Chapter 4 - The Collector.

   Scents like that of leather, wood smoke and the steadily burning candle of jasmine permeated the air in a much—appreciated torrent of tranquillizing calmness.

   The workings of fine craftsmanship accompanied by dust wedged between the sturdy built-in shelves were stacked meticulously in towers of bound ledgers, parchments and manuscripts illuminating texts centuries old.

   Cotswold stone minced with only silver instead of cobblestones lined the inner walls of the Collector's workroom.

   My breathing was finally levelled and want for spewing up matter had also subsided.

   Always there was something altogether appealingly refreshing about the Collector's candour even though he hadn't once looked upon me since my stumbling entry into his workroom.

   He was sitting; unconcerned and drenched in black velvet robes behind his walnut Edwardian escritoire with a quill: dipped in ink and fingers lightly wrapped around its cinnamon spine bark.

   Stroking up and down; left and then right, languidly his hand kept moving, before positioning back to repeat the same steps. Similar to that of a painter, only not with brush to canvas, but quill to vellum, writing away to his leisure.

   Situated, all but 3ft from his person was the lifeless body of a rodent: skinned and without a tail.

   Someone (one of the Command Warriors I assumed) had dared to leave it, dangling from a string knotted tightly around its bloodied neck and onto the latch of the Collector's door; desecrating it. Its eyes had been removed, leaving behind two sunken black holes and its body: lay twisted from out of its natural shape—giving way to the tell-tale signs of a painfully excruciating death.

   My skin still prickled in a cold chill with the remembrance of knowing where that rodent's tail had been...and of where it could've ended up in.

   A reminder—once again they thought mandatory. Submit, concede, accept defeat, or, want for a much better wording: kneel; keep my head down, and eyes situated on the ground.

   However, it wasn't of much importance that they'd tampered with my morning's meal that had my mind burning ablaze with curiosity. No. It was because they'd stepped out of character; taking their game with me beyond a level that was of the norm.

   They'd unleashed Lycan Wolfskins; knowing full well that it is strictly forbidden in the tombs unless given reason to by the Wolfskin himself.

   But it doesn't end just there. Law dictates them un-allowed within inches of the Collector's workroom, and yet somehow—somehow the rodent lies dead, without tail...in front of me.

   Were these perhaps the beginning stages of what I presumed to be? And if so, was it to be in my favour or against me if and when that time does come?

   It was then that I'd noticed his rich brown eyes regarding my movements with unabashed disdain. Reclined into his chair, hands folded neatly against his chest on pristine robes and countenance: not quite woebegone as the last time I'd seen him.

   What was it about this man—bah! The gall of me in nearly contradicting my boorish claims and yet—needing to be within his presence and the confinements of his workroom was remedying. Almost like an invisible magnetic pull, one—that kept luring me into seeking them sanction.

   Maybe it was because I'd find it reminiscent of home; of a drab down murky brown cottage, way deep into the valley of Hollow's Bay. Or, maybe it was reminiscent of an ageing old woman, flaunting white hair with streaks of grey filtering through and hawk-like eyes...Either way, it should be blasphemous to find solace within the very things that I despise most.

   "It's terribly remiss of me to continue with ignoring you, so—if you please...an explanation of some sorts should be supplied," the Collector began tautly. His voice, though low and gravelly was still too loud in the almost too silent workroom. "What have you done this time to warrant such treatment; resulting in them defiling what is permitted?"

   I glared at him in disbelief. For not wanting to conceal the sheening anger swirling within my eyes his question had reduced me into astonished silence.

   Several times my mouth worked before words were able to tumble out. "Oh, well, apart from the usual intervening of the atrocious act such as rape, and the fact that I supposedly have a pretty 'likkle' kitty...None that I can say of, mine sir." It's supplied to him with contempt, before deciding that it was probably best to stalk around the workroom than to remain seated.

   "Ah, yes. Such debauchery is to be expected child," said the Collector. "That would be considered atrocious...if it were not a part of tradition. You've been told so countless times. I'd expected by now that you would have folded?"

   "Tradition, tradition, tradition," my voice descended into something of a mutter. Shaking my head I spin round to face him. "Why is it that I am subjected to hearing time and again what I do not wish to hear? My patience is waning and one should be stoned for speaking such a word in the same line as rape."

   "And one trying to change something that is not within their power is foolhardy," came his cutting reply.

   "I thought to do something good," I said. "At least to me, I thought I was."

   "Do you know what thought made many a man do? Sensibly impeccable ones too?" he commented aridly.

   "Oh," I said, placing my hand onto my chest.  "You wound me so. Are you sure that we," motioning with both index and middle finger between the two of us, my smile is serene, "aren't the ones that are matched, Collector? For it would seem that I have more chats with you than I do...him. Now, doesn't that serve to be of some interest to you?"

   My reward for such a blatant attempt at being a tease was a raised eyebrow. Which, of course was much expected from someone so seasoned. He knew quite clearly that I was only toying with him. Wanting to rumple his furs a bit whilst testing his tolerance. Yet, I am seldom given the reaction that one would come to expect from such tactics. Again, he's seasoned...very well-seasoned and nevertheless—I'm harmless.

   "Indeed, you are a child. This is hardly the time for jesting and then you question why it is that you are inclined to receiving similar methods of treatment from them." The Collector remarked brusquely.

   "Well, aren't you a killjoy," I sighed, feeling beleaguered. Meanwhile, my eyes trailed the lines of loosely wove spider webs. Cut like engravings, they were lathered between the crevices in the wall and deep grooves of shelving.

   The smell of leather became more significant here. Intoxicating as the hide of the animal kept saturating its aroma into the air to filter up through my nose...That animal was a strong one. And the crafter of these ledgers knew how to appreciate its strength with the right blend of colouring; coating them all in hues of deep browns and reds.

   As for the book casing: basic...and old. Something that I've always found worth admiring had lacked for nothing in character with its exposed raw edges.

   Passing my fingers along the sheets of well-worn vellum and neat, handwritten lines, something leaning unto the uncanny side catches my eye. There's a reason as to why he's known as the Collector. Or for some: a keeper of the books. It's because he collects...everything. Nothing is too small for him to find trivial. And from what he's told me, in order to help with the preserving of their longevity, every single bit of information is viable.

   Be it a name: human or Lycan Wolfskin. Their origins: time of birth and the clan village they hail from. Height. Weight...those subjected to diseases. To being matched. Along with the annual dates of the takings. And if they've passed on? One can certainly find their death whether untimely or not—marked and then stored onto these shelves. So in other words, living or not, every single thing that has ever stepped foot within these tombs, the Collector has collected...One script is never enough.

   The space still left unoccupied gathers with the most dust as no match has yet to produce an heir. Never are there stacks set aside for offspring. A match either loses it half term, it's born without breath, or—it's born mid-changed: half-human, half Lycan Wolfskin. A disturbing combination. And when that occurs, the body is then thrown into the strains; to feed the desires of those that dwell further down below. With their deaths—being the only thing left behind that's worth collecting.

   "I cannot explain why but—it is different with you." It's said with such shocking clarity that the admission has me cringing.

   "How so?" he prompted, curiosity singeing his voice. "Am I not to be considered like them, then?" The sound of a chair skating across the floor, followed by echoing footsteps announced the Collector's approach. "What was it that you had howled out to the world not long ago? Oh yes...

   "Savages...

   "Filthy...

   "Disgustingly rotten...

   "Sick and twisted," he intoned.

   "I believe that there was more to it however, I find it rather taxing on the mouth to continue." Eyes widening slightly, my muscles tensing and stiffening involuntarily...Of course; how could I forget such tacit hearing. Being probably one of their best assets to rely on I wonder...just how much they all decided was worth necessary to hear? 

   It's question after question left unanswered as the Collector starts firing away.

   "What gave you validation in classifying me differently when a slice from silver to the wrists would have Lycan Wolfskin unleashing? You have deduced from your time spent with me that I am supposedly no savage, but child, let me efface that ridiculous notion from your mind and inform you that I am probably the most dangerous of them all," he stated, whilst reaching overhead to stack more bound ledgers onto the shelf.

   "But rest assured, dear child...You are completely safe from me...for now."

   "What are the first?" I asked.

   "Have you collected all of them as yet?" Instead of answering my question, he dissuaded it with a question of his own.

   Tilting my head lightly to the side, I feigned ignorance. "I haven't the slightest of notions as to what you speak of."

   His look was sharp—reproachful...quickly he identified truth from lie. You would think that I was talking to that other Wolfskin instead.

   "I've collected something, although I have yet to see how that meets any of your concern," I responded, returning my back to him so that I may peer at the ledger and its contents once more.

   "Everything dear is of my concern; especially when something reeks of it." I can feel his eyes on me, surveying my movements...waiting for me to stumble. "You should tell him you know? About whatever it is you seek. And maybe, just maybe...you'll get the leniency that you are craving so desperately for."

   "I have nothing to say to anyone, especially him. And it's not leniency I crave...but freedom."

   "Freedom, " his tone is jarring as the word is spat out. "There is no such thing as absolute freedom, child. Not even for us. Rid that word from out of your mind before leaving this workroom."

   "Is that an order?" I swing round to look at him.

   "It is whatever you make of it to be."

   "You have yet to answer my question. Wha—,"

   "Why did you venture out that day into the forest?" The Collector asked, his tone of one outwardly intrigued. "Do you know that you are a rather peculiar sort of specimen, child? You run, despite knowing that it's futile and then when you are caught...you feign the victim. One minute you are indignant, damning my kind to hell and then the next..." he flung his hands about as though for loss of words. "Whatever this is...I do not like it. It rubs against my skins like that of silver to a badly burnt flesh; bringing about an agitation that's longing to be sated. Lane was right. And usually, he is. Whatever game you are playing, start preparing yourself for the outcome. You never know, it may well differ from the one you first expected."

   "I run and yet—which of the two of us continues to supply the other with escape routes!" I snapped. The anger before from his previous words starts resurfacing, and not the least bit disturbed by my outburst the Collector resumes with his writing.

   "Mayhap, I do so for the distraction. In other words then: entertainment. Now and then I do long for some with being cooped up in here." He almost sounds pained—saddened by his choice of living. And he just about nearly accomplished in making me believe him had it not have been for the violent shaking of his shoulders.

   "You keep deflecting my question," I said more sternly, before walking over to his escritoire and placing the open ledger on. Tapping the page again, "what are the first?"

   "Persistent, are we? Well then, let me ask this...Who...are you?" The Collector countered.

   "This is not about me."

   "Isn't it?" With veiled attention, I'm rewarded another raised eyebrow. Like rich soil, yet still able to uphold a certain sharpness and cut hard like glittery diamonds, the Collector's eyes were daring me to contradict him.

   "Are you going to answer my question or continue with deflecting?"

   "Are you going to answer mines?"

   "I asked you first."

   "Oh, don't be ridiculous, child!" The quill is tossed next to the forgotten rodent as arms are neatly folded once again on pristine robes. "Everything about your behaviour in this moment is unbecoming! You wish to continue with denying the truth, then so be it. I'll give you that much." Rising fluidly, the feeling of a roughened chapped hand is then hooked into my elbow, guiding me towards the door.

   "But I do know that you are collecting something, which is why I thought to inform you of it. And at the moment, I am uncertain as to what exactly it is, however; my sixth sense has never wanted for leading me astray. Kindly refrain from even thinking that your steps were left unnoticed! And if I am able to notice, then others will too."

   Like a well-misbehaved child my head is bowed, shoulders drooped and lips: pouting into annoyance at the turn of events from this visit with the Collector.

   "Oh, and dear," a sardonic amusement takes hold of that intent dark gaze, "a bit of advice if I may lend?" I nod for him to continue, despite knowing that he would've given a response or not. "Voices down here tend to travel far more easily than they do up there," he pointed to the overground. "A whisper alone isn't just a whisper. You should do well to remember that."

   Prying my left hand open, the Collector then placed the dead rodent within my palm before opening his door and ushering me out of his workroom.

So apologies to everyone for the late update because this one is very much overdue. With being sick and the holidays and broken lappie yeah....it's been a roller coaster hehe. So, with that being said I hope you all enjoy the chappie and side note: I may very well edit some parts.

All in all.. HAPPY NEW YEARS TO ALL!!!! And chappies would be coming much more regularly in the new year coming God's spare!!!