Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Six Sentence Story bloghop.
Hosted by Denise
Ruled by the dictum that all stories shall be comprised of six and only six sentences.
This is a Whitechapel Interlude week, so the following is the next installment. (Tonight we encounter Mother Hedwig Schader who we first met in Chapter 13.)
But that’s not the only interesting thing about this week’s Six. You know how I’m given to get all multimedia on these stories? Hoping for the perfect photo/image and music to enhance the reading pleasure? Sure, its fun.
This week we’re doing something different. There’s no music video, but you’ll see a YouTube frame under the Six. When you click on it you will be seeing a Live video feed from the location of our Six Sentence Story (albeit, 135 years or so more in the future).
For this reason, I suggest you read only when your time is, like 6pm to maybe 1pm local. You want the scene to at least coincide with the time of day in the story. Oh, yeah, the photo of the church here on the post? Look in the background of the live feed. Cool, no?
Hey! You know that live cam shot? I messaged the restaurant, and heard back from Emese Gabor… how cool is that? Stop by the Pilvax Restaurant and Wine Bar (online or in person) tell ’em the Doctrine sent ya.
The week’s prompt word is
FILTER
“Quietly, now… while the snow will dull the sharper sounds, the absence of villagers makes our presence more obvious,” Reverend Mother Hedwig Schader crossed the alley like a ghost ship; for her local guides, drab-and-sackcloth pilotfish doing their best to appear more necessary than they felt, the thought of the small leather pouches of gold coins of a thoroughly unfamiliar mint, left by the Order at the local tavern, made the fear they felt almost worthwhile.
“Count St. Loreto is not a man to surprise, if that were even possible,” the prelate’s voice betrayed a guilty respect, along with something like admiration, ” We’d be wise not to hinder ourselves with the ambition of stealth, I have no doubt he will see us well before we see him.”
As the head of the Bavarian chapter of the Order of Lilith, Mother Schader allowed those around her to believe they were essential to her well-being; a woman of great girth and cheerful demeanor, she placed considerable stock in the advantage that comes with being underestimated, as the group moved towards the shadow of the Black Church’s clock tower.
Ironically, the recent snow imparted a touch of humanity, if not the illusion of accessibility, to the stone-caverns that were the streets and alley of Brașov, which, by local standards was a hard-earned manifestation of a modern city, buried in the low mountains of south eastern Transylvania.
In the distance, the light from lanterns hung on either side of the entrance to the church was filtered by the snow that fell reluctantly to the hard ground, deprived of the quality that tempted all but the coldest of people to see beauty, rather than the leaching of warmth and, eventually, life itself; Mother Schader felt the presence of a man before seeing him and tilted her head in curiosity.
“Good evening Frau Schader,” the voice, like the shadows that cloaked the man, was as deep as only the complete lack of light makes possible and, again in common with shadows, defied definition of intention on the part of the man as he continued, “Welcome to my city, how may I be of help to the Daughters of Lilith?”