Abbadon answers the interviewer's question, "Listening through the veil is just something we do. It's not new, but it's never easy. Imagine leaning your head against a cotton web, but the cotton is wet and sticky, icy hot and icy cold. It also somehow makes a sound that feels like moaning whenever it moves, not a crisp static like fibers grabbing each other, but more like the moan of a violin or cello...strings shaking in frustration at being touched.
You see Abaddon tilt his head to the left, distracted by something...
No one has ever accused the Ferrymen of being overtly "fun".
It's not like we don't know have a good time, it's more like we learned how to appreciate the smaller joys in life just as much. I'm sorry, I may not be explaining myself well enough."
He blinks a few times and looks left and right, reminding you of a parent bombarded by yelling children.
A harsh voice, like someone hoarse after a couching fit, whispers between the two of you...'Conductor, Michael says the bright-one returned.'
Though the obvious voice shocks you a little, Abaddon doesn't react visibly, just stirs his tea a bit more before setting it aside. You are once again shocked by the unassuming manor of this lanky middle-aged man. No one would be surprised to hear he was a grave-digger or an undertaker. He wears simple dirty jeans, a well-worn workman's shirt, and a woolen hoodie with the hoodie constantly over his brow. You're pretty sure entropy or fate tries to keep his eyes away from direct contact.
There are rumors that he's an archmage in disguise. While it doesn't seem like his nimbus is active, once anyone speaks to him, the field of calm and patience and the urge to have a well deserved sleep becomes a challenge to disregard. It's the main reason your caucus sent you to research his history. The Mysterium have precious few Legacies, and a time-living founder is rarer still. Like most masters, connecting with them is a rare chance, so you have to ask every question now, before this moment is lost....
"Why didn't you join the Throne?" you ask, shocked by how easy you said it. You see his attention pulled back to the present of the question, as if all the distractions he may have been in were less important.
"Because they're slavers." he says starkly without missing a beat.
"The soul persists regardless of intellect or will." He shifts in his seat and sets his arms on the chair's arms, obviously engaged in this topic of conversation.
"A soul without either becomes an echo. They're stuck in our realm, but as an intangible thing. Ironically they don't stick around long because the other forces of shadow will consume or control them. That or the throne enslaves them. We [the Ferrymen] try to guide them to the far shore...but it's more an effort on our part than theirs. There's not enough of the person there to make it to somewhere else. Most ghosts and wraiths have enough will to make it easier, but it's still a challenge."
The mention of 'somewhere else' peaks your interest and your journalist spirit....
"But aren't your people supposed to be the guides of the dead to somewhere else? If you are ferrying souls, where are you ferrying th...?!"
You are halfway through your statement as Abaddon stops staring into the bottom of his tea-cup. As you finish, he half-smiles and looks conspicuously to his left. He looks down at his dried tea, and begins tapping the spoon on the porcelain edge.
The first few taps are confusing, but the next few begin to make your head spin. For a brief few moments, you can see a transparent figure standing next to him, a formal figure from turn of the century old-west. He has an oversized pocket-watch that he continually looks at, and you realize his eyes are oversized like a surreal cartoon. His cartoonishly tiny lips continue to move, whispering in Abaddon's ear. {Dear reader, I wrote this part in 2017, way before GET OUT.}
Then another figure becomes clear, a woman in an archaic cotton wedding dress. Her face is bloated and purple, the flesh seen outside the dress is swollen and bruised. Her fingertips however have flesh eaten away to tips, and the bone beneath filed to razor sharp point. She sits to Abaddon's side, whispering to him about their coming wedding and how he's the only one for her, while her razor fingertips constantly try to split his arteries on his forearm. Only a flowing silver-blue layer of energy keeps the spirit from opening his arteries. What you previously thought was him reaching to scratch an itch on his back is obviously a reaction to her constant subtle attacks.
His hand then moves to her face as he whispers "sleep/stillness" in a version of Atlantean this is both confusing and clear. Her corpus wavers and fades.
You had just finished saying, "...ferrying souls, where are you ferrying them to?!" when you get this strange sensation of deja vu.
Abaddon places his tea cup on a side table and leans back in his very uncomfortable looking chair. "What do you want to hear?", he says with a gentle smile.
Twenty dead seconds go by as you think...
He chuckles and leans forward, "There's no real answer. If you believe all of existence is relative, then that explains rotes and legacies but not perpetually throughout time. If existence is absolute, then how do we reconcile new legacies or the growth in hedge mages? Vampires, Mummies, and other eternals add even more snags in the threads of our conjecture. I've published a number of thesis on the souls of vampires, by the way. You should read them!" He says the last sentence with the chuckle of a seasoned researcher showing some ego, but you already know his published work throughout the order is the definitive work on the supernal nature of the soul among the undead.
Finally the moment has come where you feel it's the right time to ask the question so many want answered. Your journalist, sensationalist, and curious nature come to the forefront. The words jump out before you can catch them or reconsider. "Are you actually dead?!"
All semblance of emotion slowly drains away from his face. He slowly leans back into his chair, and that added distance gives you a modicum of relief, but you feel this is the calm before the storm.
As a mage you have seen and felt when other mages uncloak their nature. It can be scary or crazy, but gives you a direct insight into their truth. For mages who know how to look, it can make a mage who tried to show off also show their vulnerability.
Suddenly you're being choked. The hand came out of nowhere. You can't breath...you find your arms and hands flailing and scraping against anything, trying to pull this thing from off your throat so you can get air.... you're not sure if Abbadon is still sitting as the world begins to roll.
Your vision quickly becomes blurry.....then fades to dark.....
The light is shocking. It's a bright flash before you are back, floating, like you had just asked Abaddon if he was dead. Except your body is now below you....the room that was empty is now FULL of people....SCARY people. This must be the waiting room of the dead from Beatlejuice crossed with Hellraiser.
In front of you is the image of a sitting grim reaper superimposed on top of a gaunt, haggard naked man seeming to float in a hungry abyss. The reaper shape is enormous, dark, and the edges of it's form seem to keep this internal emptiness at bay. There's no scythe, but a throbbing chord of colors move around the right wrist of the reaper and the man, not tied together but ephemeral echoes of each other.
You realize that the figure isn't moving toward any of the dead around you. It's not pursuing or consuming anyone else. It's skeletal hand points at one of the soul around you and beckons them to approach.
As the soul approaches, the figure shrinks, becoming a humble creature, slightly shorter than the soul's personification. You can see an exchange occur, the shrouded figure talking with the soul of the car salesman. The figure splits in two...one guiding the soul far away...the other continuing it's service to the crowd....
You wake up coughing, your hand instinctively going to your throat. Your eyes send daggers at Abaddon, who is calmly sitting in his chair, breathing calmly with his eyes closed. "What was THAT?!"
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Beware the things you think then say, as they may return someday...