.
"I can't tell which is worse."

Daimon took her hand, squeezing gently. He was accustomed to grief. 
"I'm sorry. I'm too late to help Charlie - too late to help [i]you[/i] - but I can help others. Charlie will not be the only one torn from his family. And your clarity - it will pass to your husband. You can grieve together."
Amelia attempted a smile, but all it did was put a new face on her woe. 
"And I suppose that's the best I can ask for. I guess you - you can see his room, his things, maybe they'll help. We last- last- last saw him..."

Amelia wept again, tearing her hand from Daimon to bury her face in her palms, saltwater dripping through her fingers. Daimon waited.

"We last saw him on 8th avenue. Walking home from school. From there...it's all hazy again. That fog looms over everything."[/INDENT][/INDENT]