Episode 1.04 – “The Game Changes”
PREVIOUSLY ON THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE MISFITS OF MAYHEM
The Misfits’ world has widened.
Once a family of chaos centered around Jack Mason, Negropolis, Edie, Polly, Ace MacDougal, and Flippers, the circle has become something larger—something pulled into the shadow war surrounding Dr. Moreau, the beast experiments, the Hunters’ Enclave, the Secret Society, and the ancient forces stirring beneath the wrestling world.
Polly Mason has taken the fight directly to Moreau’s legacy, tracking survivors, uncovering files, and chasing the truth behind Feral, Ursa Titania, and the broken lives left behind by Project Metamorphosis.
At the North Pole, Jack Mason’s world has changed as well. He and Edie are now preparing for their wedding, even as Jack’s rage burns over his Universal Title loss to the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Elsewhere, Bigfoot has begun to question whether strength alone is enough to challenge Yeti for the Alpha title of the beasts.
And in the Carpathian Mountains, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and Agent Buckle draw closer to the Circle of the False Light’s hidden monastery—unaware that another player has already moved the board.
SCENE 1 – THE PORTAL GUARDIAN
Yolgrimm’s Cave – The Arctic Tundra – Night
The wind outside Yolgrimm’s cave howls like something wounded.
It sweeps across the frozen tundra in long, mournful waves, dragging sheets of snow over the stone mouth of the cave until the entrance nearly vanishes beneath white fury. No stars shine overhead. No moon cuts through the storm. There is only wind, ice, and the ancient silence of a place older than maps.
Inside, however, the cave is warm.
Torches burn along the walls, their flames steady despite the storm beyond. Rune marks glow faintly in the stone, pulsing with a soft blue light that feels less like magic and more like memory. Pelts line the ground. Ancient bones hang from carved hooks. Massive stone shelves hold trinkets, trophies, old weapons, and relics from forgotten realms.
At the center of the main chamber sits Yolgrimm.
The ancient beast is still as a mountain.
Grey-white fur falls across his huge shoulders. His cracked hands rest atop the arms of his carved stone chair. His eyes, old and deep, watch the cave entrance with the patience of something that has waited through centuries.
Then—
A heavy shape appears in the mouth of the cave.
Bigfoot steps inside.
Snow clings to his dark fur. His huge shoulders are hunched against the cold, but there is something more than weather weighing him down. His eyes stay lowered. His steps, usually thunderous, are hesitant.
Yolgrimm studies him quietly.
Yolgrimm:
You took longer than I expected.
Bigfoot looks up, surprised.
Bigfoot:
You knew I was coming?
Yolgrimm gives the smallest smile.
Yolgrimm:
Your kind does not cross this much ice without purpose. And you, young one, carry doubt louder than footsteps.
Bigfoot exhales.
The sound is heavy. Tired.
He moves closer to the fire but does not sit. For a long moment, he only stares into the flames.
Bigfoot:
I needed advice.
Yolgrimm:
Then sit.
Bigfoot lowers himself onto a thick pelt across from Yolgrimm. Even seated, he is enormous, but in this cave, across from this ancient guardian, he seems younger. Smaller. Not weak—never weak—but uncertain.
The fire pops softly between them.
Bigfoot:
I’m not ready.
Yolgrimm does not answer immediately.
He lets the words breathe.
Bigfoot:
Everyone talks like it’s just a matter of time. Like I’m supposed to challenge Yeti. Like I’m supposed to take the Alpha title of the beasts from him because I’m big enough. Strong enough.
He shakes his head.
Bigfoot:
But I’m not him.
Yolgrimm’s expression remains unreadable.
Bigfoot:
Yeti fights like he has no fear. No mercy. No doubt. He hurts people and doesn’t look back. He walks into the ring like everything in front of him already belongs under his feet.
Bigfoot’s hands close slowly into fists.
Bigfoot:
I don’t have that.
Yolgrimm leans forward slightly.
The firelight catches the old scars in his fur.
Yolgrimm:
No.
Bigfoot looks up.
Yolgrimm:
You do not.
The bluntness lands hard.
Bigfoot’s jaw tightens.
Bigfoot:
Then I can’t beat him.
Yolgrimm:
That is not what I said.
Bigfoot’s breathing deepens. He looks back into the fire, frustration and shame wrestling across his face.
Bigfoot:
He’s fierce. I’m not. He can become something brutal when he needs to. I hold back.
A pause.
His voice lowers.
Bigfoot:
I always hold back.
Yolgrimm watches him with something like sorrow.
Yolgrimm:
Because there is kindness in you.
Bigfoot closes his eyes.
That word seems to hurt him more than any insult could.
Bigfoot:
Kindness doesn’t stop Yeti.
Yolgrimm:
No. It does not.
The fire cracks.
Yolgrimm:
But neither does savagery alone.
Bigfoot opens his eyes.
Yolgrimm rises slowly from his stone chair. The chamber seems to shift around him. His full height fills the room with age, memory, and authority.
Yolgrimm:
Yeti is not merely fierce. He is wounded. Corrupted. Fed by voices that whisper domination and call it destiny. He wears the Alpha mantle as if it is a crown. But it was never meant to be a crown.
He steps around the fire.
Yolgrimm:
It is a burden.
Bigfoot looks up at him.
Yolgrimm:
To be Alpha is not to be the cruelest. Not to be the loudest. Not to be the one who breaks the most bones beneath his hands.
Yolgrimm points one massive claw toward Bigfoot’s chest.
Yolgrimm:
It is to carry the future of the bloodline.
The words settle into the cave like stone doors closing.
Bigfoot swallows hard.
Bigfoot:
Then why does it feel like I have to become him to beat him?
Yolgrimm’s face darkens.
Yolgrimm:
Because that is what Yeti wants you to believe.
Bigfoot stands abruptly, unable to sit still.
He paces near the fire, each step heavy.
Bigfoot:
When I fight, I can feel it.
His voice becomes quieter.
Bigfoot:
The anger. The power. The part of me that doesn’t want to stop.
Yolgrimm says nothing.
Bigfoot:
Sometimes I think… if I let myself go down that road, if I let myself become what I need to become to beat him…
He turns back to Yolgrimm.
His eyes are afraid.
Bigfoot:
I may not come back.
The cave falls silent.
Even the torches seem to dim.
Yolgrimm’s expression softens—not with pity, but with recognition.
Yolgrimm:
That fear is why you may be worthy.
Bigfoot stares at him, confused.
Yolgrimm:
Yeti does not fear losing himself. That is why he already has.
Bigfoot looks away.
Bigfoot:
I don’t want to become a monster.
Yolgrimm:
You are already a monster to those who only measure with frightened eyes.
Bigfoot looks back.
Yolgrimm steps closer.
Yolgrimm:
The question is not whether you are a monster. The question is whether the monster obeys your heart… or devours it.
The words strike deep.
Bigfoot’s fists loosen slowly.
Bigfoot:
How do I learn that?
Yolgrimm does not answer right away.
He turns toward the far end of the cavern, where shadows sit thicker than elsewhere. A long, narrow passage descends beyond the firelight, partially hidden by hanging pelts and ancient stones.
Bigfoot notices the movement.
Bigfoot:
Yolgrimm?
The old beast looks back.
Yolgrimm:
There is one who may be able to help you.
Bigfoot’s posture stiffens.
Bigfoot:
Who?
Yolgrimm’s voice lowers.
Yolgrimm:
Grimva Icevein.
The name seems to change the temperature in the cave.
The runes along the walls pulse once.
Bigfoot’s brow furrows.
Bigfoot:
The Grey Mistress?
Yolgrimm nods.
Yolgrimm:
Keeper of the Old Hunger. Listener of Blood Memory. She who teaches beasts the line between fury and ruin.
Bigfoot’s eyes widen slightly.
Bigfoot:
She’s real?
Yolgrimm:
Very real.
A troubled pause.
Bigfoot:
I thought she was a story told to cubs.
Yolgrimm almost smiles.
Yolgrimm:
Most useful truths survive as stories. It keeps fools from finding them too easily.
Bigfoot looks toward the dark passage.
Bigfoot:
Where is she?
Yolgrimm’s eyes hold his.
Yolgrimm:
Home.
Bigfoot goes still.
The word seems to echo even though Yolgrimm speaks it softly.
Bigfoot:
No.
Yolgrimm:
Yes.
Bigfoot backs away half a step.
Bigfoot:
No. I can’t go there.
Yolgrimm:
You must.
Bigfoot:
The Primal Expanse is not a training camp. It’s not a place you visit and come back from with wisdom and a better mood.
His voice rises, panic pushing through the restraint.
Bigfoot:
It’s where our kind were born. It’s where the old beasts still roam. The storms have teeth there. The forests hunt. The rivers remember blood. Things live there that even Yeti wouldn’t challenge.
Yolgrimm listens.
Bigfoot points toward the cave entrance, toward the world beyond.
Bigfoot:
I’m barely holding myself together here. What happens if I go back there? What happens if that place wakes up everything I’m afraid of?
Yolgrimm steps close enough now that Bigfoot has to look up.
Yolgrimm:
Then you will face it.
Bigfoot:
And if I fail?
Yolgrimm’s eyes become hard.
Yolgrimm:
Then Yeti wins.
Bigfoot’s breathing catches.
Yolgrimm does not soften the blow.
Yolgrimm:
If Yeti remains Alpha, then Moreau’s work will continue to poison the bloodline. Those twisted by experiments will become weapons. Those born of ancient blood will be chained to a future shaped by domination. The young will learn that cruelty is strength. The broken will be told their pain makes them useful.
He leans in.
Yolgrimm:
If you do not defeat Yeti, all of our kind may be lost.
Bigfoot looks down.
The words hit harder than any strike.
Bigfoot:
That isn’t fair.
Yolgrimm:
No.
A long silence.
Yolgrimm:
But it is true.
Bigfoot turns away.
For several moments, he says nothing.
The storm outside grows louder, pushing against the cave like the world itself is trying to listen.
Finally, Bigfoot speaks.
Bigfoot:
Why me?
Yolgrimm’s answer is immediate.
Yolgrimm:
Because you can still ask that question.
Bigfoot turns back slowly.
Yolgrimm:
Yeti believes power belongs to whoever can take it. You believe power must be justified before it is used.
Yolgrimm’s voice deepens.
Yolgrimm:
That difference is not weakness. It is the only thing standing between our people and becoming an army of beasts with no souls left to save.
Bigfoot closes his eyes.
His face tightens.
He is afraid.
But beneath the fear, something steadier begins to form.
Not confidence.
Not yet.
Resolve.
Bigfoot:
If I go…
He opens his eyes.
Bigfoot:
How do I get to the Primal Expanse?
Yolgrimm does not speak.
He turns and walks toward the far end of the chamber.
Bigfoot follows.
They move past old trophies and ancient carvings. The deeper they go, the older the cave feels. The torches become fewer. The air grows colder. The walls narrow, then open into a hidden chamber that seems impossible from the outside.
At the center of the chamber stands a stone arch.
Massive.
Ancient.
Carved from black ice and grey bone.
Symbols twist across its surface—beast runes, claw marks, spirals that seem to move when Bigfoot looks directly at them. Within the arch churns a storm of pale silver light, dark green shadows, and flashes of deep red like lightning behind clouds.
Bigfoot stops dead.
His mouth falls open.
Bigfoot:
What… is that?
Yolgrimm stands beside the arch, his old face solemn.
Yolgrimm:
The way home.
Bigfoot’s eyes remain fixed on the portal.
Bigfoot:
You had this here the whole time?
Yolgrimm:
Yes.
Bigfoot:
Why?
Yolgrimm places one hand against the ancient stone.
The portal hums beneath his touch.
Yolgrimm:
Because it is my duty.
Bigfoot looks at him.
Yolgrimm:
I am not merely a hermit in a cave. I am the portal guardian. The last watcher of this passage between the Core Realm and the Primal Expanse.
Bigfoot absorbs that in stunned silence.
Bigfoot:
Santa knew?
Yolgrimm’s expression gives nothing away.
Yolgrimm:
Santa knows many things. He also knows when not to ask questions whose answers carry too much weight.
Bigfoot looks back at the portal.
The light within it shifts.
For one brief second, something appears on the other side.
A vast forest of black pines.
A sky filled with green stormlight.
A distant howl that is not heard so much as felt in the bones.
Bigfoot steps back instinctively.
Yolgrimm watches him.
Yolgrimm:
You may turn away.
Bigfoot looks at him sharply.
Yolgrimm:
I will not force you through. No true guardian forces a traveler to cross. The path must be chosen.
Bigfoot stares into the portal.
His fear is plain.
So is his heart.
Bigfoot:
I don’t know if I’m strong enough.
Yolgrimm’s voice softens.
Yolgrimm:
Then do not go to prove you are strong.
Bigfoot looks at him.
Yolgrimm:
Go to learn what strength is.
The portal pulses again.
Bigfoot closes his eyes. He breathes in slowly, then opens them.
The hesitation does not vanish.
But he steps forward.
Bigfoot:
If I find Grimva Icevein… what do I tell her?
Yolgrimm’s face becomes grave.
Yolgrimm:
Tell her Yeti wears the Alpha mantle in corruption.
A pause.
Yolgrimm:
Tell her Moreau’s science has touched the beast blood.
Another pause.
His voice drops to almost a whisper.
Yolgrimm:
And tell her Yolgrimm asks that the old debt be remembered.
Bigfoot looks at him.
There is a story there.
An old one.
But there is no time to ask.
Bigfoot:
Will I come back?
Yolgrimm does not lie.
Yolgrimm:
That depends on who returns.
Bigfoot nods slowly.
He turns toward the portal.
The wind from the Primal Expanse blows outward, carrying the scent of pine, blood, snow, and something ancient enough to make the soul crouch.
Bigfoot steps into the light.
For a heartbeat, his silhouette fills the arch.
Then the portal swallows him.
The chamber goes still.
Yolgrimm remains alone beside the arch, staring into the fading glow.
His voice is quiet.
Yolgrimm:
Run true, kind soul.
The portal flickers.
The cave falls into darkness.
SCENE 2 – WEDDING PLANS AND TITLE RANTS
North Pole – Edie’s Apartment – Later That Night
The difference in tone is immediate.
Warm lamplight fills Edie’s apartment. Snow taps softly against the windows. A kettle whistles faintly in the kitchen. A stack of wedding magazines sits on the coffee table beside color swatches, invitation samples, and a half-finished list titled:
THINGS JACK PROMISED TO HELP WITH
Only three items are written beneath it.
One is crossed out.
Poorly.
On the couch, Flippers sits upright like a tiny king, watching television. A blanket is tucked around him. He chirps occasionally at the screen, deeply invested in a rerun of an old NPCW match.
Across the room, Jack Mason paces.
He is not calm.
Jack:
I had him, Edie. I had him. Ghost of Christmas Past was right there. Right there. One mistake. One cheap, spectral, Christmas-ruining mistake, and suddenly I’m not Universal Champion anymore.
He points at the wall as if the Ghost might be hiding inside it.
Jack:
Do you know what that does to a man?
Edie sits at the table, calmly looking through invitation samples.
Edie:
Makes him pace grooves into my floor?
Jack:
Exactly.
He stops.
Jack:
Wait, no. That’s not the point.
Flippers chirps at the television.
Jack turns to him.
Jack:
Don’t you take her side.
Flippers chirps again, louder.
Jack squints.
Jack:
That sounded judgmental.
Edie smiles without looking up.
Edie:
Maybe Flippers just thinks you should sit down before you declare war on a holiday spirit again.
Jack throws his hands up.
Jack:
He took my belt!
Edie:
Yes.
Jack:
My Universal Title.
Edie:
Yes.
Jack:
The symbol of excellence, toughness, endurance, and me being better than everybody who said I was just a crazy guy with a penguin.
Edie looks up.
Edie:
You are a crazy guy with a penguin.
Jack pauses.
He looks at Flippers.
Flippers chirps proudly.
Jack:
That’s fair.
He resumes pacing.
Jack:
But on Victoria Day? I get it back. The Ghost thinks he can haunt me? No. No, no, no. I’m gonna haunt him. I’m gonna become the ghost’s ghost. I’m gonna be the thing that goes bump in his night.
Edie sets down the invitation sample.
Edie:
Jack.
He stops instantly.
Not because her voice is loud.
Because it is Edie’s voice.
Jack:
Yeah?
She smiles sweetly.
Dangerously sweetly.
Edie:
Maybe losing the title was a plus.
Jack blinks.
Silence.
Even Flippers seems to pause.
Jack:
I’m sorry. I blacked out for a second. It sounded like you said losing the Universal Title was a plus.
Edie:
I did.
Jack slowly places one hand against the back of a chair, steadying himself like he has just received medical news.
Jack:
Edie.
Edie:
Jack.
Jack:
That belt had prestige.
Edie:
So does our wedding.
He opens his mouth.
No words come out.
Edie gestures to the table.
Edie:
The wedding is next month. We still need to finalize flowers, seating, suits, food, music, guest confirmations, transportation, security, what Flippers is wearing, and whether Ace is allowed within ten feet of the cake.
Jack stares.
Jack:
Ace should not be allowed within ten feet of the cake.
Edie:
See? You’re helping already.
Jack’s expression softens into a meek, slightly frightened smile.
Jack:
I can help.
Edie raises an eyebrow.
Jack:
I will help.
Her eyebrow remains raised.
Jack:
A lot.
The eyebrow lowers.
Jack exhales in relief.
Jack:
But I can still get my belt back on Victoria Day and help with the wedding preparations.
Edie folds her arms.
Jack:
I can multitask.
Flippers chirps.
Jack points at him.
Jack:
Thank you.
Edie looks at Flippers.
Edie:
He was not agreeing with you.
Jack:
You don’t know that.
Flippers chirps twice, then turns back to the TV.
Jack nods.
Jack:
He’s staying neutral. Smart bird.
Edie smiles and picks up a notepad.
Edie:
Speaking of wedding preparations, we need to talk about groomsmen.
Jack immediately relaxes.
Jack:
Easy. Negropolis is my best man. Ace is a groomsman. Flippers is obviously best penguin.
Flippers chirps proudly.
Edie:
Best penguin is not a legal wedding role.
Jack:
It is now.
Edie:
We’ll come back to that.
Jack sits down across from her.
A rare moment of peace.
Then Edie looks directly at him.
Edie:
Are you going to ask Leiton Snake?
Jack’s face goes blank.
Jack:
Why would I do that?
Edie gives him a look.
Jack:
What?
Edie:
Jack.
Jack:
What?
Edie:
Polly and Leiton are together.
Jack stares at her.
No reaction.
Then—
Jack:
No they’re not.
Edie:
Yes, they are.
Jack:
No, they’re not.
Edie:
Jack.
Jack:
Polly would tell me.
Edie gives him another look.
Jack:
She would.
The look intensifies.
Jack leans back slowly.
Jack:
She might.
Edie waits.
Jack’s eyes narrow as the information begins to crawl through his brain.
Jack:
Leiton Snake?
Edie:
Yes.
Jack:
My sister Polly?
Edie:
Yes.
Jack:
Our Polly? Red hair, right hook, terrifying plans, emotionally guarded like a bank vault with anger issues?
Edie:
That Polly.
Jack sits there, processing.
Then he suddenly stands.
Jack:
Absolutely not.
Edie sighs.
Edie:
Jack.
Jack:
No. No. Nope. I like Leiton. Good guy. Tough guy. Snake guy. Protected her. Fine. But dating my sister? That’s different. That’s a whole other ring. That’s a cage match with emotional consequences.
Flippers chirps.
Jack points at him.
Jack:
Exactly.
Edie tries not to laugh.
Edie:
How did you not notice?
Jack turns to her, offended.
Jack:
Because I’m busy. I had a Universal Title reign. I have enemies. A ghost is messing with me. Moreau’s out there. The beast people are doing beast people stuff. Negropolis keeps standing in corners. Flippers needs emotional support snacks.
Flippers chirps.
Jack:
You’re welcome.
Edie smiles.
Edie:
Just look at the way they look at each other.
Jack frowns.
Jack:
They look at each other?
Edie:
Yes.
Jack:
Like… eye contact?
Edie:
Like they’re trying very hard not to look like they’re looking at each other.
Jack slowly sits back down.
This has shaken him more than the title loss.
Jack:
That sneaky snake.
Edie:
Jack.
Jack:
No, I mean literally. He’s a Snake. It’s his last name. I’m allowed.
Edie reaches across the table and takes his hand.
Edie:
Polly is happy.
Jack looks at her.
The overprotective fury flickers.
Then something softer breaks through.
Edie:
Or at least… she’s letting herself be close to happy. You know how hard that is for her.
Jack’s shoulders lower.
He looks toward the window.
Snow falls beyond the glass.
Jack:
She’s been through too much.
Edie:
I know.
Jack:
People hurt her. Used her. Messed with her head.
His voice lowers.
Jack:
I wasn’t there for all of it.
Edie squeezes his hand.
Edie:
You’re here now.
Jack nods, but he does not look fully convinced.
Jack:
Leiton better be good to her.
Edie:
He is.
Jack:
He better be very good to her.
Edie:
He is.
Jack:
Because if he breaks her heart, I’ll—
Edie cuts him off gently.
Edie:
Jack.
He stops.
She smiles.
Edie:
Maybe don’t threaten Polly’s boyfriend before inviting him into the wedding party.
Jack considers this.
Jack:
That’s reasonable.
A beat.
Jack:
I could threaten him after.
Edie:
Jack.
Jack:
Fine. During?
Edie laughs despite herself.
Flippers hops off the couch and waddles over, looking from Edie to Jack as if trying to understand why everyone is discussing romance instead of snacks.
Jack leans down.
Jack:
Flippers.
The penguin chirps.
Jack points at him very seriously.
Jack:
Did you know about Polly and Leiton?
Flippers tilts his head.
Then he chirps excitedly, flapping his tiny wings.
Jack recoils.
Jack:
You knew?
Flippers chirps louder.
Jack stands, betrayed.
Jack:
My own penguin knew before me?
Edie bursts out laughing.
Flippers hops in a little circle, delighted with himself.
Jack points between Edie and Flippers.
Jack:
This apartment is full of secrets.
Edie wipes tears of laughter from her eyes.
Edie:
Welcome to wedding planning.
Jack looks at the stack of magazines.
Then at Flippers.
Then at Edie.
He sighs.
Jack:
Fine. I’ll ask Leiton.
Edie smiles.
Jack:
But I’m doing it with eye contact.
Flippers chirps approvingly.
Jack nods.
Jack:
That’s right. Man to Snake.
Edie laughs again as the camera pulls back from the warm apartment, leaving them in light, laughter, wedding chaos, and the fragile happiness they have fought so hard to earn.
PART 3 – THE LETTER IN THE MIST
The Carpathian Mountains – Secret Pathway to the Circle of the False Light’s Monastery – Night
The world becomes cold again.
Not the clean cold of the North Pole.
This is an old cold.
A watching cold.
The Carpathian Mountains rise like jagged black teeth beneath a moon choked by clouds. Mist crawls low through the trees, spilling across the narrow mountain trail in slow, deliberate waves. Twisted pines lean inward over the path as if listening for names.
At the edge of a hidden passage, three figures stand before the ascent.
Sherlock Holmes, coat pulled tight against the wind, studies the trail ahead with sharp, restless eyes.
Beside him, Dr. John Watson adjusts his scarf, one hand resting near the revolver hidden beneath his coat.
On Holmes’ other side stands Agent Buckle, dressed in practical travel gear beneath a tailored outer coat, his elven eyes scanning the trees with professional suspicion.
Ahead of them, barely visible through the mist, a narrow pathway climbs toward the cliffs.
The route to the monastery.
Holmes does not move.
Watson notices.
Watson:
Holmes?
Holmes remains fixed on the path.
Holmes:
This is where you both remain.
Watson turns to him immediately.
Watson:
Absolutely not.
Buckle’s expression tightens.
Buckle:
I must agree with Dr. Watson. This is a poor time for dramatic solo work.
Holmes finally looks at them.
Holmes:
The Circle of the False Light is not merely dangerous. It is particular. Cloistered. Suspicious. To arrive with companions may be interpreted as force.
Watson:
And to arrive alone may be interpreted as foolishness.
Holmes smiles faintly.
Holmes:
I have been accused of worse.
Watson steps closer, voice low but firm.
Watson:
You told me once that these people trained minds to weaponize deception. You said their leader knew how to twist truth until a man walked willingly into his own cage. And now you wish to return to them alone?
Holmes’ expression flickers.
Just slightly.
Enough for Watson to see it.
Watson:
No, Holmes. Not this time.
Buckle studies the tree line, then speaks with unusual seriousness.
Buckle:
I have seen enough in these mountains to know that pride is not armor. We have already been followed, ambushed, and misled. If Dr. Moreau is connected to the monastery, if the Circle has taken interest in him, then we cannot afford to reduce our strength out of courtesy.
Holmes turns to Buckle.
Holmes:
You underestimate the value of courtesy in dangerous rooms.
Buckle:
And you underestimate how often dangerous rooms have exits blocked from the outside.
Watson gives Buckle a small approving glance.
Holmes looks between the two men.
For a moment, the old instinct is there: to argue, to outreason, to carve through concern with cold precision.
But the mountains are too quiet.
The mist is too thick.
And Holmes has spent too much of this investigation learning that even the cleverest man can be maneuvered when ancient powers are patient enough.
He exhales.
Holmes:
Very well.
Watson blinks.
Watson:
I’m sorry?
Holmes:
I said very well, Watson. Do not make me regret agreeing by forcing me to repeat it.
Watson’s lips twitch.
Watson:
I wouldn’t dream of it.
Buckle smiles lightly.
Buckle:
Progress. Miracles do happen in cursed mountain passes.
Holmes gives him a dry look.
Holmes:
Do not become comfortable.
Buckle adjusts his gloves.
Buckle:
Never.
The three begin toward the hidden path.
Then—
A voice cuts through the mist.
Soft.
Sweet.
Wrong.
Voice:
Sherlock Holmes.
All three stop.
Watson’s hand moves toward his coat.
Buckle turns smoothly, already shifting his stance.
Holmes goes completely still.
The mist behind them thickens.
A figure emerges from it as though she had been standing there the entire time, only waiting for the world to notice.
She is dressed in flowing purple robes, layered like sugared silk over something darker. Her hair frames a face that carries both grandmotherly warmth and predatory patience. Around her neck hangs a small charm shaped like a wrapped candy, but the metal glints like a blade.
Grizelda, the Witch of Sweets, smiles.
Grizelda:
My, my. The great detective, the loyal doctor, and the little spy with very sharp shoes.
Buckle’s eyes narrow.
Buckle:
That is an unusually specific greeting.
Grizelda:
I notice details.
Holmes studies her carefully.
Holmes:
Grizelda.
She inclines her head.
Grizelda:
Then my reputation has arrived before me. How flattering.
Watson glances at Holmes.
Watson:
You know her?
Holmes:
By reputation.
Holmes does not take his eyes off her.
Holmes:
The Witch of Sweets. Associated with Count Vlad Dragomir.
Grizelda smiles wider.
Grizelda:
Associated is such a cold word. I prefer useful.
Buckle shifts slightly.
Buckle:
That does not improve it.
Grizelda ignores him. Her attention remains on Holmes.
Grizelda:
I have a message for you.
Holmes’ eyes sharpen.
Holmes:
From whom?
Though he already knows.
Grizelda reaches into her sleeve and produces a sealed envelope.
Black paper.
Crimson wax.
The seal pressed into the wax bears the unmistakable mark of Count Vlad Dragomir.
Grizelda:
From the Count.
Watson steps forward.
Watson:
Holmes, I do not like this.
Holmes:
Nor do I.
Grizelda extends the letter.
Grizelda:
He was quite insistent it reach you before you wasted your evening climbing rocks in pursuit of an empty answer.
Holmes does not move.
Holmes:
How considerate.
Grizelda:
The Count can be very considerate when it amuses him.
The mist curls around her feet.
Holmes takes the envelope.
He examines the seal, the fold, the edge of the paper, even the faint scent clinging to it.
Buckle:
Poison?
Holmes:
No.
A beat.
Holmes:
Worse. Theatricality.
He breaks the seal.
The wax cracks sharply in the mountain air.
Holmes unfolds the letter.
His eyes move quickly at first.
Then slower.
His expression changes.
Not fear.
Not shock.
Something heavier.
Concern.
Watson sees it immediately.
Watson:
Holmes?
Holmes continues reading.
Buckle watches Grizelda.
Grizelda watches Holmes.
Her smile does not change.
At last, Holmes lowers the letter slightly and looks at her.
For the first time, there is genuine puzzlement in his face.
Holmes:
Why would he send this?
Grizelda tilts her head.
Grizelda:
I do not question the Count.
Holmes:
Everyone questions everyone. Those who claim otherwise are either fools or liars.
Grizelda’s smile thins.
Grizelda:
Then call me obedient.
Holmes studies her.
Holmes:
And obedience satisfies you?
For a moment, something almost old passes behind Grizelda’s eyes.
Then it is gone.
Grizelda:
I was asked to deliver a letter. I delivered it.
She steps back into the mist.
Grizelda:
My part is done.
Holmes folds the letter carefully.
Holmes:
Tell Vlad…
Grizelda pauses.
Holmes’ voice is low.
Holmes:
Tell him I agree.
Watson turns sharply.
Buckle’s eyes narrow.
Grizelda smiles again.
This time, it is colder.
Grizelda:
He expected you would.
The mist rises around her.
Her outline blurs.
Grizelda:
Do be careful, Mr. Holmes. These mountains have a habit of swallowing clever men.
Holmes’ gaze hardens.
Holmes:
Only the ones who mistake cleverness for wisdom.
Grizelda laughs softly.
The sound becomes part of the wind.
Then she vanishes.
The mist thins.
The path is empty.
Watson steps beside Holmes.
Watson:
Holmes. What was in the letter?
Holmes looks toward the trail leading to the monastery.
The hidden path waits ahead.
Dark.
Silent.
Useless.
Holmes:
New intelligence.
Watson:
From Vlad Dragomir?
Holmes:
Yes.
Watson:
And we are trusting it?
Holmes folds the letter and slips it into his coat.
Holmes:
No. We are responding to it.
Buckle’s voice is careful.
Buckle:
What does that mean?
Holmes turns away from the monastery path.
Holmes:
It means the game has changed.
Watson looks up the trail.
Watson:
What about Moreau? The monastery?
Holmes’ expression becomes grave.
Holmes:
We are too late.
Buckle’s jaw tightens.
Buckle:
He is no longer there?
Holmes shakes his head.
Holmes:
No.
A beat.
Holmes:
According to the letter, Dr. Moreau is on his way to Castle Dracula.
The words land hard.
Even the wind seems to recoil from them.
Watson’s face pales slightly.
Watson:
Castle Dracula?
Buckle looks toward the dark horizon.
Buckle:
That cannot be good.
Holmes:
It is worse than that.
Watson waits.
Holmes’ voice lowers.
Holmes:
Count Dracula is awake.
Silence.
The kind that makes men feel very small beneath mountains.
Buckle speaks first.
Buckle:
Sanctuary needs to know.
Holmes nods.
Holmes:
Immediately.
Watson looks one last time toward the hidden path.
Watson:
And the Circle?
Holmes’ eyes remain fixed on the way back down the mountain.
Holmes:
The Circle will keep its secrets for another night. If Vlad is correct, the danger is no longer hidden in a monastery.
He starts walking.
Holmes:
It is moving toward a castle.
Watson and Buckle follow.
The three figures disappear down the mountain trail, swallowed by mist and urgency.
The camera remains behind.
Slowly, the wind lifts.
The mist shifts.
And the screen closes in on the letter in Holmes’ hand as his fingers tighten around it.
The words of Count Vlad Dragomir fill the screen.
The Letter
Detective Sherlock Holmes,
Permit me the small indulgence of imagining your expression as you read this.
No doubt your eyes have narrowed. Your mind has already begun sorting possibilities into tidy little compartments: trap, misdirection, manipulation, reluctant cooperation, hidden agenda. I would be disappointed if you did anything less.
Allow me to spare you one unnecessary climb.
Dr. Adrian Igor Moreau will not be found at the Monastery of the Circle of the False Light.
By the time you reach those dreary old stones, you will find only echoes, monks who speak in riddles, and perhaps one or two self-important disciples eager to pretend they know more than they do. Moreau has already moved beyond them.
He is on his way to Castle Dracula.
Do not trouble yourself with calculations of interception. You are too late for that as well.
I know how much that must irritate you.
There is another matter you should know before your pride convinces you to continue toward the monastery regardless.
The Circle of the False Light is compromised.
Ardan Vantrell and Mistress Tynell are no longer merely guardians of their own manipulations. They are under the influence of Castle Dracula. Whether they understand the depth of that influence, I leave for your great mind to debate. But the effect is real.
The monastery is not a sanctuary of hidden knowledge tonight, Holmes.
It is a listening chamber for older powers.
If you go there now, you will not be gathering intelligence.
You will be delivering yourself into a room that already knows you are coming.
Now, before your loyal doctor advises that this message be burned, and before your elven companion begins checking the paper for venom, understand this: I do not write to mock you.
Well…
Not only to mock you.
Castle Dracula is stirring again with ancient energies. The Vale of Shadows no longer sleeps as deeply as it once did. Old bindings weaken. Old hunger remembers itself. The House beneath the castle is moving with purpose.
Count Dracula is awake.
Read that sentence again, Holmes. Slowly.
Awake.
Not rumored. Not symbolic. Not whispered in terrified peasant exaggeration.
Awake.
And if Dr. Moreau reaches him, if the good doctor’s particular talents are joined with Dracula’s ancient appetite, then this becomes more than a matter of wrestling politics, stolen laboratories, broken beast bloodlines, or your charming little crusade against manipulation.
A partnership between Dracula and Moreau would be dangerous beyond your present assumptions.
Moreau understands flesh.
Dracula understands dominion.
Together, they could build something neither science nor ancient evil should ever be permitted to complete.
You may ask why I would tell you this.
You may suspect desperation.
You may suspect betrayal.
You may suspect that I am attempting to move you like a piece on a board.
And perhaps I am.
But even a master of the board must recognize when the table itself begins to burn.
I will be at the North Pole soon.
Meet me in person.
Come prepared to listen.
Come prepared to doubt me.
Come prepared, above all else, to survive what is coming.
With all due condescension,
Count Vlad Dragomir
The letter fades from the screen.
The wind rises.
Somewhere far away, beneath stone and shadow, something ancient breathes.
END EPISODE
Wow
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