Dread Sovereign (Closed)

[Leopold]

Dread Sovereign (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CavpS1v5ASU)


2918


Closed to Otto.


Leopold Winchester was in Jadet for all of five minutes before boredom struck. Whilst the port was a hive of activity, it all seemed woefully familiar. It was mundane and trite. After six weeks in frosty Berevar, he sought respite, relaxation, and polite conversation. Anything to take his mind of the rook, wrath, and ruin of home.

“Does it feel good to be back in ‘civilised society’?” Jeren enquired.

As ever, the swordsman was impeccably dressed. He was well equipped. He was well groomed. Leopold was eternally suspicious of the man for always being so presentable. He was especially suspicious, because he still looked as fresh the day they set sail.

“Can’t you feel my enthusiasm?” Leopold rolled his eyes. He buried his hands into his ample pockets. The wind on the shore was strong, and just as bitter as it had been out at sea. It was not as cold as Berevar, but still uncomfortable. “I’m running to the nearest tavern right now,” he added. Jeren ignored the sarcasm.

With a nod, he set his case down. He sighed and produced the various papers required to solicit long-term mooring. The Port Authority had demanded to see evidence of their right to be on Corone before they had even docked. In their absence, there had seemingly been a war, and security had increased dramatically. Wherever you looked in Jadet, flags of the Ixian Knights fluttered in the breeze. Leopold took the papers.

“I’d join you, but there’s much to be done.” Jeren did not wait for another pithy retort. He had heard quite enough of them over the last few days. He, as much as his employer, needed a stiff drink and a good night’s sleep. He departed with a courteous nod.

Leopold clapped. He turned to the ship. He waved down the crew who were loitering at the gangplanks, and started barking orders. In no time at all, a stampede brought the Winchester Rose Trading Company back to solid ground. They wasted no time depositing crates, boxes, and satchels in neat piles on the dock. In a chorus of wolf whistles and woops, they streamed away to their chosen form of relief. The dockworkers would do away with the cargo once the harbour master’s inspection was over.

Leopold was finally alone. He listened to the calming sound of the wind and waves. He rocked back and forth on uneasy heels, picked out the sounds of the cityscape, and imagined how beautiful it once was. Mrs Winchester had tried to forewarn him of the troubles, but he had foolishly ignored her. He was so adamant his business outpost was untouchable. A glimmer of doubt troubled him. If his offices in Radasanth were found sacked, times would be grim indeed this visit.

“Hopefully she won’t gloat if I’m wrong…” The thought of her heel in his crotch sent a shiver down his spine.

With a gruff sigh, he trudged forwards. He instinctively travelled in the direction of the harbour master’s office. He firmly fixated his eyes on his hobnailed boots. The brisk journey north weighed heavily on his mind. With Berevar behind him, he hoped to find Radasanth free of murder, mania, and madness. Seagulls fluttered up from the slate rooftops as rain began to fall.

“Not a chance in hell…,” he grumbled.

[Otto]

Two damp and grey weeks rumbled by, without much incident. A coach made its winding way from one side of the island to the other, and a hammer rang faithfully in a Radasanth forge each and every night. The scabbed wounds of the recent war healed over little by little, turning to scar tissue which itself would fade in time.

Until...



* * *


... another day dawned in Radasanth. It was an optimist's sunrise, blanketed behind a cloud-choked sky; thick, heavy and grey, they rolled monotonously on from one side of the horizon to the next. A distant wall of haze to the west promised rain, moving in a uniform front for the mainland. The sturdy build and accomplished design of most Radasanth households would make each one a little hutch of dry warmth when the downpour landed some time in the next few hours, but not every citizen would be blessed with that luxury. In this city, there were three kinds of people who stayed out on the street in a classic coastal squall: the homeless, the brainless, and the guard. Even the thieves and cutthroats would be staying indoors.

Those who weren't in the watch, anyway.

One such (potentially) morally fraudulent group marched their way around a street corner, and through the arched entrance of a deep-set city square. Five pairs of boots stamped more or less in time upon the dew-slick shale flagstones, covering ground fast but never in a hurry. The owners of said boots were saying, as best they could convey through footwear, that everything was under control, sir; that you should step back inside, ma'am, and not get in the way of the authorities.

The footsteps stopped a few feet in from the entrance. The square had three of these; the squad had arrived by the river-ward road, and two more crumbling stone arches opened up the space to the west and east. Packed tightly around the remaining space were long, narrow buildings, fronted by cramped yards and separated from the public ground by wrought iron fences. Here and there a curtain twitched aside to reveal the occasional horrified (but much more often, keenly interested) face, as they peered through the glass. They regarded the new arrivals with renewed curiousity; five of the Empire's loyal, decked out in varying qualities of armour, but each with a scarlet tabard emblazoned with the Corone Armed Forces insignia. The one in the lead - tall, wiry and with a head of peppered grey - lowered her hand from the signal to halt, and watched as a lone figure paced out from under a tree at the centre of the square. This one also wore the guard's symbol, and offered its superior a salute.

"At ease", the woman said, throwing up a hand to her forehead, and dropping it with equal haste. "Walling, is it?", she enquired.

"Yes ma'am", Walling replied. The hand came down. He looked young, and paler than the clammy Radasanth weather would normally have made him. There was a slight quaver to his voice.

"Lieutenant Orman. Tell me what happened, exactly", she commanded.

"We - me and Clive... uh, private Lonhill, that is, we were on patrol. This is near part of our route, so we were going by, just under an hour ago, and he - sorry, one of the residents here, he came running up and shouting. Needed us to follow, so we did. And... he showed us that."

'That' was now the little group's focus of attention, as it creaked ever-so-slightly in the breeze. Walling trailed off, and Orman stared past him at the figure suspended from the tree; for a short time, the only real sound was the whistling wind and the odd groan of the boughs.

Then a window slammed shut, and Orman snapped back to attention. "Lonhill's back at the garrison, but I'll need you to stay here," she stated. "I might think of something to ask you while we investigate. In the meantime, ask around - see if anyone here saw something. Dismissed".

Walling gave another trembling salute, and stalked off. The lad stopped at a decorative, waist-high gate to rub his face, then swung it open and proceeded up the narrow path. Orman watched him knock on the house's front door before she turned back to her squad.

"Tallow, Iver, follow suit," she barked, and two leather-armoured guardsmen perked up. "I want to get a hold of any witnesses as soon as possible. Bastum and Keeves, let's see what this poor bastard can tell us."

Tallow and Iver ripped off a salute, and marched over to different sides of the square. Meanwhile, the other three sauntered over to the grisly centrepiece. When they reached the outer limbs of the tree, the slightly-hunched figure of Bastum circled around to the left, while that of Keeves began to sift through the garden bed below. Orman stayed back a few feet, and cast a critical eye over the entire scene.

"That nose of yours picking up anything, Bastard?", Keeves called out after a few seconds.

"Blood", the Orc replied, laconically. Otto pictured, in perfect clarity, the younger guardsman's silver eyes roll around in their sockets. It was Keeves' standard expression of derision, and one which nowadays irked Otto purely by its familiarity. He pushed the budding knot of anger down and tried to assess the display.

Otto hadn't seen anything like it since the war. It appeared to be an elderly man; age sometimes made it that much more difficult to discern a person's gender, but apart from anything else, his state of undress resolved any ambiguity in that department. A single leg had been tightly bound to a thick branch of the hazel tree, letting the other one splay out almost at a right angle to the other. He was human, pale, but patterned with purple and yellow bruises all over his torso. The killing touch was probably the deep gash which ran from ear to ear; it had gushed blood down through the silver beard, and matted the few wisps of hair remaining atop the old man's head in dense, curling clumps. His outstretched arms swayed back and forth, gently caressing the stalks of lavender which rose up from the decorative groundcover. More than a few of the flowers underneath had gone from purple to dark red.

The Orc looked up at the audience behind the windows, to the darkening clouds in the west and, finally, to the broad grin of Keeves as he pulled an errant coin out from the lavender bed. Just another day in Radasanth, right?

The wind howled in. Up and down the square, windowpanes rattled their reply.

[Leopold]

Leopold was not fond of hopelessness. He abhorred ignorance. He utterly despised anyone caught preying on the weak. When he could, he always tried to help those in need. On this occasion, he wished he could just walk away. Had found it difficult to get help from anyone, ever since the first scream echoed through the city three days ago. In a time of war devoid of love, Radasanth was doing all it could to resist his efforts.

“Somebody really doesn’t like Thayne-goers…,” he thought. Priests, after all, did not simply drop dead. He cocked his raven head to one side to get a better look through the stained glass windows. The battered old church offered him opportunity to observe undetected. He scrutinised the crowd in the square bellow.

Faith was corrupting the populace of Corone. Leopold had seen it repeatedly through history. He had felt the fear in the air. He had lived through the terror. He had breathed deep of the contempt. Salvar’s civil war between the Church of the Ethereal Sway and the state. The Corpse War in Raiaera. The demon uprising following the formation of Haida. Each conflict had religion in common.

He fluttered his wings. With gusto, he used his mottled beak to prune himself. Though he was deep in contemplation, some instincts were too difficult for even godly creatures to overcome. The sun cast a shimmering light over the raven’s plumage. Though he was a guardian of death, for a brief moment, the bird looked resplendent and full of life. He raised his head to clock a beady eye on the crowd.

“Gods fall to lesser things than nightmares,” he tried to say. His beak opened but only a squeak emerged. He ruffled his feathers one last time and then vanished.

Leopold adjusted his lapel, righted himself, and checked up and down the alleyway to see if anyone had discovered his whereabouts. He sighed with relief. He advanced out into the boulevard cocksure and contemplative. In the sunshine, and the warmth, he took on a courteous visage. Halfway up the street he unceremoniously spat feathers and blood. He had yet to master the transformation.

“Pull it together, Leopold!” he quipped. With a cane in one hand and top hat in the other, he strode about the grandiose church.

“Afternoon ser,” a kindly woman obscured by a parasol said. Her voice was light as a summer breeze, and her dress as white as snowdrops.

“Afternoon m’lady,” he said. He bowed as he stepped out of her way.

As he mingled with the crowd around the fountain, he swore he could smell lavender perfume. Though the chatter was boisterous and the busy streets buzzed with activity, he could hear the rumour mongering in full swing.

“They say it’s a murdah,” said an uncouth looking matchstick girl. She picked her grubby nose between syllables. Her appearance told Leopold all he needed about the political and economic climate in Radasanth. This spectacle, though grizzly, was tantamount to entertainment.

“A priest,” Leopold continued. He tried to disguise his voice by tensing his throat but it was too late. People had noticed him. The crowd of ripped skirts and dusty jackets tensed. Hundreds of eyes stared. They held their breaths to await further gossip. “So I’ve been told,” he clarified.

“No Thayne wou’d let this happen to’is own…,” grumbled an elderly man who had seen better days. His wisp of grey hair flowed gracefully atop a balding head. “This is…” He fell silent as the overwhelming sense of loss became too much.

“Times have changed.” Leopold looked up at the church behind him, picked out the detail, and guessed it was a druidic church. “We have done much to hurt the land. Be it war, farming, or pollution. Y'edda is wanton when angered.” He shrugged. He was never one for pious rhetoric, but his words sounded appropriate.

“Let’s be ‘opin’ she forgivin’,” a stocky woman clucked. She folded her arms across her chest. With her hair in a bun, and her dress spattered with guts, she could only be a fishmonger. She might have been attractive once, for all Leopold knew. He failed to see past the haddock to check.

“Won’t be long now till we find out,” he grumbled morbidly.

The crowd turned back to the corpse. They were awaiting the customary announcement from the watch. Only when the guards made their statement could Leopold introduce himself, because if he did so before they would be suspicious.

[Otto]

"Think we should cut him down?"

Keeves didn't sound particularly committed to his own suggestion, and Orman shook her head.

"Leave him for now. The body wagon should be here in a bit... but I want to keep things as they are until then."

Otto felt a cold fleck splatter on his cheek; the rain would hit in full force, soon, and make things a little more difficult for them. However, he did find the clean ocean wind to be a nice break from Radasanth's near-perpetual fug. It also obscured the sound of more footsteps until they had come within a dozen feet of the tree - more of the guard, here to report to Orman. They exchanged salutes with the lieutenant, and she gave them a few orders which were torn to pieces by the rising gale. The new arrivals must have heard her, though, since they split into three teams of two and, each pair selecting a different entrance to the square, took up position. The storm wasn't the only thing brewing; something of an audience had sprung up beneath the paltry shelter provided by the arches, eaves and doorways. As he watched, a crow fluttered down somewhere behind the crowd.

He turned back to the body. He was the big, slow orc, sure, but Keeves was still wet behind the ears, and Orman seemed confident in his ability to... do whatever it was that they were doing. And as much as he may wish otherwise, so was he. A lifetime as an armourer's apprentice, just under a decade in the Citadel, and a year in the CAF during the civil war taught you a thing or two about the many and varied ways that a man might die.

First, he took off his gloves and ran two white-palmed hands along the lesions which patterned the corpse's torso. He probed and prodded the flesh here and there, before letting his digits lower towards the smoothly sliced neck. A fingertip traced the cut along the jawline, and pulled the skin back inquisitively. Then he leaned in and too a slow, deep breath.

"I'm all done here", Keeves called out. He emerged from the bushes, trying to wipe the decidedly evirating scent of lavender off his clothes.

"What did you find?", Orman asked him.

"Sweet Fanny Adams. Some fag-ends and three bottles, all empty."

The lieutenant eyes narrowed, and swept over the garden bed. "So the trampled shrubs on the eastern side, they don't mean anything to you?"

"Oh, hey! So they came in from that way, then?", Keeves hypothesised.

"That's one of two possibilities", Orman replied.

"So... what's the other?"

"Whoever strung the poor sod up was really quite the cunning bastard."

Otto gave a short bark of laughter at this, which in turn drew the attention of both Keeves and Orman. Keeves' face tightened a little, but then relaxed into an irritating smirk. Orcs weren't exactly renowned for the muscle in their heads, being considered to think more with the ones which controlled their fists. Someone like Keeves could recover from being made the fool, if there was someone else around to be a bigger one than themselves.

"How about you, Bastum?", Orman asked. Otto managed to keep his gaze trained on the officer, and did not let it slide across to Keeves' grin - no matter how much he wanted to see it wiped clean off.

"Body's cold. Stiff, too. But still fresh; no smell of rot. Probably killed well before sunrise", he stated. Otto scratched his beard while his brain put structure to the next few sentences. "They'd have used a small blade, to trace along the jaw like that. And he'd have been out of it, since it's such a clean cut. Only really seen that on a few soldiers that the Rangers caught napping. Which is odd."

"Why's that?" Orman sounded genuinely intrigued.

"He was killed here. Too much blood, too fresh. He might have already been dying... there're a few broken ribs, and those bruises look bad. Got some straight lines, so I'm guessing they used something like a pole, or a heavy stick."

"He'd have had to be out cold for them to be able to kill him here. Far easier to cart a dead body around."

Otto wiped a few droplets of water off of his face. "All that blood's left a right mess. Maybe they didn't want to leave a trail at odds with what they left in the flower bed?".

"If they left that, and on purpose", Orman corrected. She looked up at the old man. "It's one hell of a display."

"So... that trail doesn't really tell us anything, then?"

"We may have just avoided making a false assumption. That's more important than you might think. And Keeves", Orman concluded, "I'll be taking that coin, thank you very much." Keeves grumbled, but handed his sole find over nonetheless.

"Hoy!" The shout came from yet another guardsman, accompanied by the rumble of a horse-drawn open cart as it trundled in from the south. Orman gave the orders to let the corpse down, and they did so via Keeves going at the rope with a large knife while Otto did his best to get a good hold and ease it to the ground. There was a sudden snap, and Otto found his knees buckling under the weight of the body. He grunted with effort, muscles straining, until Orman grabbed the stiffly splayed legs, and together they maneuvered the corpse into the wagon. Orman, Otto and Keeves did their best to tuck the old man underneath a large white shroud, but one leg stuck stubbornly out to the side, and the toes of the other just peeked out from the bottom.

As it moved off back to the morgue, Orman signaled towards the soldiers who were guarding the archways. One pair moved aside, and the crowd trickled in; the guardsmen at the other entrances picked up on the movement, and followed suit. The civilians, who appeared to represent a the typical spectrum of Radsanth's populace, gathered around the raised garden bed where Orman had taken up position. She addressed the crowd with the usual spiel; if anyone knew of any missing persons, or had witnessed anything odd, they were to provide the guard with such information, and could do so with full discretion. In a move which may have been possessed of great wisdom, she avoided any mention of rewards.

Otto had stayed off to the side after loading up the cart. While Orman spoke, Tallow returned from his bout of door-knocking, and stepped up next to the orc. Otto gave the man a nod and turned back to the lieutenant's speech.

"That was a bad one", William Tallow remarked.

"Yes."

There was a short pause before the man continued. Otto wondered what his friend was trying to get off his chest, although, in retrospect, it should have been obvious.

"Really bad. Do you think it was... him?"

Otto thought some more - and then he realised.

Aurelianius. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25156-Gaolhouse-Rock-%28closed%29)

The orc shook his head. "Not enough cuts. And besides", he added, tapping his sniffer for effect, "I'd have smelt him."

Orman stopped talking, and now that the show was over, the crowd began to disperse. The lieutenant stepped down and called William over, to deliver any witness statements he had been able to acquire. Otto wasn't too sure what to do next; he returned to the garden bed and started to poke through the bushes, one ear trained on the conversation behind him.

[Leopold]

Leopold was disappointed. He expected more than generic appeal for the public’s aid. Whatever was happening on the streets of Radasanth was new to the watch. Either that or he had overestimated the ability of the local law enforcement. He adjusted his jacket, flicked his bobbing fringe from his eyes, and strolled confidently to the flowerbed. One of the guards separated from the group after the captain’s address to commence an investigation. He seldom let excellent opportunities pass him.

“I believe I could help you with that.”

Otto stopped mid-forage. He righted himself, grumbled, and turned to face the speaker. He expected a grubby urchin. He expected anyone that wanted to sell false information for money. He did not expect a well to do merchant wearing silk that would take him months to afford.

“If you’ve information," he replied, "you'll need to talk to the lieutenant. I’m occupied.” He made to turn.

Leopold chuckled. “Otto Bastum, please…” He held out a hand, “I came to you because you…,” he sighed. “You’ve made waves in the city.” When the orc’s unit worked on the necromancer incident, his name became worth its weight in gold.

Otto stood to attention, flicked open a small notepad, and gave Leopold an expectant stare. He knew better than to ask how the man knew his name. There would be time for that later. He scribbled a few obligatory pieces of information at the top of the page in shorthand.

“I’ve been interested in the religious prosperity of Corone for many moons.” Leopold had felt compelled to help after seeing patterns here that he had seen on distant shores. “This crime is similar to one in Salvar.”

“You mean this has happened before?” Otto raised an eyebrow. His slate-grey skin furrowed into imposing ridges. Leopold shook his head. “Go on…,” Otto wearily insisted.

The wind continued to bluster through the square. Leopold pursed his lips. A few hours ago, word had reached him through his northern outpost of a strange rumination. The congregation of the church that rose behind them were worried. The priest, and the manner in which had had been displayed, were a message.

“The Church of the Sway was plagued by similar murders for nine months. Priests hung, displayed, and cauterised. They were cut, spliced, and diced.” He gestured to the church. “It transpired the perpetrator had a grudge against the Church. It was…,” he frowned, “a warning.”

It took Otto a moment to process the information. “You're saying there’ll be more murders?” Leopold nodded. Otto grunted as he scribbled more notes.

“I know this might seem convenient…But if you allow me to work with you, I can ensure the congregation’s safety whilst you concentrate on finding who did this.” The crowd behind them began to disperse. For them, the affair was over. For Otto Bastum and Leopold Winchester it was just beginning.

[Otto]

Otto looked down at the grubby little notebook he had in hand. The almost illiterate scrawl across its pages was only redeemed by the clarity of his large, blocky letters. While he added a few more glyphs to capture Leopold's proposal, the orc nodded compliantly.

"That would be... very helpful, sir", he said. Then he directed his gaze up. "If you speak to lieutenant Orman, I'm sure she would be able to sort something out."

The rain pattered gently down upon the two for an uncomfortable couple of seconds. Leopold harrumphed amusedly and gave the officer a sidelong glance; she still appeared to be taking in reports from the grunts, although Otto could see Bill giving his friend a questioning look.

"To be honest", said Leopold, turning back, "I had hoped to approach this matter as I do my business. And when it comes to business, one can never afford to run in blind. I am speaking to you simply because I at least know your reputation - a reputation you have earned in rather exceptional circumstances, at that. Understand that I am trusting you in this as much as I am asking you to trust me."

"You can trust the lieutenant", Otto stated flatly.

"No", sighed Leopold. "I'm afraid I can't, which is not to say she is not trustworthy. The shortcoming is entirely mine... and as such, I can see precisely why you cannot trust me."

The rain was making Otto's notepad unusable, so he tucked it and his pencil away. Drying it out would be a job for the forge later on tonight. "Well...", he began.

"So let me make the first offering", the mysterious gentleman proposed. "I believe that you will find what you need to launch your investigation at fourteen Glencombe Road. Perhaps you will also see why I am so concerned, and should as much occur, I can only hope that you begin to share my sympathies. If you are the same man I have heard about, then I suspect that you shall." Leopold donned his top hap with a twirling flourish, and tipped it towards the orc. "Good day, constable", he concluded. "About four a clock should do it!" he added, as an after thought.

Otto found himself a little flustered. "Wait -", he called out to the departing fellow, but was interrupted from behind.

"Otto, report", barked Orman. He trudged back to the others, but not without casting a curious glance over his shoulder. The man was nowhere to be seen. "Get anything useful?", the lieutenant asked him.

"Fourteen Glencombe Road", Otto replied, shrugging.

William hadn't lost that inquisitive expression. "There goes money, if I ever saw it. Who was that?", he enquired.

"Hells know."

[Leopold]

Later That Afternoon

Glencombe Rd was the home of despots, tyrants, and lunatics. The locals called to it by another name; Throat Cutter Street. The rickety architecture put Glencombe somewhere between the two. It was not long enough for a road, and not wide enough for a street. After far too many wars, the once pristine boardwalk and well-polished cobblestones had cracked, crumbled, and waned. The only things pretty about it now were the painted ladies and dapper men who hurried along it.

“Do you think he’ll take the bait?” Jeren enquired. The swordsman hopped from foot to foot. His rapier flashed menacingly in the sunlight.

Stood side by side on the far side of the street to number fourteen, the pair looked quite conspicuous. Leopold was wearing a heavy overcoat, contrary to the summer weather. His colleague wore slacks, a tight-fitting tunic, and various belts.

“It wasn’t bait, Jeren,” Leopold grimaced. He was not goading anyone into doing something untoward. “I just need to know I can trust Otto.”

This always irked the swordsman. It irked his colleague, too, but for now, Syrian remained dormant. Perhaps the ‘other’ part of the captain was not dormant, just listening. Leopold had tried to divine the difference between the two. He had arrived at the logical conclusion. He liked them both, but they were equally as mad as the other was.

“I find it difficult believing you have any trouble trusting people.” There was far too obvious sarcasm for Leopold to bother rebuking him. They had a certain candour that was as endearing as it was feisty.

“If he appears, we can show him the only lead we have found.” He pointed across the street, his hip flask flashing into view as he removed both hands from his fur-lined pockets. “If he does not, then we can begin our own investigation.” Wherever or not they had the cooperation of the local authorities, Leopold was determined to get the congregation to safety.

“You’re a sucker for charity,” Jeren clucked.

“I’m not gaining anything from it,” Leopold corrected. He flicked the lid of his flask open with a chubby thumb. It drained itself so quickly Jeren did not have time to ask for a dram.

“Sure you aren't,” the swordsman sighed.

“You know what I meant. It’s like you have to help even when others can do better.”

Leopold nodded. “I feel obliged. After what happened in Salvar, I will not stomach religious persecution.”

They fell into silence. People continued to filter back and forth, avoiding twitching curtains and invites inside for a ‘quick cup of tea’ and a slice of ‘butcher you in the basement’. If Otto Bastum was going to show, he had better turn up soon.

[Otto]

"What do you think's taking him so long?"

William's voice was nearly drowned out by the sheets of water which spilled off the rooftops of the alley. They had been afforded a brief respite in the weather shortly after lunch, but the storm had come back in full force just minutes ago. Otto shrugged, and pushed himself away from the building's unkempt facade. The orc strolled restlessly up and down the narrow lane which ran off of Glencombe Road, while his colleague peered fruitlessly out from under the eaves at a cloud-laden sky. Wherever the sun was hiding, it was doing a damn fine job of it.

Otto paused in front of an angular bit of graffiti carved into the crumbling masonry. "Give it another couple of minutes", he said, tilting his head at the mural. It was an axe. His hand came to rub the little bronze warhammer which had usually hung from his neck, before he remembered that the amulet was back with his things in the barracks; ever since coming back to the city, Otto taken to leaving the token of Trisgen in his footlocker. At that moment, William shouted a greeting, and Otto turned away to see a younger man pacing hurriedly into the alleyway. He stepped under the eaves and threw back the hood of his long, oilskin coat. Otto ambled back up to the mouth of the alley, and offered the new arrival a nod.

"It looks pretty normal", Carrin stated. The lad had done a circuit past the address of interest and back around the street behind, so that they might suss out anything suspicious before meeting with Otto's enigmatic informant. "Think I saw that bloke you described, though. 'E was chatting with someone else - looked like a body guard or summat."

"Alright then. Cheers, Fitch", William said. "Orman will probably want to hear from you, now."

Carrin nodded. "Bill, Otto. See you back at the fort."

He turned to leave, but Otto called him back. Carrin paused with his hands about to flip up the hood, and gave the orc a quizzical look. "Mind if I borrow your coat?", Otto asked. The young man hesitated, so the orc was compelled to add a little something. "Drinks on me, tonight", he promised, and Carrin's face lit up. He shrugged the oilskin off and handed it over. "Just drinks, mind", Otto finished. The other man's smile faded a little, his impromptu evening plans for Moody's taking a sudden blow.

"You're going to earn that coat tonight, and then some", William chuckled as the junior guardsman ran off through the rain. Otto slipped his arms through the sleeves, and flexed. They came up woefully short, but it would do; as of late, his mail had started to show signs of its age, so it was paramount that he keep it dry as possible.

"Maybe, maybe not", Otto replied. Carrin had not yet seen the next day's drill roster, but Otto had. Fitch would probably be less inclined to get drunk as a lord once he realised he would be up at three hours before dawn for some cross-country endurance training. Otto pulled the hood up and stepped into the rain.

The smell of rain was largely immutable. All the wafting, airborne scents were drowned in the droplets and carried through the gutters to the Nieme, and from there out to sea. Rain had its own heavy aroma which infused Otto's nostrils and seeped into his bones, more of a feeling than a smell. Mostly it felt refreshing. He stalked up the slick road, dodged the frequent pile of refuse left by various beasts of burden, and did his best to keep up with William. Without the same luxury of an oilskin, his partner was almost sprinting through the downpour. Otto looked up to the street, and his face was struck by a wind-tossed wave. He blinked the water from his eyes enough to make out the ramshackle front of number fourteen, Glencombe Road - and across from that, the figures of two men taking shelter beneath the deep eaves of another run-down house. Tallow stopped short of their destination and cast his colleague a pleading look. He did not have to wait long, as the orc's long stride soon carried him out of the rain.

"Good afternoon, Mr Bastum", Leopold Winchester greeted him. Otto lowered his hood and shook the merchant's proffered hand, after which it cut across towards the other guardsman. "And to you, Mr...?"

"Tallow, sir", William introduced himself, and met the gesture. Otto turned his attention to Leopold's partner, hand rising in expectation once again, but the other man simply leered over the orc.

"Nice coat", Jeren said in a meticulously neutral tone.

"Please, Jeren", Leopold interjected, putting his thumbs under the lapels of his own heavy overcoat. "This is Captain Silster. He will be assisting us with our investigation-".

- "our", Otto just heard William mutter -

"-of the horrific murder." Leopold raised a lone eyebrow in Tallow's direction before he continued. "I have invested no inconsiderable sum of my fortune towards securing a lead. However, the only connection I have managed to unearth is this address - fourteen Glencombe Road."

As one, the four of them looked over at the sagging, three-storeyed house across the road. Curtains were drawn in the windows, hiding any hint of light and life on the inside. Dilapidation was readily apparent on the outside, however, from the crumbling whitewash and corroded bronze doorknocker, to the odd missing shingle and a couple of cracked windows. Only one thing indicated that anyone was home.

"You'd have to be a fool not to keep a fire going in this weather", Tallow remarked, noting the thin column of smoke emerging out of the chimney stack.

"Well then", Otto said, turning to the other two. "Shall we?"

[Leopold]

There was something all too convenient about the whole affair. Leopold was by no means an astute investigator, but even he felt nervous as they crossed the road. They wove in and out of a small, meagre crowd waltzing east, and arrived at the door to the property in a motley crew. Their arrival drive by good intentions and perhaps the promise of gold.

“I’m certain it is a ruse,” he said. He looked up the front of the building, and felt a little dizzy doing so. It was one of the older styles of houses in the city. He imagined more than one family had lived here for many years, or perhaps servants on top, gentry in the middle, and scullery house cleaners below. All the same, it was enormous. “Nobody would be so obvious…”

Otto grunted. “You'd be surprised.”

Leopold was sure he would be. “If he’s,” he trailed off. He corrected himself. “If the culprit is here then I guess this’ll be over shortly.” He reached for the door, bold as brass, and made a fist.

“Sir,” Jeren interrupted. He pulled Leopold’s arm back before he did something foolish. “I believe the officer requires a little more decorum.” He pointed at Otto. Otto, jaw wide, looked back at Tallow. The men were blisteringly skittish.

“Your fellow is right,” Tallow said, somewhat shocked. “We can’t just waltz up to the front door and say hello!”

Leopold struggled to see why not. They were armed. He was immortal. He was not in the least worried. He corrected himself again. He was not worried for his welfare, at least. He rolled his eyes and stepped away.

Otto took Leopold’s place and examined the handle. It was battered, rusty, and well used. He inspected the cracks in the planks, the hinges, and the frame of the door. He nodded. As far as Leopold could tell, he was checking for traps. That is what officers of the law did when staking a property apparently. The chimney continued to vent the remnants of an ominously roaring fire. The rain continued to fall, though in lighter waves of sideways mist, and not outright torrents.

“This lead of yours…,” Tallow asked. He watched Otto, but spoke sideways at Leopold. “How’d you come about it?”

“I conduct business in place that it pays to know what’s going on.” The manner in which he said it seemed defensive, but he was every bit sincere. It really did pay to know, and knowing had saved Leopold, and his mercantile empire, many a time over the years.

“Fair enough,” the man said. He nodded appreciatively, but continued to watch Otto.

“Sir,” Jeren said dryly. He pointed to the door when Leopold turned to look with a disgruntled expression. Otto had opened it.

“Alright,” Bastum grumbled. “Easy does it now...,” he warned.

Leopold reached into an inner pocket of his overcoat and produced a pistol. Its white casing stood out in the gloom. He held it barrel to the sky like a duellist. Jeren clutched the hilt of his slender rapier. Tallow relied on his torch as a weapon, whilst Otto, who stood like a brick shit house, ventured in ‘unarmed’.

“I hope he’s not as mad, or as good with knives as that fellow we ran in-” Syrian fell silent. Jeren could only frown and wonder why Leopold was scowling daggers at him.

The investigation advanced indoors. Before they could get inside, Tallow and Jeren found themselves stumbling back out into the street.

"Did he just tell us to ‘cover the exits’?" Jeren blinked.

"You get used to it," Tallow grumbled. He looked out into the rain. "You don't get used to the rain, though," he sighed. He righted his collar. He stepped out into the street. Jeren followed him begrudgingly.

"If he didn't pay me so well," he grumbled, before falling silent.

They walked along the street until an alleyway appeared. They darted down it out of the downpour. It had ceased its sideways march, and continued vertically and with vigour. They started to shine as the rain soaked every part of them. They wove through refuse, crates, and spider web. Eventually they appeared out back in a small, narrow, and reeking passageway.

Tallow pointed towards the rear of the house and put a finger to his lips. "Shhh," he whispered, as if Jeren were an idiot.

"Don't make me not like you," Syrian quipped as they began to tip toe.

[Otto]

The inside of the building was almost as rundown as it was cluttered. In the entrance alone was a be-shimmed chiffonier and a small, cabriole-legged side table which supported a mosaic of papers, some pencils, a half-burnt candle, lots of dust and an old vase filled with rather pathetic-looking buttercups. Thaynes alone knew what had been crammed into the chiffonier, but apparently whatever hadn't fit had been allocated to the floor. More papers, books, shoes and all sorts were piled along the sides of the gallery; crowded, but also neat. A number of hats were fortunate enough to have their own stand, just to Otto's right and in the corner, although it was again filled to overflowing and headgear had been doubled up on some pegs to fit. A threadbare rug ran the length of the hall, with doorways to the right and to the left, and a staircase running parallel from the far end. The heavy air tasted of dust, smoke, and mould.

Otto glanced at the lone candle. It was nearly spent, but did little against the gloom in any case. Most of the light was grey, secondhand stuff coming in from the windows of the other rooms. He moved forward and peered cautiously through the open door on his left.

"How's Tolstoy doing?", he asked Leopold, in a preoccupied sort of way. The room was some sort of study, full of desks and half-open books. A couple of tall, grimy windows offered an unparalleled view of the neighboring structure's brickwork. "Still writing those penny dreadfuls?"

"Actually, he's put pen to a play", Leopold replied. The man kept an eye on the hallway while Otto quickly stomped around the study. Tolstoy had been no less enthusiastic about his existing titles, however, and much to Leopold's distress, had insisted on providing the independent investigator with his collected works. "He even asked if I knew any performers willing to offer their talents. How do you happen to know the man, if you don't mind my asking - business, or pleasure?"

"Same thing, as far as Tolstoy's concerned". Satisfied that the room was indeed empty, the orc shuffled out and repeated the process for the next door up. This one led to a dim kitchen, where the smell took on a mildly sour note. A forest of mismatched chairs cluttered around a scratched and stained oak table. Chipped crockery was stacked ambitiously high in a heavy, open cabinet, and a bench and washbasin ran the length of one entire wall. The view here was a little better, and the windows had been swung wide open. Otto frowned.

"That's letting in a nasty draught", Leopold observed from the hall.

Otto spoke slowly, assembling his thoughts along the way. "Whoever's here must have opened it when the weather turned fine. Perhaps they forgot to close it", he mused. "Maybe they're still here? Leaving all this stuff lit and unattended is just asking for trouble, with this much kindling about."

"Shall we?"

Otto nodded, and closed the windows. He returned to the hall and they continued the procedure. Next up was a cupboard, then a couple of bedrooms, then a laundry room (which led to the servant's entrance), and then the stairs. Otto went first once again, and the ancient wooden boards screamed with agony beneath his solid frame. Up here, and now the relatively fresh air had been cut off, the building's own decomposing cocktail of smells began to bloom strong. The orc sniffed irritably.

"What appears to be the matter?", Leopold inquired. His partner had paused at the top of the stairs, snuffling delicately.

"I... I think we really need to hurry", Otto replied. "Bill!". They heard a distant, ground-floor door open almost immediately, soon followed by the laundry entrance. A concerned face peered up at them from below the balustrade. "Cover the front entrance. If you see any patrols, flag them down." Tallow nodded and ran to the front door. "And keep an eye on the windows!", Otto yelled after him. The orc resumed his olfactory deduction, walking up and down the landing. He stopped by the next lot of stairs up, pursed his large lips, and began to climb.

"What about the other rooms?", Leopold hissed.

"We've got the ground floor covered", replied Otto tersely. "We can check them on the way down. But we need to go up."

Not waiting for the gentleman, he bound upwards three steps at a time. They screamed even louder than the first lot had under his assault. Once at the top, he swung his maned face this way and that, until he locked on to the scent. It was the one fresh, sharp smell in a house of tired old odours. It wound up his nostrils, entwined itself amongst his sinuses, and pulled him forward like a dog on a lead. It went straight into his brain and kicked it into overdrive; his skin prickled, his hairs stood on end. It coiled out in waves around the cracks of a door, now in front of him. He grabbed the handle, turned the handle, opened the door. He stared.

"I don't think you should see this", he said softly, speaking over his shoulder.

[Leopold]

Leopold barely managed to keep up with Otto on his meteoric rise. When he appeared behind the orc, red faced and cursing, his face told a story of physical distress. He slapped his thighs, leant forwards, and tried to catch his breath. Beneath his finely tailored clothing, he was sweating like a pig.

“You know…” He gasped for air. “Saying that makes me want to look…” He righted himself. “Well, it makes me want to look even more.”

It was a well-known fact that denying somebody something made the desire much stronger. Children the world over had put their fingers into doorways, reached for candle flames, and walked out into the road to spite their mothers. After centuries of sticking his neck out, Leopold should have known better than to stride forwards, nudge the orc aside, and take three defiant steps into the chamber.

“Oh good lo-”

He would have sworn, very loudly, had he not vomited.

“I did say…” Otto rolled his eyes.

He leant against the doorway with his arms folded. The room shook beneath the strain. Though the household below was a chaotic mess, this room was somehow organised. It looked, to the untrained eye, like a carnal house. Everywhere you could turn, there were bodies of various statures, species, and freshness. Many suspended from meat hooks, and others sprawled out on the floor. Amidst the madness, a few of the corpses arranged in puzzling patterns of dismembered limbs and diced intestines.

“I think your tip was right on the money,” the orc said dryly.

He wiped his chin. He stepped out of the room, squeezing past the orc without his manners, and wavered on the balls of his swollen heels. There were bits of carrot on his beard, which he picked away with queasy pinches of forefinger and thumb.

“I rather wish it wasn’t,” he said.

Over the years, Leopold had encountered many strange sights. He was more than used to one dead body. He had seen victims contorted, strewn, hacked, and hewn. He had never seen thirty of them at once. When his beard was relatively clean, and the puddle on the other side of the doorway had begun to drain away under the floorboards, his mind instantly sprang into action.

“So…,” Otto hummed.

“I’m not going to ask how you knew to go up.” Leopold took a tentative sniff of the stale air. With the orc’s sense of smell, he was surprised Otto had not barfed three flights down. He had under estimated Mr Bastum’s notoriety within the city guard. “You have a good nose for the job,” he said lightly. He had to find something, anything to make himself laugh.

Otto did not laugh.

“So…that clue of yours,” he said. “What do you think it means now?” He briefly looked over his shoulder with a gruff, officious expression. He jabbed a digit into the room.

Leopold adjusted his waistcoat, took off his outer layer, and hung it cautiously on a nearby door handle. Its trails kicked up a decade of dust from the worn, polished to death floorboards. Content he was ready, Leopold turned back into the chamber. He stepped across the threshold, over his own detritus, and stood boot to boot with arms flexed. He puffed out his chest.

“Whoever the culprit is they have a serious problem with the Thayne.”

It did not take much detective work to look past the corpses. The chamber was alive with detail. At the far end, beneath a cage of interlocked arms and bloodied thighs, there was a raised dais.

“That makes sense, given the way the priest was…” Otto sighed. “Well…quickly removed from office.” He started to wish that the culprit were the tiefling Aurelianus. It would have been easier to stomach what he was looking at. Things would have at least made sense.

Leopold narrowed his eyes at the altar. Leading up to it, there was a red carpet, half-covered by rivers of blood and bile. When he clocked the obvious, his eyes widened.

“There are footprints there.” He pointed a hundred feet or so ahead.

He followed them in the direction of their tread. He skipped over a poor woman lacking a head, feet, or dignity, and stopped when the footprints ended. They melted into the eastern wall. The brickwork there, unlike the rest of the room, was actually brick. Leopold felt relieved to see red architecture that was not due to an abundance of body parts. Cobwebs hung from the rafters overhead that were made of spider silk, not hair, and a half-moon of the floor was actually floor, not folic acid.

“That’s a little too obvious even for me,” Otto said. He pushed away from the doorway, which creaked louder than the floorboards beneath his trundling boots. He advanced cautiously through the room. He reached for a weapon. “I hope you’re ready…,” he said softly.

Leopold redoubled his grip about the comforting hilt of Isabella. The metal framework of the handle warmed his fingers.

“After you,” he whispered. He retreated behind the imposing stature of the orc.

With grey light seeping through the bloodied windows, and hearts racing, they advanced towards the bolthole. Leopold gritted his teeth as they approached. The air tensed, his heart raced, and his stomach churned a riot.

[Otto]

Otto pressed an ear to the bricks. Normally he would sniff around a bit first, but for the past minute he'd been breathing carefully through his mouth. He'd seen his share of things during the island's recent bout of bloodshed, but nothing to really match this. And by gods, the smell. Even the city's midday fish market couldn't measure up.

He looked over his shoulder at Leopold, and nodded grimly. A telltale clinking sound had come from behind the wall; not much to go on, but a sign that they should certainly be careful. Otto noted Leopold's queasy pallor and, sparing half a thought for how he himself must look, decided that he'd better better be getting on with it before the poor man decided to throw up again. Truth be told, Otto wanted to extract himself from the room for the exact same reason. He ran a rough hand around the edges of the wall, searching for the mechanism to open it. Finding nothing, he extended his search and stepped back a few feet, but this, too, yielded nothing more than morbidly adorned furniture. Leopold made a foreboding gagging noise, and Otto decided that his time was up. He took a few more steps back, threw his partner a slightly apologetic look, and broke into a sprint.

The floorboards thudded tremendously under his feet, and he threw himself shoulder-first against the edge of the wall. With a grunt, Otto fell through almost immediately as the old latch surrendered noisily and the wall pivoted round. Leopold caught a glimpse of the orc stumbling through into darkness before the hidden door spun nearly to a close once again.

"Otto?" Leopold's voice had been left weakened by the recent ordeal, and he was worried it hadn't carried through the bricks.

The orc's reply was a little muffled, but it came. "I'm fine. Come through, but could you bring some light?"

"You are positive that you want to see what is in there?"

Otto was silent for a couple of seconds before he replied. "I think my imagination's worse, to be honest", he said. "Besides, it doesn't smell so bad."

And with that, Leopold was sold. He quickly searched around for the least gore-encrusted candlestick he could find, its nub still burning away like those downstairs. He kept Isabella primed and ready, but the bronze cylinder in his hand had its own comforting feeling of profound weight. Leopold crept over to the crack in the wall, and pushed cautiously against it. The door swung easily around, and he made out the back of Otto's leather coat as it caught a ray of watered-down sunlight. He stepped inside.

It took a little while to adjust to the gloom, but with Leopold's aid, Otto eventually began to make out some rough figures in the darkness. It was smaller than the other room, with a sharply sloping ceiling, a squat desk left of the entrance accompanied by a spindly chair, and what seemed to be a tall wooden wardrobe up against the opposite wall. The floor was covered with thick, dusty rugs, the walls similarly lined with a patchwork of mismatched drapes and threadbare carpet. Otto wasn't sure what to make of it, and while he wondered, Leopold spied a glimmering shape on the desk. He walked over to it, and soon had a small oil lamp kindled. The room went a shade brighter.

Otto stalked over to the wardrobe, and looked meaningfully at Leopold. The man clearly understood, as he joined the orc in front of the old wooden doors, his pistol and impromptu club at the ready. The orc reached out, grabbed a slender brass handle, and flung the door wide open.

"Huh", Leopold remarked. "Perhaps we are fortunate enough to have chosen a time when the murderer is not at home...?"

Otto ran a hand through the wardrobe's empty bowels. "Perhaps", he said.

He closed his eyes and breathed as deep as he dared. Someone had definitely been occupying this room, but not merely in the past few minutes. There was a distinct odour here which was usually associated with the gutters of the streets below. He spied a rusty old bucket opposite the doorway and, walking over to it, nudged it warily with his foot. Its fetid contents sloshed around noisily within the depths. Leopold stared at it for a moment, then resumed his survey of the room, seemingly deep in thought. Half a minute went by before the portly fellow paused, stepped back, tapped Otto on the shoulder, and gestured at the floor below the desk. Otto swept his gaze along the fire-hazard rugs to the slender legs of the old chair, and then, to the barely visible outline of a thick chain. For the most part, it had been shoved under one of the carpets, but there was no hiding the tail end as it met a heavy iron plate fixed to the wall. The other end trailed into the darkness below the desk. Otto looked to Leopold, who gave him a curt nod.

The orc tromped over to the gap between the bolt-bound base of the chain and the desk. Then in one swift movement, he grabbed the metal links, and yanked.

[Leopold]

Leopold was not sure what to expect at the end of the chain. Instead of a gibbering, maniacal, lunatic, covered in blood and detritus, all that appeared was a gibbering, maniacal, old man, covered in dust. It was as far from a monster as he could picture.

“Oh…,” he said softly. His mouth formed an o of surprise.

Otto’s strength reined the man in in no time at all. He pulled him gently from behind the desk, and carolled him to the centre of the room. Leopold inspected him with interest. He was clearly a priest, though he was certain it had been years since he held any services. His robes were soiled, torn, and haggard. His beard was as long as his hair, both were thick, unkempt, and nearly snow white.

“I am finding it hard to believe this man is capable of…,” Leopold’s voice trailed off. He decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

“What-is-your-name?” Otto said with belittling slowness.

The old man looked up at the greyish skin of the orc, and with a strange mixture of catcall and scream, he replied.

“McNamee’s Jacoby! Yes, yes, and yes. Jacoby, Jones, maybe…,” he stuttered. He scratched at his scalp. He ran his hands over his torso, as if fighting off invisible bugs, and then turned abruptly statuesque. “Jacoby,” he said flatly, eyes staring at the open door with cold, calculating, and eerie clarity.

“Jacoby is a familiar name…” Leopold tried to remember why he knew it. He had worked in Radasanth for so long he was sure he had come across a priest by that name before. He furrowed his brow. “He is a deacon, I think.” He pointed at the man’s neck. Otto, following the gesture, bent at the knee to inspect.

“What have we here?” he asked. He reached out tentatively to the silver chain protruding from the upturned collar. The white band that served as a mark of priesthood was long gone, and the simple beads and fetish Y’edda supplicants wore as a mantra discarded. It was hard to make out more about the man’s faith than he had one.

Jacoby, turning to the approaching finger, snarled. It was a feral cry. Leopold began to pity him, forgetting, for just a moment, that this man might indeed be responsible for countless deaths. He wondered how long he lingered chained up in this attic.

Otto pulled the chain with a calming smile, and steadied the priest. He tussled, but gave up the fight quickly. When the orc lifted the necklace up, there was a simple, unadorned ring dangling from the rusty loops.

“Is this familiar too, Leopold?” He looked up at the merchant from over the white bushels of hair. He dropped his gaze back to the ring, and slowly but surely undid the clasp. He took it into his hand, let the long chain go, and stepped back. Jacoby, placated by too much sensory overload, remained rocking back and forth in a heap in the floor.

Leopold approached Otto with a curious smile. He looked at the ring, reached for it, and let it dangle onto his upturned palm. He recognised it immediately.

“It’s a sovereign ring,” he stated. The orc grunted.

“I can see that,” he said.

“Sorry, I mean it’s a priest’s sovereign ring. It is used as a symbol of office, and if I remember correctly, sometimes a key to a bolt hole or safe.” He blinked absent-minded. The last time he had seen one it had been considerably more ornate. “They’re usually golden, though…” He turned it over in between fore finger and thumb.

“Can I see?” Leopold passed the circle over, and Otto stepped back to catch the relatively strong light from the next room's windows. He sniffed it first, and then held it up between thumb and forefinger. "Smells like iron. Too light for gold. My guess is it's been tempered and cooled over a low heat. You can get all sorts of colours from steel, depending on the temperature.” He handed it back to Leopold. "Either his church is skint, stingy, or it's a knock-off.”

As Otto turned to walk to the door, Leopold lifted the ring to his nose. He sniffed it, but recognised it only as ‘metal’. He frowned. He dropped the ring and his hand to his side, and felt rather foolish for having tried.

“Get up here you lot!” Otto barked. He leant out the door, not too enthusiastic about going back into the altar room, and listened long enough to hear the sound of several pairs of dutiful feet trundling up through the rickety house. He looked back at Leopold.

“I know what you’re thinking,” the merchant said.

Otto raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He folded his arms over his ample chest.

Leopold nodded. “You’re thinking we’ve caught our culprit. You’re thinking we can tag, bag, and flag this one as solved.” He pointed to the priest.

“No, actually,” Otto laughed. “I was thinking that this man can’t possibly have killed all those people.”

“You were?” Leopold blinked.

Otto nodded. “Look at his arms - I've seen more meat on a butcher's pencil. He couldn't have hung the old man up by himself, and besides, why the chains? He looks more like he's next up for the, the, whatever the hells is going on here,” the orc finished with a growl. He curled his lip into a contemplative expression.

The two men stared at one another in a battle of silent wits. Leopold tried to work out what sort of man locked a priest up in an attic. Otto tried to work out why the priest had valuables on him. Neither found answers. Jeren, Tallow, and a cold front appeared in the doorway. Jeren was heaving. Tallow, apparently more adept than his jittery persona let on, chose to simply not look, ignore the corpses, and pay attention.

“You called?” Jeren quipped.

Leopold rolled his eyes. “Start examining the room with that all too sarcastic wit of yours, would you?” he asked. He pointed haphazard at the desk in particular. He did not tell Otto’s men what to do – he knew his place.

Otto turned to Tallow. “Someone needs to inform Orman. Would you...?” Tallow nodded gratefully, and thundered back down the stairs.

“I was hoping this was the end of it,” Leopold sighed. He knew at the back of his mind, and in his heart, that this was just the absolute tip of a very troubling, corrupt, and dark iceberg.

[Otto]

"I need some air", Otto stated. Leopold cast a meaningful look towards the old priest, who was busy brooding on his haunches over in a corner. "He's already chained up", Otto continued. "I doubt he's going anywhere". Even as he said them, Otto could feel that those were the kinds of words which might come back to haunt him.

"Even so...", began Leopold.

"I need some air", Otto reiterated, flatly. "I'll be downstairs."

As he stalked back through what he had simply come to call 'The Room' in his mind, he did his best to ignore the vivid strokes of scarlet and rust within, and focus solely on the open doorway at the far end. As he passed the grimy little window, the light caught on something at his feet. He looked down instinctively, and stopped. Then, leaning down, he picked up the handful of glimmering metal and pried it apart. He stood looking at what he had in his palm for some time, until his feet slowly began to move towards the stairs almost of their own accord.

Last he'd heard, there had been more than a score of unusual missing persons cases reported to the guard. None of them were high profile, and all were people you could reasonably expect to bump into on the street. And who had the investigation gone to? The wet-behind-the-ears nephew of some major, who saw it as a chance to build his reputation, and as a pretext for promotion. Otto had been fortunate enough in the war to serve under officers who knew what they were doing, but he'd heard tell of other companies which hadn't fared so well. Money was the voice of the Empire, and too many commissioned officers had viewed their subordinates simple as things they owned, set pieces for their own games of glory. Unfortunately, some of those same officers had survived, and were doing as much with the everyday concerns Radasanth's citizens.

The kitchen door ceded hastily to Otto's advance for a second time. He carefully placed the item upon the central table, but did not take a seat. Instead, he gripped the chair's back in both hands, and stared down while his train of thought chugged madly along. He just knew what would happen when they reported this in. Like any entitled, aristocratic snob, the lieutenant in charge of the missing persons case would flounder around for some way to save his reputation - and Orman would no doubt receive some sort of reprimand from the major for not sharing information vital to the other investigation, because that's what the CAF was these days. Oh, there were good men and women, normal people, walking the beat and slogging their way through drills. But as a whole, the CAF was the tool of the rich and the connected.

He had never, ever said as much even to his closest brothers-in-arms, but from the day he had marched out, he had understood exactly what the Rangers had been fighting for. And though he envied them for it, he'd had too much at stake on this side of the fence to desert. To the Rangers, the men and women of Corone had been people to fight for, not merely things to fight over.

His knuckles clenched white around the thin wooden framework, squeezing out a crack from the tortured wood. Was that what those thirty poor souls upstairs were to the major and his nephew? Well, let the lieutenant see them for himself, with his own eyes. Let the lieutenant tell her on the table there what had happened in this house, as well as every other worried father, mother, brother, sister, husband, wife, son and daughter. Otto's arms trembled, their thick fur trying to rise up from under his mail sleeves.

He'd reached the limit of his self-restraint. He tensed, and made a great noise.



* * *


For all the haste with which Leopold flew down the stairs, he approached the kitchen door with distinct guardedness. Easing it open, he was faced with the sight of Otto sitting calmly at the central table and staring out the window. The first thing Leopold noticed apart from that was that a chair had become lodged through the now-shattered glass front of the cabinet, with bits of broken crockery decorating the floor below. The second thing was a decent crack which ran almost from edge to centre along the table, starting from Otto's side. Leopold surreptitiously returned Isabella to the depths of his coat, and walked slowly forward.

"How did we let it come so far?" Otto's voice was flat and hushed. In the silence of the kitchen, it rang clear.

As Leopold got closer, her saw something else on the table by the orc. It was a silver locket, opened up to reveal a small but well-painted portrait of a young child, smiling warmly up. Otto must have found it amongst the mess upstairs.

"I thought, after... after everything we just got over, it would be good, you know?", the orc continued. "Do your duty in the watch. No more killing. Just... helping people, for once."

One of Leopold's gifts for conversation was knowing when to simply be silent. His impression of the young guard included a Spartan wont to not waste words, so for him to struggle through this tirade - to an acquaintance he had known for less than a day, at that - the need must have been great. It occurred to Leopold that he didn't even know how old the orc was. As a whole, the species had never really done much to attract the professional interest of a merchant such as himself, but over his epic lifespan, he'd heard things about the longevity of some of the tribes. Otto might have been considered mature by human standards, but the thought that one not yet even an adult had been marched off to the war was a chilling one to Leopold. He pulled up a chair opposite the orc, and seated himself in continued silence.

"But how did we help them upstairs?" Otto turned his head, sluggishly, to meet the merchant's gaze.

"Leopold, what are we supposed to do?"

[Leopold]

Leopold, with much effort, remained seated at the opposite end of the kitchen table. Watching Otto come undone took its toll on the merchant’s nerves, and he wanted to stand, leave, and be finished with the whole affair. It had all being told, been quite a day for all involved. He took a moment to consider how best to proceed, but felt just as useless. He was very much used to being firmly in control of the situation.

“I don’t know what to say…,” he said softly. He shook his head. “We can’t do anything that would bring back the dead.”

Leopold had spent many years trying. He would probably spend a good few more, just to make sure. He looked around the dank kitchen, for inspiration, but found none in the battered coffee pots, dusty jars, and rotting vegetables piled high on the worktops. Somebody had been cooking here, when the person responsible for the madness upstairs had decided to let hatred consume him.

He wondered how life could ever carry on for the people of Glencombe Rd after this.

Maybe it would not.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to ‘do’ anything.”

Jeren appeared in the doorway stealthily. Leopold glanced up, smiled all knowing, and looked at the orc.

“Except do our jobs.” By which he meant, Otto’s job. “We have to do what we are born, or commanded to do.” He had told Jeren to do things unspeakable in his employ, and to the man’s credit, he had done them. When the guard left Leopold’s sight, he rose from his seat. “So this is perhaps the best course of action.” He leant forwards, pressed his hands onto the table, and stared intently at Otto.

“Go on?”

“We’re going to find whoever did this and bring them to your so called justice.” Leopold meant no harm by his comment, but he had personal objections to Radasanth’s peculiar brand of law enforcement he had no time to air. “We’re going to ensure the congregation of the church is left unharmed.” He nodded, as if agreeing with his own genius. “I will see to that.”

Jeren slipped in behind Otto, and stood dutifully to his left hand side. He held his hands in the small of his back and his head high. Leopold’s command to his colleague earlier in the day had already put plans in motion to that effect.

“Jeren here will work with your man Tallow and liaise between us.” Leopold said re-assuredly. They seemed to be getting on enough to risk putting them together for a little while longer.

“Assuming I want to work with him,” Jeren corrected. His lips curled into a wry smile. “I do, I might add, but thank you for asking.” Syrian emerged just long enough to cause Leopold to frown. His glare could have melted steel.

Otto, starting to see a plan form, nodded. “We'll check the rest of the house, first,” he said. Jeren looked at Otto, and then at Leopold for confirmation. There was a glimmer of normality and hope in his eyes. This gave Leopold the encouragement he needed to find faith and hope in his own shadowy heart.

“Gosh, yes, excellent idea.” He rolled his eyes at not having thought of it first. “We can best help the dead by ensuring nobody else suffers at the hand of this madman…or men…or women.” They still had absolutely no idea who, or what, was responsible.

“It clearly isn’t the old man…so who’s the one pulling the strings?” Jeren asked.

The sun began to set and caught the kitchen’s solitary, mud-stained window. It cast an amber glow across the cracked table. Its ruined state gloriously captured the orc’s rage, and Leopold and his growing sense of hatred. He loathed the sort of person that turned to these dark deeds for sanctuary. He would have found it hard to believe there was a sane man in Corone that did not agree with that sentiment.

[Otto]

Stiff, jet tufts waggled back and forth atop Otto's head as he tried to shake it clear. Moving with almost painful deliberation, he extracted himself from the chair, stood, and collected the locket. He stowed it away in his own purse for the time being; Tallow would soon return with an entourage, and although Otto felt he would be justified in trusting a fair number of his comrades with his life, he was even more certain that he could trust considerably fewer with his valuables. He'd hand it over to the lieutenant next time he saw her.

He also didn't want to risk crumpling it in his grip. His paws were starting to twitch again.

"Didn't see anything in the hall just now", Jeren remarked, peering out past the kitchen door. "We should give the bottom another sweep, though, then work our way up."

Otto nodded. "Aye. Why don't you hold the stairs at each floor while Leopold and I go room by room? I can probably survive a surprise or two."

Jeren appraised the orc's battered mail coat. It was better than nothing, and though Jeren remained somewhat leery, he had already left his employer alone in the presence of the orc without much incident. Leopold's bodyguard conceded to the plan with single bow of his head.

While Jeren kept an eye on the hall and servant's entrance, Leopold and Otto did the rounds once again. The first floor yielded nothing new, although with the window closed, Otto was much more aware of the stink. That which seeped down from The Room was mercifully suffocated by the prevalent mould and must throughout the ground level. But with each new floor, it came menacingly out further from the woodwork. The knowledge of it transformed the boring little house so that every unassuming bedroom door, every modest wardrobe handle, thrummed with sinister promise. Otto seized them all, and ripped each ingress wide.

The coals that he'd smothered down in the kitchen - Leopold's words had been the bellows which had fanned them back to life. Did the man not think he knew enough about death? All he'd heard were platitudes and comforting noises, but Otto had hoped for answers. He wanted to know what had happened in Salvar, which had apparently been so like this. More than that, he wanted to know what they had done to stop it. He wanted something useful.

Leopold had missed the point. The watch had already been doing their jobs, but it had prevented nothing. Why keep banging one's head against the wall?

Gradually, Otto began to relent on the fixtures. Leopold hadn't spoken since they left the kitchen, whether because he preferred to focus on the task at hand or because he was wary of the orc's temper, Otto did not know. Time and again, Otto ventured into each room, failed to be set upon by a bloodthirsty lunatic, and then helped Leopold rifle through the nooks and crannies. The building continued to show signs of neglect; Otto guessed that the majority of the house had been unoccupied for quite some time now. Most of the wardrobes were empty, the beds bare save for stained mattresses, and the air lacked that base, animal, lived-in smell. Each empty bedroom was gently soaked in cold, grey light. Rain tapped eagerly against dusty little windows. A peal of thunder came rolling in from the distant sea.

This place was cold and dark. Otto could feel it drawing the fire out of him once again, and in its place came a new host of thoughts. Namely, the ever-unnerving suspicion that one was wrong.

Had they actually been doing their jobs? The 'investigation' had been going on for what, weeks? A couple of months? And in just a few days, the man who, at that moment was fussing over the accumulation of dust on his sleeves, had done more for it than the well-connected nephew of a CAF major. If all it had taken was a bit of legwork and a disturbingly normal amount of bribery by CAF standards, then what in the blazes had the guard been doing up until now?

Otto was increasingly aware that he was a bit of an idiot. He'd been busy navel-gazing while Leopold and Jeren were planning ahead.

The trio had just begun on the top floor when Leopold glanced casually out to the street below. "It would appear that the constabulary has arrived", he observed. Craning his neck to achieve a better view, he added, "And in quite some force, at that. We should probably welcome them in."

They made it halfway down the entry hall before the front door slammed wide open. Its corroded old handle made a harsh, metallic thud as it cracked the plaster, but Otto was too busy staring past it at Orman to notice. He'd not seen the woman look that angry in a long time.

"Ma'am", he barked out almost immediately. His feet clicked together and a hand went up in salute.

"At ease", growled the lieutenant, in a tone that did anything but. There was some additional commotion at the rear of the house, followed by another handful of crimson-clad soldiers spilling in to the hallway behind Otto and the others. Orman directed the newcomers to the stairs with a curt nod towards the landing, and two of them detached from the group and made their way up.

Leopold seemed to take it upon himself to diffuse the tension, and stepped towards the lieutenant with his most sincere smile and one hand proffered in greeting. Before he could get a word out, however, one of Orman's subordinates moved forward to intercept, his own hand closed around the hilt of a short blade. Orman turned her icy stare on the suddenly frozen merchant.

"Otto. Report", she commanded, then spun around and marched into the kitchen. Otto gave Leopold and Jeren a meek look before following his superior, leaving his new partners in the wary company of ten armed soldiers.

When he entered the kitchen, Orman was busy staring at the chair jutting out from the smashed cupboard. However, she quickly spun on him.

"Close the door", she said. Otto let the latch click in to place, then took up position opposite the table to his superior. She stood straight and stiff, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Otto, what the blazes is going on here? Tallow said you have a room full of bodies upstairs. How many?"

Though the orc's eternal slouch hindered his efforts, he did his best to match Orman's composure. "Looked to be thirty. I... didn't quite get an accurate count."

"And who are they?"

"Leopold Winchester, merchant of sorts, and his bodyguard, Captain Jeren Silster". He paused, and Orman gave him an equal parts expectant and steely look. "Mr Winchester found a lead. Seems to think the body we found this morning has some connection to what's upstairs."

"And what if he is the connection, Otto? Wyron's bleeding ballsack, tell me you didn't just decide to let some mysterious benefactor show you where to find thirty godsdamned corpses?"

Otto shrugged. "All he said was that he had a lead. He was as surprised as me."

"You're sure of that?"

Otto tried to pick out one thing from the previous hour which justified his certainty in this regard. "He threw up pretty hard when we found the bodies", he suggested. Unfortunately, Orman did not appear convinced. "What kind of murderer would do that, though?", he continued. "Lead us here, that is. It'd be tying your own noose."

Orman scowled. "Know any serial killers, Otto?" It was an interesting question, actually. He supposed he knew lots, all of whom wore the red and were paid by the Assembly. Nonetheless, he doubted that was what Orman had in mind. He shook his head, and the lieutenant carried on. "They are amazingly cunning, incredibly, astoundingly stupid - in some very specialised ways - and beyond compare in vanity. Flaunting their handiwork in front of the guard sounds just like something one would do."

"With respect, ma'am", Otto began, to which the lieutenant defied the odds by managing to go even a little stiffer. "We, the guard, have done not one godsdamned thing so far. This fellow said similar things were happening in Salvar - so check to see when he arrived in the city. People began disappearing months ago, so if he wasn't here, we can rule him out. But whatever else - we're here, in this building, only because of that man."

Orman let him writhe under her glare for a few more seconds, before she snapped her head towards the window. "Fine. You'll liaise with Winchester and Silster-".

"- and Fats, too. He can work with Jeren", Otto said abruptly.

"Alright, two pairs of eyes are better than one. William will join you, too. And you will both keep very watchful eyes on your contacts, and you will report everything to me. Everything. Got it?"

Otto saluted. "Yes, ma'am."

"Very well", she sighed. "It's just possible that we can remain on this investigation. I've sent a message to lieutenant Grimhold, who was in charge of the missing persons case, so we can probably expect him soon. I know what you think about the man. Hells, you and half the garrison. But do not forget he is your superior. Understood?"

"Ma'am."

"I shall interpret that as a 'yes'. Whatever plans major Grimhold has for his nephew, command will want at least one... experienced officer coordinating the investigation. If we play nice, and if we're lucky, they'll pick someone also already acquainted with it." The hardness in Orman's stance and speech eased off, as she began to cogitate. "Which means me, and, ergo, you. So if you want to actually do something about these murders, you'd better learn to kiss arse. Still with me?"

To his credit, Otto hesitated before answering. "Yes, ma'am."

Orman nodded. "Good man. Now, I suppose the four of you have a room full of bodies to show me. And a chained up old man?"

"Yes. Not sure what to make of that one. Oh-" Otto exclaimed, and reached a hand in to his pouch. "This was in the room upstairs. We might need it when we inform the relatives."

The silver locket skittered across the table, rattling over the crack towards Orman's hand. She caught it, and after a quick glance, shoved it into one of her own pockets.

"Alright. Lead on", she said.

[Leopold]

Leopold Winchester was never speechless.

From the moment the soldiers appeared to the moment Otto re-emerged from the adjacent room, he said nothing. If he was nervous (which he was), he made no show of it. The only movement in the orc’s absence was the infuriatingly calm Jeren filing his nails with the roughshod hilt of a dagger. With every back and forth, the motion drew the attention of twenty eyeballs and every heartbeat in the room sounded like a proudly stricken tom drum.

“Upwards, I take it?” Orman barked. Leopold mentally chuckled at the woman’s voice being louder and more threatening than Otto’s. She did not wait for a reply. Her heavy boots, though not as heavy as an orc’s, trudged to the bottom of the stairs.

Otto looked remorsefully at Leopold. Leopold sighed. Leopold nudged Jeren, and the duo followed the orc, who in turn, trundled after the captain with only half of his previous haste. The building only trundled in his rise, instead of meteorically shook. Knowing their place, the gaggle of guards remained in the hall, their stances relaxed, and their swords cocked over shoulders. Light banter echoed behind the trio, until uncouth jokes and comments about orcs drifted into nothingness.

“I suppose this is where you warn me about your superior,” Leopold chuckled.

They all stopped mid-stride. The stairway turned in on itself in angular rotations, each carpeted rise raising them up through the now damned household. Jeren turned to Leopold, one foot on a step higher, eyebrow raised. Leopold, trying to look innocent, mimicked his captain’s gesture. His eyebrow rose at Otto who for a moment turned to pass on the favour.

“Oh,” he grumbled, when he realised there was no one else.

“I know she doesn’t trust me,” Leopold said flatly. He ran a finger over his left ringlet, hip slouched, smile candid.

Otto took the bait. He put his right foot forwards, and leant his weight onto his knee in an expiratory stance.

“But how do you know?” he asked. He did not know Leopold Winchester at all, but he did know the man had a penchant for knowing things he should not. Perhaps, he mused, Orman was right to warn him about the merchant.

Leopold chuckled light-heartedly. He took a moment to look around the stairwell, it being one of the few places they had not searched thoroughly on their investigatory rounds. The stairs broke into a demi-landing here, to allow the structure to turn without bending time and space. Each step covered with a once blood red carpet, whose depth and warmth had long since faded. The walls, naturally covered in smoke-stained paisley wallpaper, were pot-holed, dirty, and losing their covering in flaking patterns of disrepair.

“Call it a hunch,” the merchant chuckled.

“Call it a magnetic personality,” Syrian added; with a moment to shine like that, Jeren had no chance to contain his alter ego in his mortal prison.

“Thanks for that,” Leopold sighed, rolling his eyes. “No…” he mused. “It is not a hunch.”

“Oh?” Otto asked, growing tired of all the long-winded discussion. He was starting to want results from their work, not more questions. Orman had seen to his sudden desire to get things done. She had that way with the city guard.

“I do not expect anybody to trust me, but I do expect people to give me…” Leopold trailed off.

He had, whilst fighting off distrust and sarcasm from both sides, been eyeing up the boarded window on the landing. He longed to stand in the crack of sunlight that streamed through where the wooden planks had rotten and fallen away, only, there was no sunlight. His supposedly brilliant mind tried very hard to deduce a reason why this might be. Was an alleyway beyond? Had the day already long spent?

“Hold that thought,” he erred.

He leant, very slowly, towards the window. He placed two fingers into the dark crack, resplendent of his wife’s favourite past time, and wiggled them bravely in the beyond.

“It’s not cool…it’s…,” he trailed off. He had expected to touch glass, feel daylight, or the chill of the evening air.

“I bet all the wo…,” Syrian started.

“It’s not a window,” Leopold barked, cutting his guard off, and arriving at the inevitable conclusion at last. He heaved.

Otto stepped down a few steps when he caught on, leaving Leopold to tear at the planks feebly. Several came lose, and started to reveal a dark portal beyond, but the orc grew weary and practically barged the man aside. His brute strength had seen to the table in the kitchen below, and several ageing jam jars in the pantry. Rotten wood would prove useless as a defence. He tore at them, and in a few seconds, all three men were staring side by side at something very puzzling indeed.

“What are you all staring at?” asked Orman. She appeared around the corner, annoyingly prompt to steal the scene, and she too stared at the window that was not.

“It’s some sort of…shrine,” Otto hazarded a guess.

Leopold shook his head. “No, it’s an honour roll. Noble households usually put portraits like this over mantelpieces, but I guess such a big staircase leaves room for several pride of place portraits of a whole family line to be put on display.”

“Do you think it’s the same man?” Otto asked. He furrowed his brow.

Jeren shook his head. “No, that’s…” He paused and rubbed his chin in a debonair manner.

“What…is…going…on?” Orman repeated with flat, monotone insistence.

“Ma’am, Mr Winchester found this,” the orc said, jabbing a wood scented finger at the portrait.

Orman glared at it.

“I think it’s the priest’s son…,” Jeren offered, just in time to abate disaster. “The man upstairs is a priest, and the inscription says ‘Alexander Montserrat.’”

The rest of the group failed to see the bigger picture. When Jeren realised, he let out a long, smoke scented sigh.

“The priest in charge of this diocese is called Hugo Montserrat.”

Leopold blinked. Otto blinked. Orman fumed.

“How do you know that Jeren?” the merchant asked.

“I go to church,” he said, candidly, and with a shrug.

Otto pushed past Leopold, charged through Jeren, and skirted around Orman with a burst of speed. His anger, which nobody mentioned but everyone feared, boiled over. Before the trio could object, or make comment, the orc was virtually back in the carnal house above.

Leopold dropped his jaw in slow surprise.

“Oh good lord…,” he said. There was a wince in his words. “The murderer is definitely not the priest…” At least, it was no longer the senior clergyman.

“Keeping it in the fa…” Leopold glared at Jeren. It was firm enough to still the sharp tongue, and soft enough to encourage the swordsman to turn on a heel, and bounce up into the loft after their colleague.

Orman, unwittingly beginning to trust the strange duo, followed with authority’s gait.

“I think this is called ‘developing your investigation’,” Leopold shouted at the woman as he passed her, finding strength and stamina in places he did not know it existed.

The captain shot him a sour glance, but continued upwards in silence. As they rose, they all posed rhetorical questions to the father, his son, and the unholy ghosts of the Montserrat household.

[Otto]

There was an unrestrained urgency to Otto's ascent. Orman narrowed her eyes as she watched the orc tear away.

"Easy now, Bastum", she warned. He slowed, paused at the top of the landing - then resumed his climb, at a much more measured pace.

This seemed to satisfy Orman, who nodded and let him go on his way. She, too, hesitated for a moment just before she cleared the steps, perhaps in an attempt to brace herself for the sight which awaited. Neither Leopold nor Jeren sought to condescend to the woman by offering words or gestures of support, and left her to it in silence. In but a second, if that, the lieutenant had squared her shoulders and moved to meet the scene.

She slowed once the doorway came in to view, along with the two guardsmen who had made the walk up some time earlier. They stood to attention on either side of the corridor, their scarlet tabards turned the colour of dried blood by the gloom, and gave their superior anxious glances. Orman tried to put them at ease with another nod before, almost reluctantly, she walked through into the middle of the blood-soaked room beyond.

Her head swiveled sharply around to take it all in. Whatever was churning away in her skull, it barely showed on the surface; apart from a slight frown and a nibbled lip, Orman's face was blank. Leopold and Jeren ambled through, close behind. Each was silent.

They became aware of muttering, seeping out from the bolt hole.

Orman collected herself and proceeded to the not-so-hidden doorway. The other two followed gladly, and once their eyes readjusted to the murk, they made out Otto's looming figure standing over a crouched, huddled mess in the corner. The bedraggled old man was mumbling something inaudibly to his himself as he stared intently at the moth-eaten, ancient carpet. The sheer amount of padding probably meant that, had the door not already been open, nary a peep would have made it to the twisted display room outside.

"What's he saying?", Orman inquired.

"It's a prayer, I think", replied Otto.

Leopold sighed theatrically. "Of course it is."

"What's his name? Does it happen to be 'Alexander', by any chance, or is that too much to hope for?", pressed Orman.

Otto shrugged. "He's not responding. He seems a bit... addled."

"Addled I can deal with", stated the lieutenant. "We'll take him to the cells. Maybe one which gets a bit of sun, at that - I mean, look at this place."

A knock against the broken-latched door interrupted their discussion. Everyone in the room, save the priest, turned their attention to the guard outlined in the door frame. "Ma'am?", he said. "Lieutenant Grimhold is here. He'd like a word."

Orman glanced back at the prisoner. "Alright. Thank you. While you're here, see if you can help Otto get this chain free. We're taking this man with us to the garrison." The soldier acknowledged the order with another salute as Orman brushed past him.

She stopped in the middle of the room again, and greeted the immaculately-dressed individual who had just arrived. He stood one step beyond the door, in the corridor outside.

"Lieutenant Grimhold? Francine Orman, at your service", she said. Her voice bordered on chipper, and was uncomfortably bright for someone surrounded by dismembered corpses.

"I know who you are, lieutenant", Grimhold said, meeting her gaze. "I appreciate the speed with which you contacted me. Tell me, what have you found so far?"

"Apart from this?", she said, sweeping her eyes left and right across the morbid array. "We have a, well, an involved party, in the room behind us. Two of my men are unchaining him right now, and will take him to the garrison for questioning. There are some clues as to his identity, but they are far from confirmed as of yet."

"That sounds promising", Grimhold conceded. His eyes hadn't flickered even a fraction of an inch from the woman's; they avoided the other contents of the room as though his life depended on it. "I shall take my own men and canvas the neighbourhood. Command would like us to work together on this case, since our investigations seem to have merged."

"I am confident that we shall get to the bottom of this quite soon, in that case. I shall compile a report as soon as I return to my office, and send it your way."

"Likewise", said the man. "Good day, lieutenant."

"Likewise", Orman repeated.

She watched him spin around on his heel and march back down the stairs. She continued to watch the empty space he had occupied for a little while longer, before muttering something and turning her head towards the bolt hole. "Get that man signed in to the cells, pronto", she barked. "I'll get the squad set up here and meet you back at the garrison when I'm done."

[Leopold]

The journey back to the watch house was uneventful. Leopold slumped into the nearest chair the second the key turned in the lock of the cell.

“Well, that was a taxing experience,” he stated. In truth, the merchant was just getting excited. Though vomiting, running, and being sober through the day had not originally been on his agenda he forgave the absence of whiskey. The adrenaline was thrill enough.

“That was just the beginning,” Otto sighed. He dropped a pen and parchment back onto the desk after scribbling his signature onto the sign in forms. “When the man talks…,” he paused, “if he talks, we need to get answers out of him.”

Jeren curled his lips into a smile, approached Leopold from behind, and stood over his employer’s shoulder menacingly.

“I believe I can help in that regard.”

“I did hear rumours.” Leopold looked up, raised his eyebrow, and read Jeren’s mind

“I’m not joking.”

“No, I don’t expect either of you are.” Leopold dropped his head and looked inquisitively at Otto.

“I’m not sure that’s above board.” Otto looked to the desk sergeant, who just shrugged.

“You have to understand three things about my colleague.” Leopold’s voice was dry, part due to his thirst, and part due to the number of times he had to warn people about the swordsman-from-Salvar. “The first is that he’s not all he appears.”

“What’s the second?” Jeren enquired. He folded his arms across his lithe form, and tapped his boot on the hay covered slate tiles of the watch house. All eyes were on Leopold.

“The second is you can trust him to get the job done.”

In Salvar, Berevar, and Scara Brae, repeatedly, Jeren had proven that point beyond refute. Ever since Leopold had interviewed the man in his house, they had become a strange mix of friend, relation, and employer. Leopold Winchester barely went ten feet without the rapier of Syrian and the fealty of Jeren nearby.

“I’m getting the distinct impression I’ll not like the third,” Otto interrupted. His gruff tone damned Jeren before Leopold could speak.

“The third,” Leopold broke into a light-hearted chuckle, “is that he can get you talking.”

“Good,” Otto said flatly.

Jeren took that as consent. He disappeared into the cellblock before anybody in the room could object. Everyone looked at the portal through to the cells longingly, awkwardly, and nervously. If Orman had been present, Otto would have done his duty, but he had grown tired of incivility, injustice, and murder. If Leopold said the man was trustworthy, then he did not see much harm in one small evil for the sake of the greater good.

Leopold took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. He had been so occupied with getting out harm’s way, that he had not taken the chance to admire Corone’s ageing institution – the ‘copper’s gaff’. It was everything he had expected. There were piles of paperwork everywhere. The custody desk was as old as the building was. The desk sergeant, a haggard, venerable part of the backdrop continued about business as though they were not there.

“Will he be long?” The custody sergeant asked without looking up from his ledger.

Leopold shook his head. “No, no usually.”

He continued his observations. The floors were lined with hay, to mop up blood, sick, and sweat he assumed, and there were four doors leading off to various parts of the building he was certain he would never see. He sighed.

“Okay, Otto…” he stood. “Tell me something.”

“I’ll try…,” the orc erred cautiously.

“How long’ve you been on the job?” Leopold wanted to hear what Otto had to say about ‘the man’.

[Otto]

Otto skewed his lips in an expression of unexpected thought. "Long enough", he replied, and ambled off in Jeren's footsteps. He paused in the doorway to the cells, looked back at Leopold, and jerked his head in a gesture for the man to follow.

The little jail wasn't the worst place to be in the city. At the very least, the beds were softer than the floor, and there was rudimentary hygiene in the form of two shallow grooves running through the cells on either side of the corridor. The wall along one side even had little, bar-lined windows high up near the ceiling, level with the ground outside. Still, the inside of the cell block would have been even gloomier than the house Otto and Leopold had just left behind, were it not for some scattered oil lamps.

The cells were separated from one another by thick stone walls, although the corridor-facing sides were formed of stout, black iron bars which ran from floor to ceiling, and a similarly constructed cell door. Otto peered into the one opposite Jeren and the old priest, and, seeing it was vacant, stepped inside. Jeren gave the pair a blank look before he continued with whatever it was that he was doing. At that moment, it appeared like some light conversation; perhaps a warm-up for some heavier exercises later on. Leopold joined Otto in the other cell, and the orc noticed a faint questioning look in the older man's eyes.

"If we're condoning this, the least we can do is watch. I'm just be glad it's your chum in there, and not sergeant Wright (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25408-Chasing-Ghosts&p=208543&viewfull=1#post208543)."

Jeren's voice was still faint, though it had taken on a harder edge. The old priest seemed unresponsive as ever.

"The man has something of a reputation, does he?", Leopold asked, taking a sip of spirits.

Otto nodded.

"Oh, and how long is 'long enough', in literal terms?", pressed leopold.

Otto shrugged, and scuffed his boots impatiently against the floor. "Two years, now. I had the honour of the Assembly's personal summons. Just in time to catch the tail end of the war."

"You were stationed in Radasanth?"

"Yes. No. Not until after the siege."

Leopold sighed. He didn't know if the orc was being deliberately obtuse, or if it was just his natural charm shining through. Getting information about the fellow was like pressing blood from a stone - although, perhaps with good reason, given the island's darkened history over that period. Otto, meanwhile, seemed to gather that something more was expected of him.

"What about yourself? Been in the, uh, merchant business for long?"

Leopold smiled "Long enough."

Otto harrumphed, albeit amusedly. Sadly, he was not to know the depth to Leopold's statement, nor would he likely believe it should the man explain. The situation did not arise, as they both seemed happy to leave it at that.

Otto still had another question, however.

"What happened in Salvar?"

[Leopold]

Leopold immediately regretted mentioning the Sunlight Cult. To Otto’s credit, that had been over a day ago, and a lot had happened since. The dead bodies in their droves asides, they had barely slept, never mind eaten.

“I’d rather hoped you’d forgotten about that,” Leopold mused. He bit his lip.

The incident had plagued the capital for months, and left Leopold, despite his many years, harrowed by the experience. Jeren, seemingly indifferent to anything approaching horrifying, had simply carried on regardless.

“Forgive me for asking, then,” Otto nodded.

“No, no, it’s alright.” Leopold made himself comfortable and leant against a counter. Despite the poky nature of their surroundings, it was a remarkably cosy atmosphere. “It is relevant to the case, and thus, it needs to be brought up.”

Leopold was not sure it was relevant at all. The merchant had survived for two millennia on instinct alone, and the moment he heard about the murder in Corone, they had flared dramatically.

“I was working in Salvar, shipping materials into and out of Knife’s Edge. It was to aid the rebuilding process after the war between Sway and Duchy finally drew to its inevitable conclusion.” He paused, for dramatic effect. Otto remained unchaste, and unresponsive. Leopold took this to mean the orc knew to what he was referring. “In the week that followed the exchange, I spent time amongst the ruins.”

“The most boring week of my life,” interrupted Jeren.

Leopold and Otto both turned to the swordsman in surprise. Their dual expressions mirrored one another perfectly. It said ‘that was too quick’ and ‘what did you do with the body?’

“What did you discover?” Bastum enquired.

“No, please…let Leopold finish his diatribe.”

Leopold glared. “I started to hear,” he continued, tone forceful, pitch increased, “rumours of midnight meetings.”

“Ooooh,” Jeren jabbered, with appropriate hand gestures.

“I will run you through,” Leopold snapped. Jeren nodded, retreated into the cell, and left his employer to it.

“He’s peculiar,” Otto chuckled softly.

“The remnants of the Sway, those who refused to flee with their kin, began cannibalising the faithful left in the rubble. As I said before, there was carnage…chaos…detritus piled high.” Leopold shook his head, scratched his smoke and whiskey scented beard, and slouched. “The culprit was an artefact containing something describable only as a demon.”

Several more pieces of the puzzle slotted into place.

Jeren walked back into the room with an expression stuck between euphoria and terror. He pointed at Otto first, and then mouthed something in an archaic language to Leopold.

Leopold understood and ran out of the room so quick he barely had time to shout for the others to follow. The stone in the room darkened. The torchlight danced. The moaning resumed in the cell, and as much as Otto wanted to see if the priest was still alive, he found himself once again in hot pursuit of Leopold Winchester.

“Here we go again,” Syrian moaned.

[Otto]

The portly merchant rode his legs as hard as he possibly could. Leopold was only halfway to the door when he already began to feel the strain on his muscles, and the laboriousness in his breath. With sheer determination, and every measure of life he had left in reserves, he pushed on. Leopold was almost airborne when he flew from the cells.

Otto appeared behind him, matching Leopold's speed with a long, easy lope. "Where," he enquired, "are you going?"

Leopold managed to hiss something through clenched teeth, and ignored the bemused look on the desk sergeant's face as they raced by. "We have to get to the lieutenant!"

"Do you even know where you're going?"

"Back to the house, of course!"

Leopold suddenly found his speed arrested, and cannoned into a long, mailed arm. "You're fleeing a gaolhouse", Otto drawled, "At speed. Into a garrison full of armed soldiers. This rate, you're not going anywhere but the cells again."

Despite his shortness of breath, Leopold managed to draw himself up. In the dim light of one of the fort's lower corridors, he looked imposing - even sinister.

"And are you going to be the one who drags me back, Otto Bastum?"

The orc frowned. "No", he stammered. "I don't mean..."

"Otto, you've done-" Leopold wheezed a little, then continued, "-done me the honour of giving me your trust already. I beg of you to do so again. Let us go to lieutenant Orman immediately, for the situation is dire."

Otto's arm relaxed. "Of course. I just meant... follow me, alright? So it doesn't look like I'm chasing you, is all."

Leopold nodded. "Lead on - but quickly."

They resumed at a sustained jog, much to Leopold's disquiet. As they left the clammy gloom of the fort for the bracing chill of the training yard, and Leopold's shortness of breath returned, disquiet turned to grudging acceptance. Then, after they had been waved through the gates back in to the city proper, and spent the next few minutes proceeding along the rain-slick streets, acceptance became wholehearted thanks. Leopold lagged behind, huffing and hacking, stumbling and staggering, but still keeping up with his colleague. At last, they made their way back to Glencombe Road, and the shambling row of gently crumbling houses along it.

They pulled up just as Orman stepped out the door. She gave them a glare and gestured towards house's interior with a nod, and swept back inside. Leopold, quite puffed by this point, was assisted up the steps rather forcefully by the orc. They closed the door behind them, and walked over to Orman, who stood at the foot of the staircase.

"Ma'am," Otto began, giving his surroundings a cursory glance. Apart from the trio, the place seemed as vacant as when they had first arrived. "Mr Winchester claims to have urgent news."

"Well?" she snapped.

Otto shrugged. "He's been too short of breath to say", he replied. Orman hissed irritably.

"I have soldiers waiting throughout the house in case the owner comes back", the lieutenant growled. "You'd better have a good reason for parading the watchman's red up and down the street..."

"Lieutenant, you have you be careful with that locket!"

Orman gave Leopold a blank look, then fished around in her pouch. She drew forth a silver locket, with a faded painting of a smiling young girl inside. She held it forth for inspection. "This one, I'm guessing?"

With remarkable deftness, Leopold snatched it from her proffered hand. Orman narrowed her eyes, but let the transgression slide. The three of them peered up as Leopold lifted it towards the remaining light which still streamed in through a nearby window.

"Say, where's that Jeren fellow?", asked Orman.

Otto spoke with some hesitance. "He's, uh-"

"-with your man, Tallow, at the garrison", Leopold concluded. He gave the orc a firm look which strongly suggested that Otto have a few words with his chum Fats before the lieutenant got the chance.

"So why the concern about the locket? As far as I could tell, it belonged to one of the victims upstairs", Orman remarked.

"The old priest claimed that there is something wrong with it", Leopold explained, turning the item this way and that. His eyes seemed to darken. "He said that it was responsible for the murders. I've seen such things before", he added, and shuddered.

"What did he say, precisely? And I'll ask you why you allowed a civilian to interview our prisoner another time, Otto", declared Orman. The merchant grunted, and cast his mind back to events but a few minutes ago.

"I believe he said that 'we are but subjects', with this... thing, our 'king'. He also claimed that 'the circle will be unbroken'. I'm a little less clear on that part, but I have my suspicions. It's a little whimsical in prose, I know..."

Orman nibbled her lip thoughtfully. "Almost sounds like a riddle."

"I believe he was being metaphorical. The man is lost in his own skull, and clings to symbolism and faith. It was probably the most lucid he's been since we found him."

"So", said Orman. "He thinks the locket itself has some sort of murderous intent, which it imparts to whomever wears it? It's not exactly what I'd call kingly", she concluded. After some stunned silence, she added, "What?"

Leopold could only stare at the lieutenant as all the pieces clicked together. He dared not even move.

"It's not the locket", he wailed. "Gods..."

"What do you mean?" asked Otto.

Leopold's eyes swiveled over to the orc. "What's else do you call a king?", was his reply.

Orman scratched her scalp irritably. "A monarch?"

Otto just shrugged.

"A soveriegn", said Leopold, in answer to himself. Comprehension arrived a little slower for the orc, but it still came. He saw that Leopold was still frozen in place, so he reached his own hand into the man's coat pocket to retrieve the dreaded item.

"Left one", Leopold supplied, helpfully. He still hadn't so much as twitched.

"Thanks", Otto replied, and fished around in the other pocket. He pulled forth a dull, yellow little ring from the depths, and inspected in. "A sovereign ring", he remarked, as they gazed at it. "The unbroken circle".

"There's another, much worse circle here", Leopold whispered into the dead air. Otto dropped the ring into the centre of his palm, and closed a tight, angry fist around it. His eyes closed, his breathing slowed, and his brow spasmed as though he were focusing on something. After a few seconds, his eyes sprung open.

"We're going back to the cells. There are more questions". The orc spoke in a low, determined growl.

"Use the back door, then. And be quick", Orman said. "I'll be with you shortly."

The trip back to the garrison was rushed, but not as much as their race to seize the pendant. For now, the rain had let up, although a cruel wind shrieked at them from the sea. The sun was well past its zenith, the light turned an even murkier sort of grey, and the stink of wet civilisation still flew in tatters upon the breeze. Radasanth knew that bad weather would return in short order, and so Otto and Leopold found the streets largely free of obstruction. The orc said nothing as he powered along, and Leopold didn't press the fellow. He contented himself by lending an ear to the gale, instead.

In no time at all, they were back at the garrison.

They swept through the gates, then the the fortress entrance, and finally, into the cell antechamber. Otto approached the desk sergeant.

"I need to interrogate the one we just brought in", he stated, placing his free hand face-up on the counter. The sergeant peered at it with impassive eyes.

"You want a key? I'll need to put that in the ledger", he remarked, fetching an iron key and dropping it in Otto's grasp. It disappeared beneath the orc's knobbly digits.

"That's fine", he said, and strode on into the cell block. Jeren was there, in the cell Otto and Leopold had used for observation, lying on the pallet with his legs dangling off the edge. He clambered to his feet and greeted the duo with a nod. Otto returned it, unlocked the priest's cell, stepped inside and slammed the door shut. He locked it with the key just as Leopold and Jeren rushed over, then threw it into the corner of the cell. The old man, who had been muttering, froze. The clang of the key on stone resonated through the silent cells, followed by the slither of Otto's gauntlet sliding off his hand.

"What are you doing, Otto?" Leopold said, warningly.

"If you beg the desk sergeant, he might give you another key in time", Otto replied, his eyes fixed on the priest. The prisoner looked up at him, then at the ring which Otto displayed in his hand. The old man's eyes widened.

Leopold's voice was almost pleading. "Otto..."

"You'll tell me everything", the orc went on, ignoring the two men outside the cells. He spoke only to the priest. "Everything you know. I'm not sure it'll stop me, but you'd better pray it gives me pause long enough for them out there enough to get this cell open. You know how to pray, don't you?"

Otto slid the ring onto his finger.

[Leopold]

As soon as the ring slipped onto Otto’s finger, the old man perked up. His tired, unfocussed eyes glistened with intrigue. His hair seemed to straighten, blacken, and moisten. Old and dry locks replaced with new and well-kept strands. Whatever the orc was thinking, his intuition, as ever, was astute and keen.

“No...,” Monserrat senior croaked.

“No?” Leopold repeated. He dropped his hands to his sides. He would give Otto his piece of mind another time, assuming, of course, he did not go on a killing spree or burst into flames.

“Take it off, take it off!” the prisoner cackled.

There was an otherworldly weight behind his voice, but one born of pure terror and not magic or mysticism. He leapt upright, despite the heavy weight of his chains, and scrabbled wildly to try to tear the ring from Otto’s finger.

“Otto...,” Leopold erred.

The orc turned, raised an eyebrow, and sighed. He looked back at the old man.

“See?” he began, holding out his finger a little further, as if dangling a carrot in front of a horse. “See how normal this is?” He had been in the cells enough to know the limit of the heavy iron links, which were pinned to the rear wall with a circlet of steel that could crush a yak.

The merchant, the sergeant, and the suddenly manifested Jeren all watched the old man with growing interest. Metaphors and riddles were not Leopold Winchester’s strong point, but all the same, he plied his frazzled mind to the cause. Sovereigns, massacres, and medleys of epitaphs and sarcasm filled his head.

“The circle is complete, the circle is...,” the man dropped off, skulked, and curled up into a gibbering, twitching ball. The returning colour faded, as though whatever font of youth was welling into him had suddenly dried up.

Silence filled the cells, and Otto grew increasingly frustrated.

“So is it the damned ring or not?” he snapped.

“I really, really thought it was the locket...” Leopold glanced into the corner, where the artefact in question had fallen conspicuously. He wrinkled his nose. “Now I really don’t have a fucking clue.”

The silence continued to reign.

“I do.”

Leopold turned. Otto turned. Jeren turned.

“You do?” Leopold asked his voice dripping with sarcasm.

When Jeren turned around and mocked a ‘oh, are you talking to me?’ it was Syrian that looked back at his employer.

“Of course...,” he curled his lips into one-step beyond a smile – a sadistic grin. “When you were...occupied, I and the good Reverend here got...,” he punched a fist into a palm menacingly, “acquainted.”

Everyone in the room took a deep, anticipatory breath. The smell of dust and decadence, sweat and salt in the air was intoxicating. Syrian advanced to the bars, pressed his face between two rods, and smiled at the old man.

“Syrian, get to the point.”

“Yes, yes, Leopold, all in good time...” He stood back.

Otto, at his wit’s end, removed the ring. Part of the orc was disappointed he had not been eviscerated, or afflicted with the desire to put the old man’s hand up his backside, and tear him inside out. He folded his ample arms across his more than ample chest, and tapped a heavy boot on the shit stained flagstones.

“Make it quick...”

Syrian looked at Otto, stopped smiling, and let Jeren continue in a more dignified manner.

“The old man was abused.” Every cliché in the book heaved. “His father used to strike him with...can you guess?” He raised an eyebrow. His angular features, attractive in the right light, accentuated his attempts to be intellectual and witty. It failed.

“The ring...,” Leopold said softly. Otto looked at it, and pulled it from his finger quickly. “I was sort of right...”

“Each night his father struck him with talk of sin and sorrow. He imprinted that ring’s insignia into his son’s skin...day in, day out, over and over...”

The old man, opened up to Jeren’s not-entirely-orthodox interrogation techniques (who knew talking worked better than thumbscrews?), and had discussed his abuse in detail. He had talked about how he, in turn, had taken his sorrow and pain out on his own child.

“The murders are part madness, part absolution I guess,” Jeren concluded.

Leopold frowned. “Why would you lock your father up? Why not kill him, or torture him, or something?” The merchant struggled to see how somebody who could gut, maim, and mark so many living people in one small room good still hold on to something so human and sane as mercy.

Otto shrugged. He picked up his gauntlets, eased past the unresponsive old man huddled on his cot, and retrieved the key from where it had fallen in the corner.

“What are we going to do now?” Leopold continued. His train of thought heavily ensconced in trying to work out what was going on.

The orc smiled, unlocked the cell door, and stepped out.

“We’re going to find this man’s son...,” he trailed off.

“And...?” Leopold folded his arms across his chest, trying to match Otto’s bravado.

Otto jostled the ring, tossing it and catching it to test the weight.

“Smash his face in with this.”

[Otto]

No sooner had the key turned the lock, securing Montserrat back in the cell, than the four of them turned to the sound of booted feet thudding down the staircase. William quickly descended into view, and stopped at the foot of the steps.

"Orman's back", he said. "And so's Grimhold. They're in his office, and they want an update right away."

Leopold smiled wanly. "And she shall receive one."

William's weary eyes flickered uncertainly between the group before him. "Right. Well", he went on, "like I said..."

"I'm coming", Otto stated. He passed the key back to the desk sergeant, and led the way back to the upper levels. As they clambered up the stone stairs, Otto realised he was still grasping the ring. It glimmered dully in the lamplight, like worn and battered gold, but not quite. It was simply a cheap bauble dressed up to look like something much more than it really was - and in more ways than one, at that. He'd missed the significance of the ring when they'd first found it, because he had known how entirely mundane it was from the moment he had held it.

Perhaps it had been made of steel not because it was cheap, but because it was strong. You'd want it to last if you used it to hit things in addition to looking fancy.

Otto cast a sidelong glance at the merchant and the captain. "I don't know about Orman, but Grimhold mightn't want, er, civilians anywhere near this case", he mumbled. Leopold gave another faint smile, and Jeren shrugged. The man could give Otto a run for his money in the nonchalant department.

"That is fine", said Leopold. "I daresay Jeren and myself would do well not to garner the attention of the Grimholds, in any case."

Smart man, reckoned Otto. They reached the ground floor, where they halted. "There's a mess hall in the barracks", said the orc. "You can get some grub there while you're waiting. Shouldn't be long."

"I'll help them find it", William added, a little quickly. Otto nodded, and turned towards another, upwards-leading staircase.

Five minutes later, Otto was standing to attention in front of a long, precisely ordered desk. Seated behind it was lieutenant Grimhold, and standing a little way off to his side, Orman. The second floor room had large, west-facing windows which offered a spectacular view at sunset, and provided plentiful clean light over the rest of the day. Still, there was more than a hint of mustiness in the air, which suggested that Grimhold did not open them up too often. He did not appear, in general, to be particularly fond of the outdoors at all.

"Montserrat", said Grimhold, in a deadpan voice. "The Montserrats."

"Yessir", replied Otto, dutifully. Not normally a huge fan of literature, he was showing unwavering interest in the books behind the lieutenant's desk. Specifically, the few titles just above the man's head. Orman crossed the room towards the window, hands clasped behind her back.

"Powerful family", she remarked, staring down at the courtyard below. Several squads were doing laps around the outside, their strict ranks beating the rain-soaked earth into cloying mud. "Someone like that, with a secret like this to keep... they're going to be keeping a close eye on it." She turned to Grimhold. "We need to send squads over there right now."

"You're right", said the immaculately groomed fellow. "They are a very powerful family. I... don't think we have enough evidence to act on it, not right now."

Absolute, frigid silence descended on the room, as the other two people therein tried to process what had just been said.

"I'm sorry?" It was not a phrase Otto had thought existed in Orman's repertoire, but there it was. She seemed stumped for words.

"We have a madman who claims to be a Montserrat, a building whose ownership is a paper trail we are still following up, and nothing else."

"We have the bodies, sir", said Otto. He did not also say "Perhaps you missed those", because he was not quite that bloody a fool.

Grimhold pinned his subordinate with a long, diamond-hard stare. "Which tell us nothing as to the identity of the murderer. If we barge in and arrest the local head of the Church of the Sway - without making absolutely sure that he is the perpetrator - there will be extensive consequences. Severe consequences."

"Lieutenant..." Orman began, diplomatically.

"Understood?", he snapped back. Otto watched Orman intently from the periphery of his vision as she clenched her fist, took a deep breath... and sagged her shoulders. After a moment, she gave an acquiescent nod.

"Good", said Grimhold. "We need a case. Your time would be best spent finding witnesses and looking through the city property archives to establish propriety of the house. Once we have a solid case, then we can go after Alexander Montserrat. Now, I believe you both have things to do...?"

Otto saluted to the seated man, spun neatly on one heel, and marched out the door, a few steps behind Orman. They proceeded down outside to the corridor and towards stairs without a word between them.

When they reached the top of the staircase, Orman turned to Otto. They shared a look, and he nodded once, with great solemnity. Then they went their separate ways; her to her office, and he to the barracks. As the orc stepped into the damp, grey air outside, he fished the ring out from his pocket and began to flick it idly up into the air while he walked.

To hells with Grimhold. He was sure that Montserrat was expecting them - and it would be rude to keep him waiting.

[Leopold]

The jaunt to the Montserrat household was uneventful. It only felt dangerous because Leopold’s nerves got the better of him, and his girth, not suited to hot-pursuit, made the effort difficult. Every few street corners, Otto had to slap his boots to a halt, turn, and gesture for the merchant to, in no polite terms, move a little quicker.

“I’m really not cut out for this,” he wheezed, slouching forwards to rest a moment, as they turned the final turn and looked down the way to the noble district.

“Consider this a crash course in policing,” Otto barked. He prodded Leopold in the ribs, and remained close behind him as he frogmarched him all the way to the familiar sight of Montserrat's door. “You’re barely passing!”

Jeren snorted, a half formed laugh hidden behind decorum, and approached the portal. There was, given it had taken an hour to get here, no time to waste. They were already breaking a dozen rules. They were already smashing a handful of laws. There were a few shattered morals thrown in for good measure.

It was early evening, or perhaps late dawn, Leopold could not tell. He was beyond caring.

“Are we really doing this?” he ventured. The only answer came in the form of Otto, a rather tall orc for his age, smashing through the door. The remnants swung comically back and forth on the bent hinges, and Otto disappeared inside.

By now, people were venturing out into the street to see what the commotion was. The fact they were opening their locked doors, and twitching boarded up windows and curtains told Leopold it was morning after all. Well-to-do men and regency débutantes stuck their noses up at what they saw.

“Nothing to see here folks!” Leopold bellowed. He mock bowed, scooted inside, and tried to find the strength to bind up the stairs after the rest of the motley crue. Somehow, they knew that Montserrat, in all his odious vainglory, would not simply let himself fall into the city guard’s hands.

“Montserrat, come out! You’re under arrest!” Boomed Otto and Jeren in unison.

“Wait for me!” the merchant heckled, beginning his climb with sweat pouring down his brow.

[Otto]

The entry hall was as vast and opulent as it was dark and empty. A wide floor of chequered tiles sprawled before the four of them, bordered by wood-panelled walls, closed doors, and twin stairs, which curved up to the first floor gallery. A huge chandelier glimmered above them, crystal still sparkling even in the gloom. A growing wheezing behind Otto informed him that Leopold had joined them in the hall, and when no other sound reached them in the silent hall, he turned towards the others.

"Big place, this", he whispered. "I don't like it, but we'll need split up if we want to search it quickly-"

"You're a bit early."

The speaker had a light, songish voice. Otto whirled around and saw a vaguely familiar face at the top landing.

"There are more of us on the way," William yelled. "It'll be easier on you if you come willingly."

Montserrat fixed two baby-blue eyes on Bill. "I doubt it", he murmered. "On both counts."

"You're under arrest-" Otto began.

"I heard you the first time. Assuming that you are here with any authority, what am I being charged with?"

"Murder", declared Leopold, stepping forward. "And more than murder."

Montserrat opened his mouth to reply, but it was not his voice that filled the gap. Someone behind him spoke with the high-pitched tones of a child.

"Father?"

A young, blonde girl shuffled up to Montserrat's side. The four men below could see her between the balustrade's post; she looked no more than eight or nine, and ready to flee at a moment's notice. Each of them had also seen her before, and recognised her instantly. Montserrat looked down irritably at the child.

"Go back to your room and help Isaac with packing your things", he said, sternly. "Go on!"

When he looked back, Leopold had pulled the silver locket out of his pocket, and was studiously inspecting it. Montserrat froze. Silence filled the hall again.

Leopold snapped it shut with a click. "Amazing likeness", he said. "You must commend your portraitist."

"Last chance to come quietly", Otto growled.

Montserrat's icy expression gently thawed into a feverish grin. "No", he said, and turned his back to them.

They saw the bishop's black vestments disappear into the shadows of the large corridor behind him. Otto and Leopold looked at each other. William and Jeren looked at each other. All four of them dashed towards the stairs.

[Leopold]

Leopold started to feel two things. The first was remorse. He rather wished he had just left the matter well alone. If he had, he would be in a bar now, for the fourth day in a row, quite sizzled, and quite steaming. It was customary amongst the members of the Winchester Rose Trading Company to celebrate a successful delivery in such a manner. The second was excitement. For every thought about what could have been, there was one about just how fantastic what was being.

“You’ve nearly got me signed up,” the merchant wheezed. He zipped about a corner, third behind Jeren and Otto, but a little ahead of William at the rear.

“Don’t,” was the orc’s only reply. It was short and left little to the imagination.

The mansion’s initial glory faded as they swerved in and out of cluttered storerooms. Illicit acquisitions into long forgotten galleries drew Leopold’s attentions long enough to seal Monserrat in his mind as a mad man wasting his empire. The wealth lingering here was staggering. You could have rebuilt three nations with it, never mind one.

“I hear the pay’s terrible,” Jeren sniped, just as they all broke out into a long, grandiose dance hall. Everyone skidded to a halt, formed a row in short to tall, and gasped.

They had entered at the southern end of the chamber. The eastern and western walls were some six hundred feet long, and the north and south two hundred. It was a narrow, well-kept place for parties. The floor made of mahogany, and the walls gold-leaf moulds and crimson, ochre, and orange flowers and mythological beasts.

“I…,” Otto failed to say. “It’s…”

“Not now,” Jeren pushed the orc forwards. “Pretty later, now kill.” Leopold frowned when he realised the captain’s voice had dimmed. It was not Jeren anymore. It was Syrian.

“The man’s correct, look,” Leopold agreed. He pointed with a pudgy digit to the gloomy end of the room, to where a man stood grinning at them.

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that!” Monserrat bellowed. His debonair visage made every one of his pursuers want to punch him. He made them want to punch him with a battering ram. “But, allow me to offer a little hospitality, before I forget my manners.” He clapped.

The large double doors behind him, set in iron hinges and thick, ancient oak, swung open. In two lines, filtering in to his left and right, Monserrat’s house guard appeared.

“The finest cutthroats, mercenaries, and outright bastards piety and coin can buy,” the noble gloated. His flashing smile made Leopold twitch, but before he knew it, Monserrat was gone once more.

“Still want to join up?” Otto said grimly. He clenched his behemoth fists. For a moment, Leopold saw a blacksmith emerge from behind the epitaph of law keeping.

Leopold chuckled nervously. “Maybe after a little more training.” He produced his pistol. “Perhaps a little light targeting for starters?” He cocked Isabella and levelled it at the nearest of the guards. In their plumed helmets, leather jerkins, and silver plating, they appeared every bit officious.

“That sounds splendid,” William and Syrian chimed together. Weapons on the south wall were unsheathed, just as the north wall of bodies began to frog-march across the dance floor to a well time, odious beat.

“One…,” Leopold began to count. He loaded a bullet into the barrel.

“Two…,” Syrian gibbered, sword flashing into view.

“Three!” Otto bellowed, so load a furnace felt cold in comparison.

The two groups charged.

[Otto]

One of the household guards, a man with a touch of gold upon his silver uniform, urged his subordinates on with a wave of his sabre.

"Choose a dance partner, lads!" he roared. "And don't be shy of sharing!"

And they would have to; the ragtag crew to the south were outnumbered at least two to one. What concerned Otto just as much was that he had no idea if the guards simply looked the part, or if the quality of their training matched that of their uniforms. He and the others could stay and fight, certainly, and find out - but that could well prove suicidal, and anyway, Montserrat was slipping further from them with each passing second.

The polished ballroom floor shuddered and groaned beneath the stampede. Otto and Leopold's crew were running right into the middle of the approaching formation, and the guards were adjusting accordingly. The guards tightening ranks, save those at the tail-ends, who remained ready to flank once the charge had broken against the line. Otto made a hurried gesture to William, who gestured back. Then the orc fell back next to Leopold.

"Aim where I point," he growled into the man's ear, "and follow my lead." He then looked to Jeren. "Watch our flank!"

Strange beasts stared down at the impending clash, their brilliant paint still sparkling in the dim air. It was clear that Montserrat had not been anticipating guests, and so had not seen fit to light the chandeliers. They instead had to rely on the half-hearted greyness from the tall windows and expansive skylight, a thing which turned the joyous room and all within into something sombre.

They ran, and the gap closed to a hundred feet, then fifty, then twenty, then a dozen. When Otto could see the colour in his opponents' eyes, he took a few more bounding leaps for good measure, and changed course by a few degrees.

His arm came up and pointed at the lone guard before him. The fellow glanced from that, to Leopold's gun, and instinctively tried to weave out of it's way. That was all the opening the orc needed, and he barrelled the man over.

"Through!" he screamed, taking the brunt of a slashing sword upon his shield. His hammer rung the tip of another like a bell, jarring its wielder's hand. This was a game of delaying tactics that he played, trying to keep the central mass of soldiers at bay for a few crucial moments.

Leopold and Jeren darted through. William was right behind them, fielding off a guard at their other side. Otto, who hadn't entriely stopped, picked up speed again and tried to catch them up. He saw a flash of silver, tried to raise his shield to meet it - then heard an almighty bang, and saw the guardsman's silver breastplate buckle and puncture. Something fine and rich misted the side of Otto's face, and he kept running. The smell of blood twined up his nose like hot wire.

He cleared the doorway, and as soon as he was over the threshold, he spun around with his shield at the fore. But he needn't have bothered; Jeren and William had taken up the fight, and were fending off the press of guards as they clustered around the choke point. The captain was by far a superior fighter, and experienced; he had no hesitations about going for a killing blow. Still - William was not without merit, for he was drilled to fight as part of a team, and did a good job of protecting the weakest points in Jeren's guard.

The gold-trimmed leader yelled from the back, pushing his men forward. One came stumbling towards William, at least until a spear lanced past the watchman's side and took the fellow in the thigh.

"He's getting away, Otto! Get after him!" yelled Bill.

The orc hesitated.

"He can stay," Jeren laughed, over his shoulder, "and clean up after me!"

Otto supposed that meant they'd look out for each other. He made another lunge with the spear, and in the ensuing reprieve, stuck his shield arm around William's other side. "Take it", he commanded. William's hands closed gratefully around the handle, and Otto let go.

Leopold was already doing a sidewase-skip along the corridor. "Enough dallying, Mr Bastum. We must away!"

Together, they sprinted through the hall.

[Leopold]

Leopold felt the disappointment at Jeren’s continuous ability to one up him. He made a mental note to do his best to get his own back. He would make sure he did so when witnesses were not trying to kill them.

“He really does his job well,” he wheezed, once again short of breath, and once again cursing his present form.

Otto chuckled, ducked under a straggling and feeble sword swipe, and disappeared into the dark portal on the far end of the hall.

“Shouldn’t that be ‘they’?” he replied, referring to Jeren’s peculiar duality.

Had the orc been able to see Leopold’s face, he would have noticed the daggers he was throwing. The merchant slipped into the passageway shortly after his colleague, and they found themselves in a dark, echoing thoroughfare through the ground floor of the mansion.

“Now’s not the time,” he shouted blind.

By chance, both Leopold and Otto emerged out into a small kitchen in unison. Standing side by side, it dawned on the merchant just how big the guard was. In every way possible, save perhaps pure, gluttonous girth, Bastum towered over Winchester. Even his heart, morality, and soul felt more behemoth. Leopold slapped his thighs.

“We can’t rest now,” Otto ribbed. He pushed Leopold lightly, but the strength transition trundled the man forwards. He nearly crashed headfirst into a sauté pan bubbling away with what he hoped was tomato sauce.

“Which way?” Leopold wheezed.

Otto took a moment to compose his sense of direction. His grey skin danced with the light of the many fires keeping dishes and duties hot and bothered. The kitchen was small but crammed with worktops, servants, and groceries. Things hung from the ceiling he could not describe, in amongst plucked pheasants, braces of rabbits, and bunches of hedonistic herbs.

“I…,” he erred. He really did not know. “He has likely gone for the wagon,” he added. Every merchant had a wagon. Every noble had a wagon. Every trader had a wagon.

Leopold set his eyes on something across the humid quarters, and widened his eyes. As Otto suggested it, Leopold saw it, and he broke away, despite his knackered self, towards a distant door. It was low, heavy set, and barred. In his own mansion, a door like that in the kitchen went only one place – outside.

“I wasn’t resting!” he roared across his shoulder. He need not have bothered. Otto was prancing along beside him, as though he had just woken up. “I was…thinking.”

The orc’s laughter mingled with Leopold’s nervous giggle, and they reached the door side by side, accustomed to the natural way in which they had come to work together.

“Are we ‘bringing him to justice’?” Leopold asked casually. His tone inferred murder, but his eyes, pure innocence. He turned the handle, and found the bar to be for display, and the door open. He stepped away as it swung open.

“Always,” Otto grunted. He held his weapon aloft, puffed out his chest, and stepped straight into Monserrat’s private harbour.

[Otto]

Of course a wagon would have been too undignified for the likes of Montserrat, not to mention slow. Whether it be for a leisurely weekend cruise, or a speedy getaway from the long (if slow) arm of the law, only the finest yacht would do for a man of such stature. Otto could see the spindly mast rise from the other side of a pile of crates, reaching almost to the gap-filled wooden ceiling. Montserrat's private dock seemed to have been built in a giant shed, which achieved the 'private' part, but apart from that it looked rather like a standard pier; there were various crates of goods, mooring posts, a mollusc-encrusted pier, and the added bonus of no riffraff or gull shit. As he watched, Otto saw the halyard shift and the mainsail reluctantly climb up.

"Not much time", Leopold wheezed.

Otto's eyes narrowed. He tightened his grip upon the spear, dug his feet into the warped timber and launched himself towards the jetty. As soon as his hairy mug rounded the stack of crates, a skull-splitting crack whipped through the giant shed. The wall behind Otto exploded into a shower of brickshard, and the orc did an astoundingly quick job of reversing his momentum. Leopold - still protected from view by the assortment of barrels, sacks and crates, watched Otto peek around the side again, then hastily hurl himself to the floor as the box above his head collapsed into a cloud of splinters.

Leopold sidled up to the pale-faced orc. "Marksmen?" he asked.

Otto shook his head. "Just the one. Montserrat. But he's using some lackey to swap out rifles..."

"Is there any cover we can use?"

Otto snorted. "That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" He squinted up; the periodic slits in the roof painted fuzzy little rectangles of around the dock, which danced across the lapping water. "Only reason he's missed is because the light's so poor up here, but there're lamps lit along the pier."

"Not good, then." Leopold paused, then let his eyes go unfocused, as though staring at something Otto could not see. "What's next, Montserrat?" he yelled out.

Otto nudged the man. "We need to come up with a plan, not chat with the bastard", he said.

"You plan, I'll keep him occupied", replied Leopold. "He's too vain to avoid gloating, if I'm any judge..."

As it turned out, he was. Hugo Montserrat's melodious voice echoed over the waters at them. "You'll be pleased to know that I intend to carry the crusade to other shores. Where, exactly, does not matter. I could point my ship anywhere and be assured that I am headed where the Sway's work is in much demand."

Otto frowned. "Ship?" he said, uncertainly.

"He must have a larger vessel moored somewhere", whispered Leopold. "I doubt he'd brave the open sea on that dainty piece of flotsam. What do you mean, 'the Sway's work'?" The last part was shouted through the boxes and at Montserrat again.

"What do you think I mean?" Hugo yelled back. "Men and women like the old witch that we strung up on the tree. A tree, and where was his goddess Y'edda, if not there? But his blood spilled as readily as all the others. Do you wonder how I managed to purge so many, without hindrance? What is there to wonder? They were the forlorn, the godless, and what chance had they against one chosen such as I?"

"You said 'we'", Leopold stated. "Is that why your father is such a gibbering mess?"

"Even in our in our own house, there are those who do not put the word of the Church before all else. Oh, he wanted to partake of the work when he found out, but once he saw it with his own eyes, his faith in it abandoned him. Him of all people! He had no right!"

Of course, thought Otto. To you, he was the ultimate monster. The one with the hard ring and a leather belt always at the ready. How did it feel to see him think that of you? To think worse than that of you?

Leopold leaned in close to Otto, and hissed, "How's that plan coming along?"

"Why do I have to come up with a plan?" fumed Otto.

"Because you're the one with tactical experience! You're supposed to have a sudden epiphany in the midst of defeat, and come up with some genius strategy to save the day. That's how it goes, isn't it?"

Otto stared at the merchant-turned-vigilante for a long, uncomfortable moment. There was only one plan he had been able to think of, but...

... no buts. It had to end.

Otto blinked, and said, "Alright. Follow me, and keep pace. Don't falter, not even for a second. Don't even think. Just follow my lead, and when we're close enough, use that gun of yours. Simple, eh?"

"So what, exactly, are we doing?"

"Just do everything I said, and you'll be fine. Ready? If not, too bad, because here we go."

And with that, Otto leapt out from the mound of boxes, running hell for leather down the pier.

[Leopold]

Charging down the pier after Otto took the last of Leopold’s stamina, and took it with force. His shins tightened, and his hamstrings burst into flame. His chest tightened, his eyes blurred, and his stomach started to curse its owner with words too impolite to repeat. To the man’s credit, he made it halfway, out into the open, and out into Monserrat’s all-too-excited-to-see-them gaze.

“An eager little orc, aren’t we?” he said, his voice empowered by the cavernous roof and echoing into every nook and insidious cranny. Atop his boat, leant against the rail of the port side, he looked every bit the maniacal villain.

Otto roared so loud the merchant could have sworn stalagmites fell from the ceiling, and the pier shook a few nails loose towards collapse. It added weight to his charge, and somehow, it made Leopold feel like he could just about manage.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding…me,” he trailed off, too pained to talk. He saw what was in Monserrat’s hands, and gave up.

He tried to shout. He really did. Otto, in a typical orc manner was too blood lusted, too zeal ridden, and too far away by now to have any chance of hearing a warning. For each one of Leopold’s steps, Otto had taken four. For each gain an advantage over they had gotten on their quarry, their quarry had taken two back. Repeatedly, Leopold died to a single shot, so he knew just how much pain was going to –

BANG.

The speed with which the noble loaded, took aim, and fired was remarkable. Though Leopold flinched, and Otto stopped dead in his tracks, the thought of the hunting parties they could have gone on, in another, less deranged life, filled the merchant’s mind.

“Otto…,” he whimpered.

Otto looked over his shoulder. Though the bullet aimed square at his over eager forehead, Monserrat’s could not apply the skill and expertise to deliver it. Knives were his foray, or so it appeared.

“I…,” the merchant croaked.

Leopold touched cloth, so to speak, and lifted his fingers to his face. Seeing blood, his body caught up with his mind, and he whelped with anguish. He wavered. He dropped to his knees. He fell unceremoniously forwards, face first, onto the salty planks.

Otto turned. The sound he made was indescribable, accented by a resuming of the rhythm of his boots, only this time, they did crack the pier, and the cavern did start to fall apart. Monserrat, reloading, let his cool façade slip into a cocksure, sycophantic smile. It told Otto Bastum that he would not miss a second time.

[Otto]

The pier drummed and shuddered under Otto's feet. Montserrat's aide handed over a fresh rifle to the priest. Otto flexed his knees, dug his heels into the protesting planks and leaped towards the deck. The gun swung around. Otto landed, heavily, and the boat lurched under his weight. The muzzle jerked involuntarily away, then erupted with a bright flash.

BANG.

Something behind Otto was smashed to bits by leadshot. He hardly noticed. The orc pounded up the see-sawing incline of the deck, in response to which Montserrat shoved the other man forward, and began to reload his gun.

"Stop him, Isaac!" he screamed.

Otto watched the man pull out a short knife with some trembling fingers. He took note of the slight build, the awkward stance, and saw a manservant thrust, by duty, into a dangerous position. Still, the man stood his ground, and muscles tensed as he prepared to put the knife to use.

The blade darted in. Otto knocked it aside with the lip of his shield, then slammed the full force of his body against Isaac. The man grunted, toppled back, and disappeared over the side with a splash. He looked at Montserrat, who was halfway through reloading the rifle. They both paused. Then, Montserrat grinned, and resumed packing down the blackpowder at the base of the barrel.

Otto thundered forward.

Montserrat held out until the orc was almost on top of him, then threw himself out of the way. Otto's hammer swung, missed, and crunched deep into the varnished cedar coaming. Montserrat rolled away, but as Otto turned to aim another blow, his feet tangled around the stock of the gun. Just then, the boat bobbed back down, and sent the orc tumbling to the deck. Montserrat, meanwhile, was already scurrying away to the aft. Otto scrambled to his feet and gave chase, but within moments, Montserrat had reached the far end of the boat. He spun to face the orc.

Too late, Otto saw the line clutched in Monsterrat's hand. It went taut and, with a sort of stately, inevitable grace, the stout boom swung into Otto's path. He ran full tilt into the wooden pole, which knocked him over onto this back. He hit his head on something, probably the floor. Otto spent a couple of moments admiring the stars and swirling spots that danced before his eyes, then focused on the rippling sail that continued to pass by above him. With a growing presence of mind and a grunt, he sat up.

And looked straight into the barrel of a gun.

His eyes continued to roll up until they met Montserrat's triumphant smile.

BANG.

[Leopold]

The man standing next to Monserrat’s corpse was unfamiliar, but in many ways, recognisable. The barrel of the white framed pistol in his hand smoked, venting the acrid remains of a single, far too expensive silver tipped bullet.

“I really liked my beard!” he clucked.

As the noble fell to the ground, a defeated, deflated slump, Otto Bastum opened his eyes. They had shut tight the moment the resounding echo of gunfire rocked the harbour. They examined, with anxiety and concern, the newcomer.

“Who…are you?”

The man dropped Isabella to his side, smiled, and slapped his forehead.

“Yes, well, Ermm…this is going to be hard to explain. It’s me.”

“Me?” Otto pushed himself upright with the edge of his shield, teetered back and forth between actions and listening, and waited.

“Leopold.”

Otto blinked.

“Get away!”

Leopold Winchester’s sudden exegesis of form overshadowed the unceremonious death of the murderer, Monserrat DuBoe. Otto examined every inch of his colleague, in disbelief, and prodded him in almost skeletal ribs. He had gone from portly example of excess to rugged, waif like brigadier.

“How do I look?” He spread his arms wide, and shed black feathers from his limbs.

Otto dropped his gaze to Monserrat, suddenly remembering what they were here to do. The look of concern that appeared on his wizened brow disheartened Leopold’s excitement for, despite all the odds, still being quite alive.

“Yes, I’m rather sorry about that,” the merchant offered, though he meant not a word. He hoped to appease Otto’s obvious rising anger, especially after their conversation a few days prior at the ramshackle table.

[Otto]

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of water, and of wood. The gentle waves licked and sucked at the yacht's swaying hull, which in turn moaned hushedly as stresses danced along its timber frame. The pale light that fell through the gap-roofed shed was outshone by the row of post-mounted lamps along the pier; their amber glow clashed with the cold, blue shadows that steadily lengthened about the two men. Yet, while light and sound slowly dimmed, the smell of the replace stayed keen; the irritating scratch of cordite atop the iron-like, meaty smell of fresh blood, both dwarfing the lesser aromas of estuarine water and nautical-grade wood. That, and the muted, sinus-searing fug coming from Winchester's hipflask.

Winchester. He was still staring up at the man in question, if indeed it was him, and Otto suspected that it was. He looked different, but...right. He sounded right, and smelled right. He had seen the man die, but he had also seen men brought back to life, hadn't he? Granted, this wasn't the Citadel, but... he was Also a copper, which inevitably meant he had a healthy helping of cynicism to overcome.

"Yes, but - how can I...?"

"The table. The ring. The locket." Leopold brushed a few black feathers from his arms, then settled a petrify gaze upon the orc. "And when you walked into a murderer's blackened den, you still asked for a light by which to see."

That was it. The man before Otto was Leopold... or, at least, more likely to be him than anyone else.

Otto looked down. "He was meant to go for me", he said. "I was closer, I was bigger... why didn't he go for me?"

Leopold gave him a friendly, if slightly awkward, pat on the shoulder. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. You're far too young to be getting yourself killed." The merchant's grin deepened. "Leave that for the professionals."

They stared at each other, until a faint splashing separated itself from the regular lapping waves. The two men watched Isaac crawl out of the water onto the pier, cast them a panicked look, then sprint for the door. Leopold rushed to the stern, but Montserrat's manservant had already disappeared from sight.

"Should we get after him?" he asked.

Otto shook his head. "He'll turn up. But we need to find the girl."

Leopold looked back, whereupon his expression turned from stony to wide-eyed surprise. "Er..." he said. Otto heard something softly go 'click' behind him. Montserrat was very clearly still at his feet, but as he glanced down, he could also see the man's eyes were glimmering with life and focused on some point behind the orc. Otto sighed, and turned around very, very slowly.

"No need", he heard Leopold say in a weak voice. "I do believe she has found us..."

[Leopold]

“Well hello there,” Leopold greeted, incredibly carefully. He smiled, though his lips were the only part of him to move. One false sleight and he may well beat his own record for dying in the space of a day.

"I'm sick of seeing that thing from this side", Otto growled, but there was a tremor in his voice that had nothing to do with rage.

“You shot him!” she wailed.

There was no denying that. Tact was not the defence to use. Leopold resorted to his second best weapon; outright honest, which was deadly in the right hands.

“Yes, we did.” He pressed his hands gently, as though trying to get to her back down. “But, he shot first.” He appealed to the playground sensibilities that made the bullied fight back when they had their milk taken for the last time, and the need for most children to define the world in cause and effect, in right and wrong.

“Daughter…,” Monserrat gurgled. He stopped his plea only when Otto’s boot stopped short of breaking a rib with a kick.

“He’s a bad man, my dear,” Leopold continued. He dropped to his knees very slowly, to bring himself down to her level.

“He did nothing wrong!” she exclaimed.

She waved the gun with far too much skill, as though she had used it before, and was not afraid to use it again. That made Leopold angrier, and Otto bereft of understanding. What sort of monster was Monserrat, to use his child as a weapon? In his mind, Otto realised…Monserrat was doing exactly what his own father had done - instead of a belt to her thighs, it was a blow to the mind, a corruption of her innocence. He grit his teeth, observed, and waited.

“He shot me,” Leopold said, with less kindness than before, but enough hostility to imply he meant it. “If we did not return fire, he would have shot Otto, too.” He nodded over his shoulder. The girl looked up at the orc, stuck out her tongue, and looked back at Leopold.

“He was defending me,” she objected. Her eyes flickered with uncertainty, as though whatever morals she did have at her age were fighting for control. “He…,” she fell silent.

“He was just trying to escape the law,” Otto interjected. His voice twisted cruelly as he added, "You must have heard his confession?"

Despite Leopold’s expert ability at talking himself into situations, he lacked the finesse to talk back out of them. Perhaps his miraculous return had changed his mind, as well as his now meagre waif like form. He snorted. “He’s alive, so he will go to jail, instead of heaven.”

Otto gagged at the image of Montserrat ascending to any sort of paradise; such an image defiled even a tarnished old copper's wilted sense of cosmic justice. He would have a ‘polite’ word with the merchant about ‘how we did things around here’. That methodology did not include direct shots and drinking, continuously, on a murder investigation.

“I would rather die…,” Monserrat hissed. The monster within abandoned his plea to his daughter, realising her lost as a weapon, and worthless as a shield. He writhed in agony, but tried to crawl away, foolishly, from the behemoth orc and two primed barrels.

“Daddy!” she whelped, as though the words had struck her. She started to cry. Leopold’s heartstrings tugged, and he nearly cried along with her. He delivered another kick to the murderer, and stayed his attempts.

“At least give your daughter the grace of humility in defeat,” he barked. He glared down at Monserrat with nostrils flaring. Otto stepped in, pulled him back, and knelt to manacle their prime suspect. As he bent at the knee, there was a single, piercing shot. It resounded through the harbour, drowned out the rickety sound of rotting wood floating on salty shore, and left a sour taste in his mouth. Somehow, he knew the shot aimed at Monserrat, and not either of the investigative duo.

“Oh…,” Leopold said flatly, gobsmacked and flabbergasted.

“Mummy…,” the girl whispered, before she dropped the smoking gun with a thunderous thud.

[Otto]

One of Montserrat's eyes twinkled up at Otto. The other was gods knew where, blown into a thousand pieces by the lead roundshot. The glimmer extended to the extremely dead man's lips, which held just the faintest hint of a smirk. In some small way, Montserrat had salvaged a victory, and he'd known it just before the bullet landed. For his part, Otto fancied he had felt its passage past his shoulder.

Otto, still crouching above Hugo, unfroze. "He wasn't yours to kill", he said.

The girl didn't seem to hear; the only sound in the cavern were her ragged, heaving sobs.

Otto stood up and walked over to her, towering above and putting her firmly in his shadow. "Did you hear me?" he yelled. "It wasn't your place to kill him!"

"Otto!"

There was something in Leopold's voice he hadn't heard before. The man he'd thought of as a shell of whiskey and large meals and excess now bared a core of steel, which stunned Otto's rage and left it reeling. He blinked down at the girl, who had enough presence of mind to shuffle awkwardly away from his boots and into a mess of coiled lines. He kicked the gun away to the side and stalked off, mumbling like a rolling boulder.

"A lot of people deserved to watch him hang-" he began, but Leopold brought forth the steel again.

"Have a heart, man!" he yelled. "She's not responsible for any of this!"

The orc grasped at a stretch of railing. He let the silence fall once more, then glanced up at the entrance as quiet was dispelled by footfalls and echoed cries. Leopold whirled around, mouth agape, and shouted, "Jeren! Tallow!" further comprehension struck him. "The houseguard!"

"We need some way to get out of here", said Otto. Leopold laughed, and the orc raised an eyebrow in his direction.

The merchant nodded back at him. "Assuming Jeren's still with us, then we're standing on it. Go to the door and see if you can help - I'll see about raising the dock gate!"

The two men leaped off the boat, Montserrat's child forgotten, and raced in opposite directions. Leopold ran towards the giant double-doors that barred vessels passage from the shed, while Otto desperately clutched his hammer and yanked open the door to the estate. He peered into the gloom, faintly dusted by a few struggling candles in their sconces, and could just make out a roiling mess of stampeding shapes. They resolved themselves into the fearful countenance of Isaac, propelled along by a ragged but thoroughly gleeful-looking Jeren Silster, with William Tallow bringing up the rear. Not too far behind them, the burnished armour of Montserrat's houseguard caught the meagre light.

"Hold the door!" he heard William shout, and smartly stepped aside. The three men tumbled through. "Okay, stop holding it!"

The orc rammed it shut, his whole frame leaning heavily against the stout wood. The clatter of armour was almost upon them. He looked at the trio and, pointing at the miscellaneous stacks of large and blessedly heavy boxes, yelled, "Get some of those over here, right n-"

The door bulged off its hinges. Otto bounced off, blinked, then slammed back against it and dug his boots firmly into the ground. The door shuddered again, but the crates and barrels were already being heaved up around him. He shifted a little, to make room for William and Jeren to jamb them hard into place. Isaac, on the other hand, was backing warily away from the orc, his hands raised defensively.

"Look, I didn't know what was going on", he babbled, still backpedaling. "I just know to follow orders. I-"

"Isaac!"

The man jumped and whirled around to the location of the voice. The girl stood at the prow, and behind her, the large gates rolled lethargically apart to reveal a dying red horizon and the light-speckled silhouette of the Nieme's opposite shore.

"Alys!" he yelled back, and dashed for the boat. His voice had transformed from stammeringly fearful to dripping with concern. As Isaac clambered aboard, Leopold materialised into view underneath one of the pier's lampposts. Otto frowned; if he didn't know better, he'd say the man was aiming something of a smug grin in his direction.

"All set!" William yelled into his ear. "Let's go!"

Otto nodded; they couldn't get away from this place a moment to soon. "We're in your hands now, captain Silster", he said. From the look in Jeren's eye, however, that wasn't an entirely comforting prospect.

[Leopold]

Epilogue

Leopold Winchester was familiar with narrow escapes. He had read about them. He had written about them. He had been involved in them, repeatedly. He had never enjoyed them, however. Elated on new life, good deeds, and the prospect of an exciting new career in Corone’s law enforcement, he rested lazily against the starboard rail, looking out at the city of Radasanth from an altogether new perspective.

“It’s quite something,” Jeren remarked. He appeared behind his employer, hands in the small of his back, fringe waving in the oceanic breeze.

“I can’t believe I’m as old as I am and I’ve never seen Radasanth from the sea…,” Leopold lamented. He flew a raspberry at his younger self, too busy solving the world’s problems to stop to admire the view. Maybe that was his problem and many other nobles across the island.

“How old are you, exactly?” interrupted a friendly, but gruff voice.

Leopold stood upright, arranged his overcoat, and turned to greet Otto with a warm smile and a brotherly hug. They had shared enough in a small space of time to dispense with the conventional pleasantries. All the same, Bastum pulled away, his question sincere, and the pending answers critical to where the ship ended up, and in what mood.

“I’ll return to the wheel, sir,” Jeren said with a nod. He stepped away, bowed, and caught Leopold’s worried frown. Syrian smiled back, leaving Leopold disgruntled.

“Do you really want to know?” he said sheepishly. He shrugged.

Otto nodded. “I want to know. William wants to know. My superiors and their superiors definitely want to know.” Leopold got the picture, even without Otto’s piercing glare.

“You’ve been in the captain’s quarters for the better part of six hours, talking and plotting, and all you have to ask me is when I was created?” Leopold raised an eyebrow, sighed, and turned back to the railing. He leant against it, though in a supportive stance.

Otto appeared to Leopold’s right, and mimicked his lean. The railing objected with a creak and a wail.

“You have to admit you’d be curious too if your colleague, having been one step ahead of you through an investigation, suddenly resurrected and solved your little pickle all in one fell swoop.”

Only the sound of the waves, the distant drone of the harbour, and the occasional, asking for a bolt to the neck albatross, broke the awkward silence.

“I came into being some three thousand years ago.” Leopold revealed that fact only because Otto Bastum had proved himself not just a terrific ally, but also an outstanding friend. “Though, my memories only go back eleven hundred years or so.” He pointed up at one of the offending birds. Otto trailed after the finger, and frowned.

“You’re…an albatross?” Otto corrected himself. “You were an albatross?” He dropped his gaze and scrutinised the smile on Leopold’s face.

“I am an Old God, something I assume you’ll be familiar with as you’re…an orc.” He minced his words because he was not entirely sure of Otto’s heritage, but since most orcs came from Berevar’s tundra, he hedged his bets. “I am Raven, the god of death, watcher of the underworld and guide to the dead.”

Otto blinked. The irony of it all was not lost on him, it seemed. Leopold had no compaction shooting Monserrat or the girl, if it had come to that, because in Leopold’s eyes, he was simply guiding the deserving to the beyond. At least, that is what Otto hoped. The alternative was Leopold Winchester was completely off his rocker.

“Thoughts?” Leopold said casually. Depending on how Otto handled this revelatory snippet, would guide the remainder of the conversation to either Chronicle, or a request for employment as a private in the Corone Armed Forces.

[Otto]

Otto scratched his beard, his eyes unfocused and pointed at the horizon. "I'll let you know when some turn up", he said at last.

Marten had kept some icons to Wyron in the house, and practically everyone in Radasanth had cause to pray to Am'aleh. The clerics of Draconus would make sure you heard a sermon whether you wanted to or not, usually by shouting their scriptures from street corners, and Otto knew far more about Trisgen than he cared for. But 'Old Gods'? The name was sort of familiar, but that was about it. He had enough to think about for the time being as it was, anyway. He slouched over the rails and gazed out at the twinkling bulk of Radasanth, stretched wide and jagged across the horizon, but it was just something for his eyes to focus on while he let his mind wander.

They were no longer on the little yacht. Jeren had guided it to the docks closest to the garrison, and sent Carrin up with the news. He'd come back with lieutenant Orman, the rest of the squad, and a few of Grimhold's own men. From there, they had taken several boats to Montserrat's waiting ship. Grimhold, meanwhile, was back on land, busy clearing things up at the manor. Orman and the others had hailed the ship's captain and boarded the vessel, and so here they were, rifling through whatever things Montserrat had managed to squirrel away in the event that he be rumbled. Orman had brought Isaac along in case the man could point out anything important. As Alys had clung onto the man's waist like grim death, they had both ended up here in one of the cabins below.

Otto shut his eyes, and took a deep breath. Isaac; funny how that worked out, really. There was bugger all on board that was of much use to the investigation, except for the man himself. Otto had stood back in the shadows while Orman interrogated the late Montserrat's manservant. He was already shaken and confused, not so much by his (seeming) brush with death, but more from having heard his master gleefully confess his sins. It had just taken Orman to tell him about the oldest body they had found at the house, and the man had folded up like a cardboard tent in the rain.

It happened several months ago, apparently. Lady Montserrat had been growing ever more distressed by her husband's increasingly fervent doctrine, and she worried that he would soon be inciting open violence to those outside the Church. They bickered at first, then argued, and in the last few days, his screaming and her wailing almost brought the ceiling down. But none of the shouting matches had been so bad as the last one. It had happened behind locked doors, so nobody knew what had happened, exactly. None of the staff ever saw lady Montserrat again, and Hugo let it be known that she had been sent to a convent in order to 'mend her ways'. Well, the staff were hardly surprised by this turn of events, and accepted it easily enough.

That was, until lieutenant Orman had arrayed before Isaac a selection of items found amongst the corpses, and he had spied the lady Montserrat's wedding ring.

Isaac knew his master was a harsh man, a zealous man, but he hadn't thought his fanaticism had stretched so far as that. Otto, on the other hand, remained sceptical. Oh, there was no doubt that Montserrat had killed all those people. Otto just didn't think the man's religion had ever been anything more than an excuse. This had been no grand crusade, no holy war - it had simply been a poison growing in the man's head. Montserrat had served no god except the one he had perceived himself to be.

Leopold leaned over the rails a bit further, looking meaningfully into Otto's eyes. The orc shook off his reverie, and met his gaze.

"Do you know what will be happening with Alys, yet?" the merchant asked.

Otto shrugged, and looked back at the city. Jeren was taking them into port, and the towering black spires of the Citadel were looming ever higher above them. "She has some extended family back in Salvar, who'll probably take her in. I just hope they take Isaac, as well. She'll need a familiar face, and he seems to care more about the girl than this bloody church."

Leopold smiled through the gloom. "Is that a change of heart I hear?"

Otto listened to the rhythmic slap of waves below them for a little while before he replied. "I lost it back there. A bit."

"Just a bit?"

"Maybe a bit of a big bit. Imp... what's that word Orman keeps using? Imp-arsh-eeyal-ittee, that's a copper's friend. Level head at all times, and I lost mine. Was in danger of losing it a lot more, too." Otto sighed. "That gel really didn't need me screaming at her on top of everything else."

Leopold flicked an imagined piece of lint from his shoulder. He practically radiated nonchalance. "Well", he muttered into his jacket, "Extenuating circumstances and all that. We had just seen a lot of bodies-"

"-seen a lot more than that", Otto mumbled.

"-and I daresay the adrenaline and stress had taxed your faculties", Leopold ploughed on determinedly.

"I was angry."

"Well, yes, like I said-"

"No, it wasn't that. Hells, that stuff focuses you more than anything else. It was... it was..." Otto's hands clasped at the empty air, as though searching the wind for the words he needed. "It was everything, in a way. All those bodies, yes. But... also that we were the only ones there doing something about it. That it took us so long to do something about it. That we were only there because of you, like we need someone from the outside to keep our house in order. Because we do." He slouched even further against the ship's rails, to the point that his upper body was almost horizontal. "Maybe I'm working for the wrong people."

Leopold gave him a sidelong glance. "Have you ever considered such a thing before?"

The orc stiffened slightly. "That's dangerous talk, you know."

"You could just say 'no'."

Leopold was given a very pointed look after he said this, but further conversation was interrupted by a flurry of activity on the deck. Although Jeren had been entrusted with the wheel over the ship's own helmsman, a full crew was required to bring the vessel safely in to dock. Said men scurried around as a long pier rolled by the ship's side, and the smell of the port finally hit home in full strength. A few soldiers would stay aboard to keep an eye on things until the investigation officially wrapped up, but as for Otto, Orman, Isaac, Alys, Leopold and Jeren were concerned, it was time to leave. The gangplank lowered, and Otto and Leopold trod down onto the comfortably solid and unmoving slats of the jetty. It was proper night, now; deep night, a patchwork of impregnable darkness interspersed with amber pools of lamplight, and the usual noise of the city swapped for different, quieter, less obvious sounds.

Otto shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Well", he said. "It's been a pleasu- er, no, maybe that's not the right word. It's been an honour working with you, Mr Winchester." He stuck out a hand, and Leopold took it firmly in his own.

"Likewise", he said, and they shook.

They broke apart, but before Leopold could wander off, the orc piped up. "Do you... do you think you might stay in touch with the Force?"

Leopold paused, then turned back around. "Would that be of comfort to you, Mr Bastum?"

Otto shrugged, frowned, then nodded. "Aye. If something like this ever happens again... I don't know. I'm worried that it still could, even after all this."

Leopold pinned him with a long, slow stare. Still looking at Otto, he pulled a small pen and a slip of paper from his coat pocket and, glancing down only to see what he was writing, jotted down a few things before handing it over. Otto squinted at the writing; under the poor lamplight, he could make out what looked to be an address and a time, but not the details of either.

"Come along to the next meeting, if you can", said Leopold. "I would like that very much, and I think it will be of interest to a career man such as yourself." The merchant seemed to look distracted for a moment, and then grinned hugely. Otto could see the light glint off his teeth.

The orc gave him a puzzled look. "What is it?" he asked.

"I'm curious; did you actually catch the name of the ship at any point?"

"Uh, no. I think we came up on the wrong side. Why?"

Leopold just continued to smile, and nodded at the point behind Otto at which he had been staring. Otto swiveled around to look up at the ship and, squinting once more in the meagre light, let his eyes rove over the faint outline of letters painted large upon the hull. At length, a grim smile touched his own lips.

Dread Sovereign.

[Christoph]

Sorry about the wait! Here it is, at last. As a forward, your quest was solid, so as I was reading and writing the judgment, I focused my attention on things that bothered me or could have been improved. Thus, if I don't mention any aspect or detail, you can assume it was fine, haha. With that said, here is the judgment!

Storytelling: 7 The 'hook' in the opening paragraphs was a bit mundane and weak, and didn't do the rest of the thread justice. Some of your foreshadowing in the first post was a bit hamhanded, but not overwhelmingly so. I also wish you both had spent more time establishing how Leopold knew about Otto, rather than on other less important exposition (that is, in the very first post). The first 'lead' Leopold comes forward felt pulled out of thin air, though that's a side-effect of having a largely mysterious and inscrutable (by normal human standards) character as a PoV character (but more on that in Persona). Beyond that, the tale unfolded in an interesting way, and had some twists and turns that made it memorable.

Pacing: 6 Building on my first Storytelling comment, the intro lacked the energy of a good opening. It felt more like a midway scene than an opening in that regard. Otto, your first post stumbled a little. You established something of a hook, but I wish you had established the Question of what the guards were doing sooner, to keep me interested. A lot of scenes dragged on a lot more than they needed to. Given the actual story content present in the thread, the entire thing could have been several posts shorter.

Setting: 8 For the most part, you guys did a good job here. Your somewhat over-descriptive styles helped ensure the setting was vividly described as a side-effect. Some bits were a little odd, such as this understatement: "It was not as cold as Berevar, but still uncomfortable." That's a minor concern. Beyond that, I like how you tied the murders in Corone to similar events in Salvar, bringing the world of Althanas together (that helped Wildcard as well).

Communication: 7 Your dialogue did the job, but wasn't spectacular. I don't have too much to comment here. I like that the conversations between Leopold and Otto and Otto and his superior officer helped drive the plot.

Action: 7 Similar to Communication. I did like the attention to detail with subtle action nuances that helped bring the characters too life. Too often in threads it feels like characters are standing rigidly still talking at each other, but not here. Your characters felt alive because they reacted physically in realistic ways.

Persona: 7 It took me a while to get into the characters. Otto's personality took a while to come out, and Leopold's viewpoint felt a little preachy, especially early on. In addition, Leopold lost a lot of his potential by being a PoV character from the start. He could have served really nicely as a more mysterious factor from the reader's perspective (to mirror how Otto seemed to see him at first). Leopold's motivations felt a bit inscrutable in the first several posts, which would have worked perfectly there weren't so many passages written from his point of view. Now, I understand that as a roleplaying quest, what I'm suggesting would have been a massive pain in the butt, but like I said in the Forward, I'm scraping the bottom for criticisms. Still, if the first post I read from Leopold's perspective had been Post Number 9, it would have made him much more engaging and interesting. As Otto got more depth, he became a more engaging character as the story progressed.

Technique: 7 Otto, you have some nice literary flair and a strong way with words. My primary gripe with you is that you overuse figurative techniques, which both gets tiring to read and reduces the impact of each one. Additionally, sometimes misplaced metaphors or similes and so on can draw unneeded or unwanted attention to details that don't warrant it.

Mechanics: 8 Leopold, you oversaturated your prose with weak verbs, which robbed of its punch and effectiveness. I also spotted a fair number of typos, most from you. Otto, your writing was clean for the most part, though some of your sentences got a bit clunky to read.

Clarity: 7 In scenes with multiple characters interacting, it was sometimes a little tiring to follow who was saying or doing what when the pronouns started piling on. This was only an issue at a few points, though. Other instances involved leading a line of dialogue with an action sentence NOT from the character about to speak. That, or you were just putting necessary paragraph breaks in between a single character's dialogue. Either way, it hurt your Clarity. Some other bits didn't quite make sense, as though chunks of passages were missing (notably in post 9). Other lines also


Wildcard: 7 There isn't much else to say. It was a fun, if unnecessarily lengthy read. I liked your rather grim fantasy take on the classic murder mystery, though I think you would have benefited from following a tighter mystery-style plot structure. I also like how you used elements from the lore in your story.

*

Final Score: 71

Otto receives 2,400 EXP and 300 GP
Leopold Receives 2,200 EXP and 300 GP

[Lye]

EXP and GP Added.

Both Players Level Up!