Fable - Ask Portent of Predation

[Zinnia]

Spoiler

​

Spoiler

Mood music if you'd like:

Vel Luin. A terribly miserable place by the standards of most. While not nearly as miserably rainy and bleak as somewhere like Alliria, Vel Luin was still a coastal city, and an Anirian one at that. The weather was gray and wet on most days, and the architecture of much of the city was brutal and depressing. The stonework, anyways, of which there was much, given the city's status as a coastal bastion.

Of course, the massive slabs of dark gray stone did not cover the entirety of the city; indeed, not all of Vel Luin even had fully cobbled roads. Rickety wood and brick buildings marked the slums of Vel Luin, most covered in salt and moss or some kind of algae, the inevitable fate of any poorly maintained seaside construction. Streets were oft muddy, people oft as damp as their environment, and the city watch stretched too thin for true order to be instilled throughout all regions of the place.

It is this city, this dank and somber place, that drew Zinnia St. Kolbe, Dreadlord of Vel Anir. Not to sightsee, no, and not for business as such, but to do what history has shown she does best. An investigation.

The young woman, clad in a dark, cloth hood and mostly leather armor, and lugging a war hammer on her back, trudged down a byway, careful not to slip on the worn cobble beneath her boots. She'd arrived in town later in the afternoon, and at this time of year the sun was already beginning to set. News had reached her ears from afar: a string of horrific murders had gone on for months within the walls of Vel Luin, and as of yet no culprit had been brought to justice. Her duty, she had decided, was to bring an end to that limbo.

An inn laid before Zinnia, the Copper Cod. It was as good a place as any. Despite Zinnia being able to afford a nicer place to stay on her military salary, or even having access to the Dreadlord barracks here in Vel Luin, she had decided that staying in the side of town where many of the murders had occurred was conducive to catching whomever was responsible.

Besides...perhaps in this musty little inn she'd find allies in her endeavors. After all, it's not like she hadn't sent word ahead to the local Anirian Guard that she was coming.

 

[Mortivore Urn]

The old fisherman sat in a humble three-legged chair, in the corner of the Copper Cod, near a window weeping rainwater. His tall frame and long cloak all but smothered the modest chair, hood still pulled over teeming grey strands. A veined hand gripped a sizeable mug of dark ale, foam sprinkling its top, as might be expected of a man of the sea.

However, instead of sporting the typical equipment of an angler, entirely different equipment rested on his lone table, curious iron instruments looking more fit for a torturer or curator than one of his profession. Here a set of iron armiliary spheres, rather than any glinting baits or lures. There a long chain of a silverite metal tied to a flail-like shaft and grip, instead of any fishing rod or reel.

Instinctively, many patrons of the Copper Cod knew better than to approach him. And while they might not have boasted conscious awareness of his true calling, perhaps some deeper intuition told them that this man fished for a bounty of an entirely different nature. His nets invisible, his piscary this very establishment, which brought together a ripe tumble of minds, inebriated and defenceless, easily lured by the right prize. Schools of patrons swum drunkily among dank tables and greasy counters like marine animals finding themselves safe and cocksure in a coral reef of debauchery.

Never did they know that a shark swum amongst them, staring at each one in turn from the corner; dark, dead eyes considering consumption.

Those eyes shifted slowly below the hood, with the drifting of an apex predator that had all the time in the world, to a new arrival. A woman of deceptively average features, with but a golden sheen to her eye to betray her singularity in a sea of mediocrity.

He recognised the straight back and the nearly marching poise of someone martially trained. The fisherman leaned forward in his seat, the chair groaning below his weight. He took a deep swig from his mug, flinty gaze never leaving her, tracing her stride like a pair of unerring compass needles. Watching. Waiting. Observing.

Zinnia

 

[Reven]

One of the tables in the common room of the Copper Cod hosted a card game between two men. Both had recently quit the docks and came to the inn for a spot of relaxation.

"Well don't stay too long," said Lars, the Vel Luin local.

Reven looked up from his fan of cards to him. "Why's that?"

"There's been murders."

"Murders."

"Yeah."

"Big city like this—ain't there always murders?"

"Not like this there hasn't been."

"Well what about em. A dead man's a dead man, I'd say."

Lars went on to elaborate on some of the finer embellishments added to the story buzzing among the locals. He even knew some dockhands who were putting bets on the cause. Reven's brow twitched like a man pulling on the reins of a wayward horse. He'd better not join in on that—even this card game might pull a bit too many coins from his pocket.

"Now that's a story," Reven said as Lars concluded on the latest speculation: fishmen.

"Yeah. I damn well hate them all: elves, orcs, fishmen. Can't trust anything that isn't human. I got a son in the Guard and I said to him, said: 'Son, every knife ear you cut off, keep—I know a guy who pays good money for them, whole strings of them.' Damn shame we're fighting the Cortosi."

They played their hands. Reven swore under his breath and Lars smiled, raking in the little pile of coins wagered toward his edge of the table and scooping them into his waiting pouch.

"That'll do for me, brother," said Reven, stretching.

"Alright. If you ever come back to Vel Luin, seek me out anytime; I'd love to clean your pockets again."

"Fuck you," Reven said with a big mirthful smile.

"Stay safe."

"You're the one who has to live here."

"Eh, I've got some luck yet."

They shook hands and Lars rose and sauntered out from the inn, donning and tipping his hat toward the innkeep who gave him a small nod of acknowledgement. The door swung closed. And Reven, sitting at the table now by himself, wondered at what his friend had said: his tales were fanciful, but how much of it was true? That was the real question.

Zinnia Mortivore Urn

 

[Livia Quinnick]

This was not a side of the coastal side city she had ever thought herself to travel to, but Livia Quinnick had one last thread to follow. It was all that remained before her magic waned to nothing, a poison that set itself deep within her very being.

Livia had been careful, but also trusted she was safe anywhere in Anirian lands.

The last thing she felt was a tug towards the forgotten bowels of Vel Luin, where the stench of damp and salt could never be washed away or cleansed with gale force winds. It remained stagnant, and even as she turned down corners and pushed past those that eyed her up, she could not be rid of the stench. Catching hints of her perfume were a welcome reprieve, and the scent of jasmine that clung to her hair waved across her face every now and then.

She ignored the stares, ignored their taunts and attempts of luring her to cross the street. Liv did not look like a Dreadlord, did not even look as if she were dressed as a Vigilite agent. She wore too fine cloths of a blouse in pearly cream, and trousers of a midnight blue. Her cloak was too fine of make to be seen on this side of the city, but it was this last trace of magic she needed to follow. Who knew when that needle in her compass would begin to not work?

And so, at long last, Livia pushed through the doors into the dimly lit inn. Another stagnant smell affronted her, but her olivine gaze scanned over those in the room. The tug that lead her here had been familiar, and when Livia could feel her magic waning... growing silent... she knew it was better to seek out this last tendril than to go about her mission blind.

"Zinnia."