Chapter Text
Stumbling through the door Hob almost lost his footing as Henry pushed past him, even more eager to get inside and sit down. Hob could understand- he too felt as if his feet were about to fall off if he walked one more step.
But it was how it was, given that their little troop had lost most of their horses in a skirmish with some city guards a few weeks back, and the two animals that had made it were carrying most of the luggage.
Bastard guards!
Mercenaries had been good enough to fight and die in Edward III's war for France's throne as common soldiers. But once his grandson was in charge and wanted to make peace, suddenly they were an eyesore, good for nothing, and had better never come back if they knew what was good for them.
And after everything they had done, all the sacrifices they had made and all the comrades lost, it was only natural Hob's friends had taken offense to being told to leave, leading to a fight that had cost them one of their own. But they had emerged victorious, mere city guards chanceless against trained soldiers, falling easily to their blades.
They had still high-tailed it out of there before backup could arrive and find the bloody mess. And with the city behind them they had to cross some distance to get somewhere their services could make them some coins. But times were rough, people were bled to death by taxes and desperate, some found unfortunate ends while their belongings stayed behind. It meant it was only a question of time before Hob’s group would find themselves some new companions for the road.
Collapsing down on the bench, Hob let out a groan at finally getting the weight of his feet. They had gotten lucky grabbing the last free table big enough to accommodate them all, the place being filled with a rowdy crowd already. Mostly ex-soldiers like them, people that had seen too much and unable to return to a quiet life of farming. With the disbandment of the army, countless bands of them now roamed the country without a clear direction, picking up coins to drink their worries away.
Speaking of drinking, the tavern maid had finally made it past two men heatedly debating with each other about who was the better shot with a longbow. Hob would trust neither at the moment as they seemed too drunk to even get to their feet.
"What can I get you?" She didn't smile but she also didn't look at their unkempt appearance with disgust, like so many others did. People like them were trouble, but also the only steady income an out-of-the-way tavern like this had. People could put up with a lot for some gold.
"A round for the table." Henry said eagerly, clearly needing something to numb the pain. One of the guards had been lucky, getting in a hit on him. Not enough to kill him, but also not light enough to properly heal without a competent healer, which they neither knew where to find nor had the coins to hire. So for now he dragged himself along, drinking like a hole to distract from the pain, but Hob knew it was only a matter of time before he would be gone as well.
It wasn't sad. Hob had long stopped grieving all the companions he had lost - years had turned him numb. It was just life, like the sun rising every morning, the ones you cared about died. Which was why they had not been especially close, comrades true, trusting each other with their life, but not much else. Just like when raising his shield against a strike, Hob had started guarding his heart.
When their ale arrived, Hob took a sniff and scrunched up his nose.
"Oh, stop being all prickly, as if it isn't good enough for the likes of you.” Marten, one of Hob’s friends said. “This is actually quite decent given the price."
Hob’s weird habits when drinking were well-known so the moment the ale arrived his companion was ready to tease him.
He took a sip, unable to explain that his distaste for the alcohol didn't come from its quality but from the hop. It wasn't bad per se, but Hob never forgot the taste of gruit, the herbal taste of myrtle and rosemary, before hop had spread all over the country, and had replaced the taste he was so used to - being cheaper than herbs as it was.
It wouldn’t be the last time circumstances forced Hob to let go of a familiar taste and soon he would adapt. But for now he missed the herbal notes, finding the hop dull and unpleasant.
“You whoreson!” A scream behind them rang out as the brewing argument over archery skill exploded into violence. Fists flew, hitting bystanders, spilling ale, drawing in more people as the number of participants grew, pushing it closer to an all-out tavern brawl.
The ones not involved yet grew uneasy, pushing to get away from the fight that ignited other sparks of conflict. They knew that a simple fight like this could easily end their life, one wrong hit, a fall and it was over, your life gone in an instant. Not in a fight with gold promised to line your pockets at the end, but in a meaningless scramble in a dirty tavern.
Hob took another sip and watched in detachment, wondering vaguely if the fight would spread to them.
A body dropped- dead, maybe not- and just as suddenly as the whole thing had started it was over, people returning to their chairs, conversation picking back up as the limp body was dragged to the door - to be disposed of or to sleep off the alcohol next to the horses.
"Poor sod. Reckon he's still alive?" Marten asked from across the table.
"Wanna bet on it?" Laughter erupted around the table as there were indeed a few placing down some coins for the wager.
"What about you, Hob. Want to try your luck as well?"
"Who cares. Look, I've seen death. I lost half my village to the Black Death. I fought under Buckingham in Burgundy. It's not like I don't know what death is. Death is... stupid." Okay, so maybe starting on alcohol after a long march under the sun that had left all their throats parched, without any food in his stomach, hadn't been that good of an idea. But his comrades were at least as tipsy as he was, laughed even louder at his words.
Henry next to him threw his arm around his shoulder and bellowed in his ear. "You're a fool, Hob!"
Hob just waved him off, taking another swing from his tankard. "Nobody has to die. The only reason people die is... is 'cause everyone does it. You all just go along with it. But not me. I've made up my mind. I'm not going to die."
More laughter at his words, none of them taking him seriously. Because it couldn't be that easy. No, if it was so simple everyone would do it. Or well, not do it.
No, if someone spoke of immorality it was always this big quest, this grand gesture, this reward for something impossible to achieve by a mere human. Something you could long for, but that would never happen.
"Hob, death comes for every man." Still hanging half off him, his friend playfully shook Hob.
"You don't know that. I might get lucky. There's always a first time. There's so much to do, so many things to see. Women to swive. Ale to drink. People to drink with." Because how would you know you were immortal until the moment when you were dying, falling in battle or old age ripping away your senses? It wasn't as if someone just went up to you and said Congratulations, you are now immortal. It couldn’t be that simple, right?
Suddenly a dark shadow fell over the table making Hob look up, ready to order another drink - and then saw the most beautiful man Hob had ever seen.
Tall, slim, skin so pale it was almost white, hair an impossible black. His features were sharp and defined, more beautiful than any portrait Hob had ever laid eyes on - although given his life he had not seen that many apart from the ones in the church depicting the Holy Mother and Jesus, who, by word of the church, weren't meant to be depicted to be good looking anyways.
But his stunning features were the dark eyes that seemed to look right into Hob's soul, making him shiver in the late summer.
The man didn't belong here, was way too regal precious for a simple tavern like this. Even at the most extravagant noble banquet he would still outshine everyone.
What a truly beautiful day to be alive.
The only thing that could have made it even better was if the stranger had deemed to smile at him instead of the cold emotionless stare he was currently giving him.
"Did I hear you say you have no intention of ever dying?"
Hah, what a moment to make a fool of himself, and say something others could find strange. Still, Hob put on his best winning smile as he answered. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, that's right."
"Then you must tell me what it is like. Let us meet here again, Robert Gadling, in this tavern of the White Horse, in a hundred years."
Hob could only stare at this declaration because- was the stranger playing along with his joke? Or was it-
And Hob's friends ruined it by barking with laughter. "Yeah, sure, a hundred years- and I'm Pope Urban!"
Annoyed, Hob pushed Henry off his shoulders, focusing completely on the stranger, hoping his crude companions had not made him lose interest in Hob. "Don't mind them. A hundred years' time, on this day? I will see you in the year of our Lord 1489, then."
A heavy nod and the stranger walked away.
"Who was that, then, Hobsie?"
"Haven't a clue. But tell you what, I'll ask him in a hundred years' time."
Hob said it easily, knowing very well that it was still unlikely both of them would still be alive in a hundred years time, especially with war and sickness ready to throw the land back into chaos any moment. Still, he was intrigued so he would be back here in a century, waiting, ready to be disappointed once more.
Because in all his long life there had never been someone like him, that seemed untouched by time, that just continued living without a reason or rhyme as to why. He had hoped and prayed and yearned, met people who claimed to be immortal and never were, travelled and travelled and travelled- but it had always been in vain.
So, yes, he doubted the stranger would really be there and it was once more just a waste of time to hope differently.
But what did an immortal have if not time?
No, the actual hardest part of the whole affair would be remembering that he had to be here. But it was just a hundred years, really, that was doable. Almost easy compared to all the other years before that had faded in such obscurity he couldn't even recall as to why he was this way. What had happened to prolong his life to such an extent. If there truly had been an epic quest he fulfilled, or if it had just been stupid luck.
His first memory - one that had true impact and wasn't just a distant impression of swirling colors and emotions, was far away from the Kingdom of England, across the sea. When he also was just a common man living his life, his only care the food on his table.
And it wasn’t until he’d been living in Holy City - that had not been called that at the time - for years when there suddenly came the order for every man to return to their hometown to be counted, that he realized that… he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember. He had panicked, fear gripping his chest as he couldn't remember where he had been born, had not the slightest memory of a childhood in his mind, no memory of his parents or siblings or any family. He had lived so long already it all had faded without him noticing.
So, without a better idea of what to do, he had stayed where he was, holding his breath as the lord’s men walked from door to door in Jerusalem, noting down the number of inhabitants in each building. Hob expected every moment for someone to point at him and call him out, saying he didn't belong there.
It hadn't happened. They had taken one bored look at him, made the entry in their book and moved on, instantly forgetting about the simple craftsman.
But Hob hadn't forgotten - making it the event marking his existence that he recalled over and over again, so he would never forget.
It had become easier when christians restructured the calendar and gave the date- or Hob’s estimate of it, at least - so much value that it was mentioned every year during the mass.
Not that Hob was a believer. It was hard to care about heaven and hell and redemption, when you had seen multiple religions rise and fall, and despite all your sins you were still walking this earth. He still went to church, because it was expected of him, and he would rather not draw unnecessary attention to himself if he didn’t have to.
After all, even if he couldn’t die, being stabbed still hurt, and he had found out that that was the most common reaction he received when he revealed his secret. People stabbed him and were utterly surprised when he did in fact, not die. As if he had not told them that. A mere five minutes ago.
~*~
A hundred years - such a long time, more than a lifetime for most - was suddenly gone without notice. Hob had spent most of it doing what he was used to, a craft he had long since honed during war after war as humanity kept trying to kill each other for their own greed. Being a soldier, killing for those who paid him the shiniest coin. And once the war had died down, no more men left to send to the frontline to die in the place of the rich, Hob had turned to banditry. But it was only a matter of time before people forgot the brutality, and the orphans grew up enough to start another war, chasing glory once more.
But things had changed lately, giving more options to a man whose only talent so far had been to murder. You didn’t have to be a boy anymore, going into apprenticeship at a young age, or follow a family trade, leaving nothing but farmwork to the rest. No, even a grown man could join a new venture and make enough coins to survive.
And Hob weary of all the death had taken the change eagerly, going into the brand new profession called printing, thanks to his ability to read, a rare trade in commoners. Where once every piece of writing had to be copied slowly by hand by highly sought‑after scholars, a single person could now set up the printing plates once and leave the work of producing multiple copies to far cheaper laborers while moving on to prepare the next page.
It was surprisingly hard work for a profession that was mostly done indoors while sitting down. Still, every evening when leaving the workshop Hob felt exhausted. But it was also pretty rewarding to see something he had helped create out in the world, spreading knowledge to people or even just giving them the option to learn to read.
But despite being so busy, he had not forgotten the promise he had made with the beautiful stranger a hundred years ago. He doubted there would come anything of it besides some daydrinking, but since it would plague him for the next hundred years if he didn't go, he asked the man in charge to be allowed to take the day off, in exchange for reduced pay at the end of the week.
The tavern had changed - furniture tended not to survive long in such places, used more often than not as an improved weapon - and was now painted over brown and gold. Hob liked the changes. It seemed to reflect his own inclination to a quieter lifestyle.
To his surprise, as he searched for a place to sit, he spotted a figure dressed in all black in one of the booths.
No. It couldn’t be. They… looked familiar and for a moment he entertained the thought that the stranger had passed on the tale to his children and their children, and maybe one curious descendant had shown up today.
But then their eyes met, and they were the exact same outlandish blue as back then - and Hob knew his stranger had survived the test of time as well, and was really here to meet him.
He still looked as stunning as the last time they saw each other.
Hob felt like he was in a daze as he sat across the man, drinking in every detail. “How did you know... that I'd still be here?” Because that was the biggest question. In a room filled with people, how had this stranger known that it was Hob that shared his inability to age and die?How had he known Hob would really be able to meet him here after a hundred years?
Was it an ability? A smell Hob was giving off? And how could Hob do the same? How many others like him had Hob met but never known about?
Which also led him to the question. Who was this stranger? “Who are you? A wizard? A... a saint? A demon? Have I made a bargain with the devil?” The last was said as a joke as he doubted this to be true - he would have never forgotten someone so handsome no matter how much time passed since gaining immortality. But maybe if he learned how this stranger got his immortality he could draw a conclusion on how he himself had managed it.
“No.” The stranger didn’t seem to share Hob's enthusiasm for the whole situation. Although, if he could tell someone's true age at first glance Hob was properly far from the first immortal he had met.
“Then why aren't we dead long since? Is this some kind of game?” Hob was not giving up yet.
But the stranger was not making it easy: “No game.”
“Then why? Who are you? Why are you here?”
“I'm here because I'm interested.”
“In me?” It came out more like a squawk but one had to forgive Hob. Even if they were the only two immortals in the world, the man was someone Hob could never hope to stand beside, there was no reason for the man to spend any time with him.
“In your experience.” … Well, it would have been too perfect if the beautiful stranger actually had an interest in Hob. But,even if it was not a personal interest, Hob at least still got to spend some time with him.
“What do I have to do?” He doubted there was something he could experience that the other couldn’t do just fine on his own.
“Nothing. You live your life as you choose. Then on this day, every hundred years, we will meet.” Oh! Like every, every hundred years? This was not a one-time thing? He started to grin. Hob really would get to see this guy every hundred years? Like a standing arrangement?
“Because you wanna know what it's like. All right. I'll tell you what it's like. It's fսcking brilliant. It's all-changing, magnificent, fantastic.”
“In what way?” For the first time since they had met a hundred years ago the man looked alive, almost eager. And Hob promptly fucked it up by babbling out the first thing that came to his mind which in this case was his latest obsession.
“Um... Chimneys, for one! Not having your eyes watering all the time from the smoke.” Realising how foolish that sounded as soon as it was out of his mouth, he quickly moved to the next topic. Shit, he should have rather taken a breath to actually think about what he wanted to say. “And now we have these little cloth pieces for your nose. In the old days, we just used our sleeves.”
Way to sound unsophisticated. He bet someone looking so stunning never used his sleeve to rub away snot.
As he continued to fumble he was lucky when the beautiful guy threw him an olive branch asking about Hob specifically, “But what have you been doing for the last hundred years?”
“Um... Same as before. Soldiering, mainly. A little banditry here and there if I couldn't find a war.” It wasn’t that Hob wasn’t proud of it, because he for sure could speak highly of his skills with a blade and bow, but rather that he doubted the man would see any value in it. He had to be a noble at the very least, and nobles didn’t care much for their footsoldiers. “Uh, but now, I've started a new trade. It's called printing. Don't need to be a guild member, not yet. There will never be a real demand for it, and it's hard work, but it beats the hell out of rotting maggots in the ground, eh?” he tried to end with a joke.
“So you still want to live?” He huffed a laugh. What a question. Of course Hob still wanted to live. And even if not, it wasn’t like he knew a way to stop living. Not that he would consider it if he did, not anymore. Not when he had a meeting arranged with this man in a hundred years that he had to show up to.
“Oh, yes.”
“A hundred years, then?” Hob nodded eagerly at that.
“Oh, yes.” And before he could say any more the man had stood up with grace and walked away leaving Hob behind.
“You never told me who you are!” He shouted at the man’s retreating back, but by the time he pushed his chair back, his stranger was already gone.
~*~
Another hundred years had passed. And what a time it had been! Hob had made quite a man out of himself. To his surprise, the printing business had been more lucrative than he thought, giving him the money to go into trading. And from there things really had taken off. It had taken a few generations, mostly him fucking off to an extended vacation and returning to speak of the tragic death of his father, but he had gotten rich.
Rich enough to become a proper landowner. And then even enough to fill the crown's pockets and become Sir Robert Gadlen. A proper noble, someone who could stand in front of his stranger as an equal and speak with pride, and enough education at last to match the wits of the stranger, whose name he was still to learn.
Which was also why Hob had dressed in his finest garments and had prepared a true feast to impress him. Because Hob was now using his immortality for something, and was not only living constantly through his days, simply killing to eat like an animal.
It was a good choice, as when the man arrived he had grown even more beautiful than the last time. The attraction Hob had felt since their first meeting was still there. But by now he had accepted that it would never be more than that, and that they lived different lives. Time made the heart grow fonder, but a hundred years was perhaps still a bit too much in that regard.
So even if he still felt attraction he was rather happy with his wife and son. But even if he was loyal to them, he could still spend a night preening and showing off to the man he fancied, knowing nothing would come out of it.
Or at least he thought so, but the stranger just exchanged a few distracted words before abruptly leaving, seeking out some unfortunate poet at the bar. And for a moment Hob thought that this Will Shaxberd was just like them, that the stranger had once more unearthed another immortal and that they would have another person in their circle. But, irritatingly, as he begrudgingly followed the guy's pretty successful career, Shaxberd simply went up and died in his fifties.
It wasn’t the catalyst for his downfall, but being shunned for a mortal didn’t help the spiral the death of his wife and son and the witchhunt had sent him into. He could have pulled himself out at any time - there was always shady business for people with his skills, even if it was just robbery, and despite his opulent living situation the past years, his bloodlust was still hidden under the surface like an unsharpened knife.
It was his mind that dragged him down.
It made him almost not go to the meeting - he considered letting the stranger believe he had found his end and cut whatever weird connection they had. It would be better than the shame he felt in his dreadbeat clothes. But in the end, he still went, telling himself that immortality gave them too many chances to run into each other again, and then things would be even more awkward.
To his surprise, the stranger, although he still didn’t share his name, gave Hob the power to pull himself out of the dark mindset and start over again.
So now they were friends - at least Hob thought so. After all they met up regularly, spoke at length and enjoyed each other's company and had each other's back, even if Hob’s heroic attempt at a rescue had been unnecessary. That he had let himself go after their last meeting and wasn’t much help was irrelevant - the intent was there.
Regardless, Hob now had a new dedication to staying in fighting shape no matter what and the conviction that he had a very good friend, even if not a name to put with him.
His opinion was clearly not shared when he made the mistake of bringing it up in an otherwise very nice conversation: “I think I know why we still meet here, century after century. It's not because you want to see whether or not I'm ready to seek death. I don't think I'll ever seek death. By now, you know that about me. So, I think you're here for something else.” Because even if the other had always been curious if Hob still wanted to live, not that there was much of a choice, Hob would never get tired of this life. No matter how many years passed.
“And what might that be?”
And here Hob made his fatal error, speaking to the stranger like someone he was close with: “Friendship. I think you're lonely.”
“You dare…” The stranger bristled like a disgruntled cat.
“No, look, I'm not saying-” Hob started to backpaddle, not wanting to ruin the short few hours he got to spend with him to be horribly tinted by a fight. He should have been content with what he had, instead of trying to get an admission of friendship and maybe reduce the time he had to wait between each meeting.
“You... dare suggest one such as I might need your companionship.”
Here Hob should have been smart, denied it. But the gap between commoners and nobles had disappeared, there was no longer the inherited respect that there once was. Hob was no longer intimidated by the others' looks, his proper speech and not even his powers with sand that he was still slightly jealous of. So he answered the truth,“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Then I shall take my leave of you and prove you wrong.” And like a dramatic diva, his stranger stood up, left his coat and cloak behind and stormed off.
Hob ran after him, unwilling to let him get in the last word, shouting, “I'll tell you what, I'll be here in 100 years' time. If you're here then too, it'll be because we're friends. No other reason, right?”
Only the rain answered him
“Fսck...”
~*~
The past hundred years have been long. Not because of boredom, there had been so much to do and to see, with humanity developing so fast, cars becoming a thing, and technology just spreading through every aspect of one's life, Hob needed every second to keep up
What had made it so long was the uncertainty nagging inside him. Would his stranger still be there? Or had Hob single handedly destroyed a century old friendship, with the only other immortal he knew.
It was this uncertainty which drove him to the White Horse the moment it opened, getting a table and settling in to wait, unwilling to miss his stranger.
And he waited. And waited and waited some more while the bar grew full around him, people smiling and laughing with their friend, all while he sat there all alone opposite an empty chair.
“Mind if I…” The waitress pointed at the empty chair, clearly trying to make space for every person in the crowded place.
“Uh, I'm actually waiting for someone.” He cringed as he said it, embarrassment tinting his tone.
“Oh.” Her eyes filled with pity. Hob wished his stranger would walk through the door now and prove her wrong, that Hob was not waiting in vain.
His friend didn’t.
Instead time passed and the bar grew empty once more as people made their way home. Hob had to admit that it was unlikely his stranger would appear. He really couldn’t let Hob get the last word in, not showing up to make a point. Hob should tell him how childish that was the next time they saw each other.
Although, suddenly his heart sank. Would he show up again? In a hundred years? Come in as if nothing had happened after proving his point? Or was it truly over?
“Whiskey, please.” Relocating to the bar, Hob needed something to shut up his thoughts.
“You'll have to be more specific. We got a menu now.” This place had truly gotten fancy from the shithole that Hob had drunk in during his mercenary days. Although there was not really much of the original left, beside the name, the place having been remodeled and rebuilt so many times it had nothing in common anymore.
“Oh. What's the oldest you got?” He was feeling nostalgic yearning for something old even if nothing would ever come close to the age of the acquaintanceship he had with his stranger.
“Well, I've got a Glen Grant, old enough to be your father.” Hob could not remember his father or mother. But he still highly doubted that there was any claim to the bartender's words.
Still he couldn't help the chuckle as he imagined the mechanical produced bottle standing in some antic backdrop during the roman empire.
“I'm older than I look,” he said with a wink.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“I think I've been stood up. We had a fight. Last time we were here. It was my fault. I wish I could say I was drunk at the time, but I was just an idiot.”
“I've seen plenty of friends get into fights in pubs. Even more of them laugh about it together later.”
“Maybe in another 100 years.”
“Ah. You'll have to have found a new pub by then. This place has been sold to make room for new flats. The borough council are trying to stop them, but if you've got enough money in this country, you can do whatever you bloody want.” Hob froze at this bad news, not because this place held such a sentimental value, there were some good memories with the stranger, but nothing to truly cry over. No it was that even if his stranger deemed to see him in a hundred years time they might not find each other.
Sure Hob could wait by the new building, even buy one of the flats to share a drink in private, but would his stranger show up? Or would he take the destruction of the White Horse as an indication of their arrangement having run its course.
Seeing his shocked face the barkeeper asked kindly, “Pour you another one? While you wait?”
“Please.” He didn’t say no to this one, or the next, or the one after, not until the bartender softly asked him if he needed a cap. But Hob was fine, he could make his way home on his own. A bit of fresh air would even do him some good, he realised as he stumbled upright.
As he walked home under the stars, that had long since lost their brightness to electric light, it hit him.
If his friend didn’t show up and would have trouble finding him now, Hob simply had to go find him instead.
Before he had never thought about it since it sounded just so rude, to seek the other out when they had an arrangement to meet already set up. But now with the other being a no show and the White Horse in jebrody Hob should be free to look into it.
So he did that very night, his drunken head spinning as he searched digital archives for any mention of his stranger before he passed out on his desk.
The next morning thanked him with a cringe in his neck he had not experienced in centuries ever since the quality of cheap pillows had drastically improved. He also had a hangover coming straight from hell.
Which was why he first stumbled into the kitchen, started the coffee maker before taking a shower, standing under the hot spray until he turned red. Even that was not enough to relax the muscles in his neck which was why he drank his coffee with a hot water bottle pressed to it, scrambling to free up a hand when the eggs needed to be turned.
The whole process of no longer feeling like his head had been run over, an unpleasant affair, took multiple hours, and only after did he notice the mess made on his table.
Drunken him didn’t have very good handwriting. Which made the progress of deciphering what actually was written down way harder than it had to be. Good to know that all the hours practicing his writing to pass as a prober noble only paid off when he was of sound mind.
But even as he figured out the words the content made him question if he had misread them. Magic communities, cults, speaking of immortality, some of the dates set even before their last disastrous meeting.
It was all over the place and didn’t make much sense at all, properly just baseless rumours and fantasy of desperate minds.
But there was a smudged name written in a corner, Burgess, and an address next to it, this one crossed out. So properly a death end. Still Hob was interested mainly because Wynch Cross House was so close to London, with around 50 miles, which meant a round trip could be made in a day and still leave enough time to check the area for some good food.
But not today. Not only because he felt way too sick to drive and his car was still parked by the White Horse - he had to get that at some point. But because showing up at someone's house without a plan or idea who they even were was a recipe for disaster.
So today he lulled in misery waiting for the headache to disappear and the day after he looked into things.
Drunk him was a genius.
Where there was not much about it in recent years shortly after the turn of the century Roderick Burgess and his Order of Ancient Mysteries had been a big name in the occult circles. Mostly for the wrong reasons. Throwing lavish parties, inviting over countless visitors and showing off, made the ‘proper’ occultists sneer at him, while the more mild mannered worried about the cult-like behavior and devoted followers.
That in itself was not too out of the ordinary, there were always some crazy people in every time, but it was Burgess' apparent obsession with death that caught Hobs attention. As were claims that he apparently had held prisoners, although the sources here were very vague about it.
But his stranger had warned him that there were worse fates than death when people asked about their immortality so it wasn’t a far reach that his stranger could have run into Burgess in an unfortunate event. Properly enough that Hob should check it out.
Only after Burgess died, the whole cult had fallen apart, the parties stopped and his son Alex Burgess had become rather recluse, hiding away in the mansion. Which meant it wasn’t as simple as making a few calls, faking interest and sneaking into a party to verify the rumours. No, getting inside, and also getting information about the cult would be extremely difficult.
He could have broken in, searched the building, but with limited time there was a good chance he would miss something, an entry into a diary or some notes, if the young Burgess had not destroyed all of his fathers legacy.
If Hob wanted to have access and even question the inhabitants about past acts in the mansion he would have to be smart. Win their trust, make them want to talk to him.
Which would be difficult. From a few pictures Alex had been quite young during the parties, the cult hosted, maybe in his teens. And that had been in the 1920’s. So he was what now? In his seventies? Not really an age that had a lot in common with someone as young looking as Hob.
Alex didn’t seem to be into the occult like his father, so no luck playing up his very very limited knowledge of that. Hob may be immortal, but that didn’t mean he had interest in the supernatural, beside knowing how to look out for things that could harm him.
In the movies it was always reporters investigating, but frankly Hob doubted real life would go as smoothly as on the big screen and he was more likely to be turned away with curses.
So he was a bit lost when he suddenly struck gold, quite randomly in the Sussex papers he had started to order because of curiosity. An open position for a caretaker. The name for the ad wasn’t familiar but the address was.
He didn’t have medical credentials or know more than basic first aid - no need if you were immortal and your wounds just healed - but he had the muscle to help carry someone and assist with daily tasks.
So he called, politely inquiring about the position and to his luck they already had medical personnel from the hospital check in on the patient. It was more that the person in question needed assistance the maid was unable to give. Which was perfect for Hob, who eagerly set up a meeting, to introduce himself and give his resume.
The man that opened the door was Alex’s ‘friend’ that lived with him and wanted to get some help, as he himself was in his seventies and couldn't care for Alex properly. Apparently Alex had suffered a stroke, and although his mind was still intact he had trouble walking.
And Hob was giving his all, laying on the charm quite thickly, but Paul didn’t seem to be impressed. But Alex would get the final say since he would have to work closely with the caretaker.
Alex who couldn’t be different from his father. Shy, awkward, easily flustered. And quite taken with Hob’s chatter and ability to tell stories.
Hob was in.