The Strange Accounting of a Meeting With the Orphan
One of the leaked portions of the Airtam Papers in 161 PR concerned a strange recollection of a young artist, a Seanachaisian man that had taken up residence in the city of Belarian where he and several other families inhabited one of the many run down buildings in the ward known colloquially as the Sceach. He had been accosted while on his way home from a gallery showing in the uptown sectors, his work having gained some notoriety for its beauty and abstract, uniquely dream-like qualities. The young man's talent was substantial. Airtam's writings on the matter read as follows:
I was contacted by an agent of the The Bechtlarite Intelligence Bureau concerning a potentially damaging and sensitive matter in the city of Belarian where a young, up and coming artist of some note was assaulted outside the Seanachaisian ward known as the Sceach. The attack left him severely injured, a substantial head wound and several broken bones and when he arrived to be cared for by the local Benevolent Order, he had already slipped into a comatose state, and the Benevolents feared the worst. He had been in their care for only a few short weeks, and based upon the nature of their patient culturally, and the location he was assaulted, word was sent out quietly to the The Bechtlarite Intelligence Bureau as a precaution to avoid an incident if the assault proved to be motivated by his origins, Victory remains a black stain on our history we do not need to be repeated after all. It was through this communication that I discovered the event at all. Curious, I travelled to Belarian to see the patient myself, and to assure the Benevolents and the agents sent to watch over the situation that an incident could be avoided if things were handled appropriately. Upon my arrival, I was offered room and board within the Order's facility which I graciously received, and I immediately went to work. My first order of business was damage control. The patient was in competent hands that I trusted to do the best work possible for him so I travelled to the Sceach in search of his family. This was no small undertaking, and I could not help but feel as though the Empire had failed a great many people as I walked through those dark and damp streets. Everywhere I looked, the specter of poverty hovered, grinning at me from alleyways, shop fronts, and in the eyes of the people that lived there, a hodgepodge of Bechtlarite citizens, Ventryte cast offs, exiled Ongommu Tae, and even a sickly Hiversteadian...which shocked me. It was not until I reached the Sceach itself that I even saw one of the Seanachaisians, but I knew them the moment I did. Those poor scarred souls are hard to miss, and their timid nature, especially in a slum such as this, only serves to weigh even heavier upon me. The Sceach itself is a very run down quarter of the city, though if one takes the time to look, there remains a strange beauty to it. The buildings are subtly painted with beautiful designs, plaster work of lovely and intricate bas relief stylings can be seen here and there though the occasional open window or door...there is a marvel hidden within this place that I cannot help but feel I am denied the full privilege of witnessing. I eventually did find the building in which the young artist lived, a tall building that seemed to slouch in one corner with several broken windows made of leaded glass on the facade of its four stories. It likely housed more than twenty people within, several families if it was at full occupancy according to the reports I had read on the state of things here. I waited patiently after announcing myself and my intentions, and the delay that followed before someone responded once again made me feel like an outsider, and an unwanted one at that, but this is a feeling I am no stranger to... Once my intentions were realized, the mother of the boy met me in the street, refusing to let me inside but eager for news about her son. I informed her as to his state and the fair prospects of his recovery. I also assured her that his care was being overseen by myself personally, and that I would let nothing happen to him. She seemed less than relieved by this, but her initial agitation seemed to lessen slightly. I informed her that if she so chose to, the doors of the Benevolent's facility were open to her and her family in the meantime, but I doubt they will show. They are wary of showing their numbers here. Fear seems to be a household tradition. This is yet another stone hung upon my heart...I wonder if things will ever be put right? She thanked me nervously, and begged that I send him her love, to which I agreed, of course, and I told her I would deliver him myself once he roused from the coma if I could. I returned the way I came and began my vigil. The Benevolents of Belarian are well known for their competency, as their location there, so far removed from the interior of the Empire sets a great many challenges at their feet. Within days the swelling had receded, and the boy began looking like he might make a full recovery. The main concern was any lasting damage that might impair his faculties. They kept at their work, and my insistence as well as the presence of the Bureau certainly seemed to spur them on. Another week and the boy began to stir. His eyes fluttered open one night as I sat beside him, writing and he looked around as though confused...understandable all things considered, but there was something odd about it. It was not the usual confusion a patient might be seen to exhibit following a situation such as his. He seemed as though he was looking for someone or something rather than trying to make sense of his surroundings. When his eyes fell on me in the chair by his bed, he smiled. I remember it vividly because of how endearing and real the smile was as it creased the scars along his cheeks, his eyes soft and without fear or concern. I asked him if he needed a physician or if he was in any pain or discomfort, but all he said...and this was terribly odd, was "I've been there before...". Bewildered by this, I gently prodded further, trying to get him to explain what he meant, thinking perhaps this is just some fever dream or delusion, or perhaps even a sign of lasting damage from the head trauma he suffered, but his eyes remained sharp and focused on me, and that gentle smile never faltered. It was...odd. It put me at ease, like a wash of comfort come over me. He drew in a soft breath and slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, taking a drink from the pitcher on the table beside him and then proceeded to tell me the following account. I have penned it here, word for word just as he told it to me. I cannot help but wonder if there is something more to it, as the nature of it seems somehow familiar to me...as if I too have been to the place he described herein. The boy went on to continue his art for a time, returned to his thankful family and the life he nearly lost, but never once did he show concern or worry. His gallery showings continued for several months following these events and then, much to my surprise, he vanished. I could find no details as to what happened or why, and when I attempted to track him down personally, the family was no longer in the building. In fact, there was no longer a building there, just a blank space where it once stood, as if it had never been there at all. Peculiar.
Purpose
Documentation of a strange encounter with a young artist who was injured in an assault. The tale he told upon waking of a place that seemed very familiar and yet, was not.
Document Structure
Publication Status
As part of the leaked Morenthall publications following her death, these writings are generally easy to find.
Type
Leaked Original
Medium
Vellum / Skin
Authoring Date
52nd of Senectus 143 PR
Location
Authors
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