The Anomaly [closed to Ulrich Craggenmoor]

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

"Stay here," The first security guard ordered, pointing a gnarled, pale finger at the tavern's bewildered patrons. "We'll need statements from all of you."

The gathered men and women looked at each other, as if searching for guidance from one another. There was a heavy presence of doubt, and as Shinsou stood set slightly apart from the crowd, he kept his eyes darting about his perimeter. The likelihood was that Philisandre’s murderer was long gone, but that didn’t stop him from erring on the side of caution. After all, being too comfortable in a crowd had once led to him being shot, and there was still a small chance that the killer was mingling in with the innocents, waiting for the opportune moment to escape.

One of the guards finally took it upon himself to preserve some of Philisandre’s dignity, draping a tablecloth over the corpse. As the rabble continued, Shinsou had barely enough time to look over his shoulder to watch a figure slip away into the shadows at the edge of the tavern. Without pausing, the man ghosted through the door leading to the bowels of the tavern, and quietly clicked it shut. Despite the close proximity of everything to the two burly men near the front door, this seemed to escape their notice.

Nothing screams “red flag” more than someone slinking off from the crime scene. I think it’s time to shake this crowd and have a chat with our mystery contestant. In any case, if I get noticed here by some eagle-eyed do-gooder, it could cause all sorts of problems.

Another glance round confirmed what he already knew. There wasn’t a man amongst them who could physically bring him to bear. Escaping loudly would represent no challenge at all; he could brush aside the security with little more than an iota of his power. This said, the Telgradian was cognizant of keeping things quiet. If he started a ruckus, it wouldn’t be long before someone fingered him for being Shinsou Vaan Osiris, co-leader of the Brotherhood. The attention would be, at best, unhelpful. At worst? All it would take is for someone to connect dots that didn’t exist and before long, “Brotherhood kills promising young Assembly minister” would be front and centre of the Radasanthian Reader. It would be a headline that the crime syndicates would adore, and one that would see him and his organisation framed for a murder they simply hadn’t committed.

…and that’ll put a pin in any lasting peace between the Brotherhood and the Assembly.

His hands clenched at his side as he tried to conjure a plan. A distraction was needed, but more than that, a subtle movement towards the back door. Quietly stepping back from the crowd, Shinsou deliberately bobbed and slowly paced in a seemingly random pattern. He clasped his hands behind his back, pretended to be half interested in a few conversations, all whilst maintaining a steady rate of movement towards the back door. A quick check confirmed that the guards, now speaking to some of the patrons, hadn’t noticed his movements and the crowd had not stirred from their own confused state. The Telgradian straightened his spine and slipped a hand gently over the brass doorknob.

With a brisk turn, slip and click, Shinsou was out of the room and into the rear hallway.

Cool air hit his skin immediately as the Telgradian drove into life. He meandered past the oaken kegs and containers, his white coat whipping the masonry either side, until he reached the only staircase out and raced up the stairwell. It seemed to lead to the landlord’s private accommodation and the pub kitchen, but those weren’t of interest to him. To the right, a large, single paned window had been left ajar. On the slate rooftop of an adjacent building below, the green moss that had grown undisturbed for years was churned into lumps of soft debris - tell-tale signs of someone having quickly but carelessly travelled across it. Beyond this, an alleyway stretched out from a stone archway; the only access to the back of the pub.

A one way street leading back to the road.

He confidently clambered out of the window, landing softly upon the shale-tiled roof of the adjacent shop, taking the only available path that his quarry could have taken. Vaulting down from the rooftop, the Telgradian hit ground level with bent knees and began to sprint ahead. At the end, the passage widened and split out. Faint sounds that sounded suspiciously like quick footsteps wafted from the right hand side, and as Osiris jinked into it, past a no longer functioning fountain, he caught sight of the figure he had seen leave the tavern. A nagging throb began to pound at the back of Shinsou's mind as his senses started to pick up. He knew the taint of magic well enough to know that the person in front of him was unmistakeably a “special”. It was a cheesy term he hated, coined by Storm Veritas, to describe people who wielded unusual or powerful abilities. It was not exactly reassuring, but better men had tried to kill Shinsou and failed.

The Telgradian didn’t hesitate, kicking off from the wet cobbles and closing the short distance between them in a flash. Slamming into the man with his body, Shinsou twisted to catch his prey with his left hand as his right wrist had flicked out, conjuring the dreaded crimson energy blade that the legions of Tenebrae had suffered weeks before.

The hand dropped an inch, fingers curled inwards, as the edge of the pulsating blade snapped parallel to the man’s jugular vein.

"You better start talking, and fast. Who hired you to kill Philisandre?” A moment of exasperation crossed Shinsou. He wouldn’t pause before going in again. “I want names, places, everything. You give me what I want, and maybe you get to wake up tomorrow.”

Filled with aggressive energy, his hidden left hand began gathering a small orb of Ardor’s Flame. He wouldn’t be caught off guard today.

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

The Glass was heavy and the shingles were wet but Ulrich had no plans to be questioned about a murder he didn't commit, while the murderer actually got away with... well. Ulrich could only keep his senses up to his maximum if he wasn't focusing on doing anything else. His training hadn't finished or progressed that far. He simply wouldn't be able to track this killer if he was trying to hide from everyone else.

Or keep his footing.

The slick rooftops beyond his sneeky exit awaited his foolishness hugrily. His heavy looking boots, made for mud and dirt, squeeked and squelched through this pre-curser to the next great flood. Moving to the next rooftop was almost a chore and as Ulrich bent his knees and pushed himself to the next point of his journey, the Rooftop struck.

Feet flying in all directions at once, the momentum granted was little to none. Instead of a georgous curved arc to place the wizard on his feet across the alley, Ulrich was greeted by it's butch and flat cousin, the downward line of hurt. His upper chest impacted the gutter of the opposing rooftop, forcing the air from his lungs as flailing arms grabbed at the ledge and pulled him up.

There was little dignity in the moment.

Street level.

The way down was easy. Wet cobblestones under his feet threatened to bruise his ego again, however he was ready for their tricks. He remembered his training at the temple of Panthor, Sure footedness and the senses were first learned by all the initiates, before the rest was preached. He blamed it on the change of scenery with a brisk shake of the head. Panthor was known to place people where they were needed . He trusted in that, at least. MOving forward, bringing the next street into view.

The street was running a river on each side of the road. Noone was out there. Nobody clear anyway. Focus instead, let the world tell you where he went. His heart beat lowered as his senses sharpened, became more clear. The details around him seemed brighter, the rain felt crisper and the footsteps louder. Had the killer circled around him, Ulrich had been safe enough in the pub.this might have been his first and final mistake after leaving the order.

Shit!

Turning to face his assailent and bring him to justice Ulrich was filled with a moment of clarity. The assassin who killed in a crowded place without being noticed. Ulrich was going to bring him to justice, in a dark, abandoned, alleyway.

SHIT

He was fucked. A knife flashed out as the figure launched. Held high. A concentration of magic flashed up around his neck, before a blow was struck. A protective wrapper of shining gold magic threads. Melting away as fast as it was conjoured. Ulrich's hand was already rising to the sword on his back. A final desperate hope.

Replaced by a non-final, decent hope as his assailent's rage demanded into his face hot bile crossing between them. He wasn't the killer, And Ulrich's hand froze halfway to the hilt of his weapon.

But neither was Ulrich. And as his back was pressed into the stone cold of the alleyway wall the hope he had found faded as he scrambled for a way to communicate his innocence.

"I didn't kill anyone!"

Weak!

The man was enraged, for whatever reason it appeared that he wanted Ulrich dead, personally for whoever the victime was he needed to not only convince the stranger, but connect. He didn't have anything to punch through this assault. Every strand of magic melted away near the red energy without a thought. Like it was simply not there.

"We're hunting the same man. He killed my Brother!"

When his life wasn't in danger he would pass along the unconvincing truth. That he was called to chase down this murderer by his minor deity. Or at least that Ulrich would like to have thought Panthor did.