Quest The 13th

[Twisted Teller]

​

Alliria, The Outer City, Silver District...

---

This was the thirteenth victim.

Left same as the last.

To hang by hook. Parts butchered. Stitched back together. Wrong. Twisted.

Too neat.

Harvested. Eyes, ears, tongue and nose. Teeth left to grin.

"Another husk,"

"Another husk..."
​

Wendri stepped careful across the merchant's room. "Last one was a pie hawker,"

"A street walker the time 'for that." A grunt. A shake of the head as Mardu peered about the room.
​

"Left the walled city well enough alone, till now," she turned away from the arrangement. "Well maybe now the council will send someone worth a lick," she glanced about, her eyes caught the glint of silver coin, "A proper Mage if we're lucky," she stepped toward.

A snirk. "Too expensive," he said, as he set himself to look about.
​

She reached out to the coin left neatly on the counter. A strange array of stars, twinkled unknowable as they shimmered and danced across its silver face. Her eyes went wide.

The stars shifted. Tilt and whirled.

---

A killer is on the loose, in the city of Alliria.

The Council has approved the hiring of private agents to aid in the solving of this grizzly affair, as people of the Outer City clamor at the loss of their neighbor, and those in the Shallows hunker down, suspicious of all and any who walk the streets about.

Cold as the autumn winds chill, people try to go on.

Sargeant Mardu awaits, to dispatch and inform those willing to take on the case, while Wendri and other guards work their investigation in the city, and try to deal with all the other realities of their station.

​

 

[Zolin Fettle]

As conditions worsened, opportunists made good upon the dire happenstance. For coin and unsmotherable curiosity did Zolin Fettle flitter about the town, yammering quick pointed question at guards who quickly thought they weren't being paid enough to endure the impatient fellow. Barely was an answer provided was another question pressured.

Directed to ask the people in charge, the guards shoo'd Zolin away, eager to be about some peace to such a morbid affair. The gnome turned curtly, making good his exits before boot or halberd was brought to bear.

Some small morsels of information gleaned, he chewed upon them as his quick clacking boots navigated cobblestone. He muttered in between ill balanced treading.

“Butchery, stitching, all things foul and twisted in the brain of the criminal mind, all set against these oh so fair and simple folk, oh how delightful a case to work upon, oh how drole a thing to be fixing up. These guards move so slow that one as quick as I shall put this matter to bed.”

Window shutters clattered shut at the sound of his approach.

“Afeared, afeared, quite right to be afeared in such times, but not I, not I who will find the soup of clues most nourishing, but my companions in this inquiry I've yet to find,” Zolin said to the dark streets as he made his way to the central office of the guards watch for full brief.

Now the most awful and most arduous practice that a gnome could partake upon.

Waiting.

He paced outside the office, waiting for audience or fellow inquisitive to make good their case, cause and demand of pay. He puffed away at small pipe as he paced back and forth, looking here and there with sharp eyes and quick neurotic turn of head, as if the corridors of the street might offer sign of life that wished this murderer put in shackles all the quicker for such hurried flitting attentions.

 

[Dahlia Blackthistle]

The idea that killers were being hired to catch a killer was laughable to Dahlia.

Sorry, private agent per the missives being sent out to any deemed competent to answer. The fact that members within the Blackshield received one was not too surprising, they had a reputation for getting results. And results were what Dahlia was expected to provide. That is, if her Captain had anything to say about it.

That's how she found herself outside of Sargeant Mardu's office, cloaked in her shadows in the corner and watching a very peculiar and frenetic looking gnome pace his feet to the bone. Quietly, she watched him, reluctant to engage with anyone that might drag her down in her investigation.

Zolin Fettle Twisted Teller

 

[Twisted Teller]

The Office door came open with a groan, and there, mustachioed, stood Sergeant Mardu, looking over the two private agents that stood in the hall.

"Feh, just my luck," he said with a half grin. "But I guess help is help, all things considered," he waved the two in, and walked about the plain desk in the cramped room. Ledgers and folios stacked about, At one end of the room, a neatly arrayed collection of evidence displayed beneath magic lamp light.

Mardu loomed behind his desk. Grabbed up a series of files. Let them fall onto the table before them. "Here, look through these, get your bearings, and get to work," he grumbled. Motioned his nose toward the table of items. "Other important bits are over there, maybe'n your eyes can discern something ours couldn't,"

---

At first, the case notes are a near-indecipherable layer of writings, in different styles, some cleanly transcribed as if by proper scribe, and others hastily scrawled in the margins, added at later dates. As your eyes scan through the pages, you start to distinguish individual hands, and a conversation begins to unfold.

Slipped into the twine that binds a bundle of medical forms, there’s a scrap of paper. The incomplete, informal writing reads:

Coroner’s notes feel repetitive. All bodies left in same condition. Limbs and torso cut at precise points and sew back together. Anatomically wrong – but subtle. Sometimes organs in different places. Sometimes tendons in the arm braided and reattached. Reminds me of me mum’s embroidery. All smooth and clean out front, but a jumbled mess on the flipside.

Next, a collection of writing from different voices. Scrawled notes passed from one desk to another on a busy day:

Eyes, ears, nose and tongue missing from all victims. None recovered. Can we widen search? No resources, Mardi!


Thirteen victims, only three identified. Get what we know in writing. What about the others?
Can’t make postings of missing names. Too gored to release sketches to the public.


You see the profiles on the known victims, and scan through them, gleaning the important notes.

Spoiler: Melinda Emekas

Melinda Emekas, Aged 33
Street Vendor (Hot Pies)
Reported missing by her brother, Cid Emekas, three days before the victim's body was found in her own cellar. Guard who found her reported that the place smelled strongly of “brine and burnt matches”. Could be from common embalming fluids, but the body showed no signs of preservation.

Spoiler: Adelle Lirious

“Adelle Lirious”, Aged 24
Attendant at the Kitschy Kitty
First victim. Real name unknown. Notes are sloppy on this one; no leads. We thought it just another creep in the Outer District. Let’s do better by the poor girl in the future, alright?

Spoiler: Brother Vance

Brother Vance, Aged 58
Mendicant (Celestials)
Existing record of misdemeanors attached. Lots of complaints from the Upper Districts about this one. A common sight, begging for alms in return for prayers and minor blessings. None at the Temple were willing to answer our questions. Send someone nicer next time.

The remaining pages are an inventory of evidence collected from the murder scenes. It’s a surprisingly sparse list, considering the number of connected victims. Most of the items seem like aimless debris gathered by frustrated guards, but three descriptions stand out to you:

• Silver Coin - Found at the site of the latest victim. Not a currency any of us recognize. A constellation with seventeen stars is engraved on one side. Sent a sketch of the pattern to the academics, no word back yet. The other side is blank, polished to a reflective sheen.
• Clamshell Mirror - Found on Adelle’s body. Hand mirror made of matching clam shells. Powder and pouf nestled inside. Rattling sound, like something’s loose behind the mirror. Can’t pry it open (Decil chipped his tooth trying)
• Thin Knife - Found inside of Brother Vance. Good steel, working tool. Looks something like the coroner’s tools, but he says this one is custom. Handle’s not worn in yet. Ask around the blacksmiths shops to see if they had a recent order.

---

Wonderfully detailed and awesome murder mystery evidence written by bees?

Zolin Fettle Dahlia Blackthistle

 

[Zolin Fettle]

Eyes became as the hunter with choice of marks, narrowing, snapping between each target to glean the truth. Zolin sprang forward as if the accounts made themselves available were liable to be locked away at any moment, yet picked up with delicate hand in respect to how precious the data was. The speed at which Zolin absorbed and replaced the information for his companion to read was astounding. Each clue consumed and churned within grey matter even as the next was rendered mounting evidence to primordial idea of guilt, scouring each source with thorough briskness for all hints of culpability and factors of cause and effect.

Zolin gave sigh as the cogs of cognition whirred, his eyes blinking as if perception could be batted by lash into increasing focus. Zolin paced about, arguing with himself fitfully in subvocal hem and haw, making audible and clear his travails.

“Methodology, purpose in the bind, an odd hand to decorate the sections of the fettered so, not structural and functional but aesthetics in the presentation, no common course of the character of victim to this foul design, that I might see. How and what serve this function, of ill placed rearrangement of internals from sliced fatality, more to come and not perhaps more still not yet found. No rune, no arcane mark, yet ritualistic time in the marrow of these crimes, each processed with unusual binding with the flair of tapestry instead of the brutal practicalities of butchery and cadavery. Necromancy does not concern itself as usual practice to this delicate touch. Much time, much time spent in the stitch, yet focused on presentation instead of structural reanimation. Is this all practice of blossoming dark talent by other skills transposed? Not one concerned with correctness of the trunk's content, but concerned with twisting of braided tendon, to which function pleases the art that weaves them so, but not the locomotion of their matter. But not all stitched together as by formula, perhaps due to time required to indulge in such manipulation of the coils to aesthetics. There is much concern for appearance here. A sophisticated horror of thought that germinates within the criminal mind, and expression muchly of what the bind might render to the eye.”

He stilled the air from his words for a moment.

Spoke slow as he could in accommodation for his colleagues in deduction.

“This knife. Dedication to this craft in tools, rarely left at scene unless perturbed by circumstance, of those that might stumble upon the work in active motion, yet still completed before stumbling and fleeing that have transpired. Sorely missed perhaps by our perpetrator, an oversight, yet a multitude of other tools to the practice no doubt at disposal. Those temple bound who have lips tight to the questions laboured before them, hark to them to see the work in practice perhaps and found it ill to their conscience. This tool I surmise to be a worthy lead, more fashioned to serve this dark mind that cuts and rearranges, yet not well used, perhaps fresh and sharp in recent memory to this level of cutting. To the fashioners of foil must we go, not long in career has this blade been pressed and spent in toil. Such is my angle as of now.”

He tapped his foot as if grinding his heel into the stubs of information in his memory. He flittered, looking to his colleague.

“Well? What make of you this that Zolin Fettle does not, I would hear it, be useful and quick, double time your conclusion but-make-no-error.”

Dahlia Blackthistle Twisted Teller

 

[Kaisa]

Like blown in by a tempest, the door swung open. In a pointed click, of metal and a heel step both, another entered. The effect of a perfectly composed entry was ruined just about by her hem almost catching on the rough doorframe, her face morphing to a grimace as she realized someone was already talking. Thankfully, she interrupted naught, making sure to close the door quietly.

“ My apologies for letting myself in. “ Kaisa spoke finally as silence had descended, hassling with her dress as she advanced into the room proper. In a huff, she corrected the shawl about her shoulders, pulling it tighter. “ And that I should’ve been late. My favourite sandvich shop was closed, so I was forced into a detour. “

And I don’t get paid enough to be rushed. Let alone work on an empty stomach.

Quickly and with a grim disposition, she extended a hand at the sergeant in greeting.

“ Kaisa Latva. Magician. Got a whiff of your case by some associates in the district. Awful, the lot of it. “ As swiftly as she’d approached, she was already turning to the notes on the desk, inspecting each under a small magnifying glass. An errant glance found the striking looking gnome amidst her task, regarding him in a nod.

“ I’m going to agree with what I heard, coming in. The knife piques— “ Rings aglitter in the lamplight, she tapped at her chin, stare flitting about the room and fixing on the displayed evidence.

“ Interest. A very intimate, specific tool to having been commissioned. And thusly, perhaps, to be promptly replaced. “ She went for the table, stare finding the described blade as she produced a handkerchief from within her dress pocket. Found inside, huh? Was whom held you in a rush? The square of cloth was placed on the handle, sheltering her touch as she picked up the blade and lofted its edge against the light. A bright triangle reflected on the wall, jumping about as she rotated the item this way and that.

Has made specialty equipment part of the fun, maybe? An appreciator of craftsmanship. How respectable and terribly convenient, if true.

“ Brother Vance is another— “ Her voice elevated a little, so she might be heard without having to turn amidst her inspection. “ If only, for his whereabouts and connections might be the easiest to trace. To start with, at the very least. When was his body discovered, Sergeant? “


Twisted Teller Zolin Fettle Dahlia Blackthistle

 

[Dahlia Blackthistle]

The living shadows that normally stalked in the wake of Dahlia's every step, shrunk deeper into her corner at the arrival of the woman bursting through the doors with a flourish.

Her energy filled the room with snapping direction and competency. Her rich visage gave the impression of an affluent tycoon and Dahlia squinted skeptically at her back. Finding it off-putting that she couldn't recall any information on the woman from the vast dossier the mercenary kept recorded in her mind. A skill that was required in the field of the Blackshields, ignorance could get you goddamn killed.

Dark eyes tracked the conjectures tossed across the desk at the Sergeant, noting that the mirror had failed to be addressed. Stalking back to the scattering of evidence, Dahlia silently picked up the mirror and turned it about in her hands, tracing a small insignia chiseled into the delicate outside shell. Perhaps the signature of the artist?

But she furrowed her brow at the exceptional quality, despite the damage done in an effort to open it. For the craftsmanship was too fine a thing to be found outside of anywhere but the Inner City. How could a mere shop keep in the Outer District afford such a thing?

Zolin Fettle Kaisa Twisted Teller

 

[Eden Sinclayr]

The newcomer, Kaisa Latva by introduction, asked a question.

"Brother Vance's body was found about a tenday ago," the Sergeant answered. "He was the twelfth victim, the one before this most recent killing. Lead's the warmest, most certainly."

A bulky cabinet lay behind Sergeant Mardu's desk. He opened a drawer on one of the lower levels, rifling through a mess of papers and scrolls. Eventually, he came up with a dirty bit of parchment, folded into quarters. It looked like it had gone through a rough ride in someone's pocket.

"Here, a list of every blacksmith and toolcrafter in the Lower District." Unfolding the paper revealed about a dozen locations on the list, some of them crossed out, marked as already questioned. "Long walk between 'em. Hope you had a big breakfast."

---

It is, indeed, a long walk to the nearest smithy. But the keeper of the shop is a proud member of the Guild, and knows just about every metal worker in Alliria. He cheerfully supplies you with the names of smiths skilled enough to make such a fine tool, and narrows down the list to only one name:

Cecie Fritz, owner of Fritz & Fable Smithy.

The front of the smith's shop is sunny and well adorned. Rows of glass cases line the shelves, displaying all kinds of finely worked tools for every sort of profession: leatherworking needles, tailor's scissors, and surgeon's scalpels. Cecie herself is a stout woman with golden skin and brown hair pulled back into a frizzy pouf of a ponytail. The sleeves of her linen shirt are rolled up, showing a number of paler scars hatching up her powerful arms.

"Hullo, welcome in!" she greets you, but she's with another patron, and her tone is terse. "I'll be right with ye."

The human being already at the counter is an older gentleman, neat grey hair slicked back on his head. There's dirt under his fingernails, and a soft floral smell about his person. He holds up a pair of pruning shears, looking through halfmoon spectacles as he tests the tool with a snik snik of the twin blades.

"Brilliant work as ever, Fritz," he says to the shopkeep.

"Thank you, thank you," the shopkeep beams back. "But ye know, most of my clients are surgeons and alchemists. I do wonder what sort of flowers need such fine steel--"

"Not for the flowers," the man responds, interrupting the shopkeep ever so gently. "Grafting. The cleaner the cut to a branch, the easier the new scion takes to the stock."

The pair of shears are placed into a small wooded box, padded down with straw. The man tucks the box under his arm, and nods to the shopkeeper. "But don't let me go on, I'll talk all day on arboriculture, and it looks like you've got other customers."

He turns to leave. A passing glance your way as he slips through the door, but not another word.

"Alright, good day to ye too, Gren," the shopkeep says. On her tiptoes, she braces herself against counter and calls after the man. "Just bring them back in when they need sharpened!"

The smith settles back down and turns to you next, resuming her warm, but distant demeanor. "Thank ye for your patience," she says. "Now, what can I help ye with?"

Dahlia Blackthistle Kaisa Zolin Fettle

 

[Kaisa]

A tenday ago.

She nodded firmly, placing her fingertips on the blade where it reflected her gaze back at her. Holding in a breath, she closed her eyes and made her best effort to focus amidst the errant noises of the rest in the room.

There was a velvety feel, like the inside of a violin case. Long periods of darkness, until a flash of light revealed steel to a view. No distinguishable features in the dimness, just the feeling of a sure grip. These hands had not known manual labour belongst to sailors and carpenters, too smooth, save for an errant paper cut. Red, the taste of iron.

She withdrew at that, her face having curdled at the residual sensation on her tongue. Swallowing, she turned and put the knife on the table next to the list of blacksmiths, that it might be taken with if need be.

“ It is also a bit of a walk up to the Temple, if memory serves. “ She remarked, folding the handkerchief in a flourish and tucking it away into her dress pocket. “ So why don’t I go there in the meanwhile, rile the Mendicants up a bit with some questions. “

Curls bouncing, she was already heading for the door.

“ There are a couple blacksmiths on the way, so I could definitely pay those a visit on my way back. If I come back. “ She winked at the two others as she opened the door. “ If I don’t, you know where your murderer is. Let’s say we convene back here in— say— two hours time? “

The little dial around her neck was given a once over, haphazard as she passed through the frame and into the hall. The door was left ajar in her wake, allowing in her parting affirmation.

“ Alright, great. “