(no subject)
...and she reclined, exhausted, in a rotting easy chair by the fire. A tabby cat watched her from the table, unmoving, its golden eyes reflecting the flicker of the crackling flame. Drills at the back of her head.
Why couldn't she find the answer? She'd poured over mildewed books and tomes that threatened to turn to dust at her finger tips. She'd scoured libraries, read lists of books left in private collections to die, harassed and prodded everyone in her contact list who might know anything about anything she needed. There WAS an answer. DeMille had found it. Yet here she was, ten times the brainpower of that idiot, spent and bleary and allergic to dust, looking into the depths of a spitting flame for clues.
The cat was a statue behind her, glass eyes mocking her with the well of information behind the gold. The cat was eternal; the cat had seen it all. The cat was there when DeMille cracked the riddle and fell through the tear to perfection. The cat knew the answer. Maybe if she opened the cat...
RIP Mr. Banditos, greatest kitty ever.
Why couldn't she find the answer? She'd poured over mildewed books and tomes that threatened to turn to dust at her finger tips. She'd scoured libraries, read lists of books left in private collections to die, harassed and prodded everyone in her contact list who might know anything about anything she needed. There WAS an answer. DeMille had found it. Yet here she was, ten times the brainpower of that idiot, spent and bleary and allergic to dust, looking into the depths of a spitting flame for clues.
The cat was a statue behind her, glass eyes mocking her with the well of information behind the gold. The cat was eternal; the cat had seen it all. The cat was there when DeMille cracked the riddle and fell through the tear to perfection. The cat knew the answer. Maybe if she opened the cat...
RIP Mr. Banditos, greatest kitty ever.