That Which Goes Bump In the Night (Vapor Only, IC)

[The Biosyn]

Silas’ mouth opened in mock horror at the offensively low price, even going so far to press a hand to his chest as if Anders had personally offended not only Silas himself, but Silas’ entire family line for the past four centuries. “Good sir, I understand wanting a good luck charm for your sister, but surely it means nothing if you do so by robbing my own grandchildren! What kind of world would they live in if their poor grandfather was forced to sell his goods for such a paltry price?”

“Hmmm….” Anders thought for a moment, as if reconsidering his offer, abashed by the low price he had offered. “Then how about 17 marks? And speaking of the world your grandchildren will live in, it’s too bad about Jackson Elias.” Anders made eye contact with Silas, attempting to coral the man’s wandering conversation onto topics that might hold answers. “Killed dead! All of his works, come to an end.”

“Well, ah, I really couldn’t take a mere, a pitiful 17 marks, I mean, quite honestly. The, uh, workmanship, if you look rather closely here,” Silas jabbed a finger fairly randomly at the elephant, barely looking at it. In fact, it really seemed as if he was looking everywhere but at Anders. A nervous tic appeared as well, a minor twitch in his right cheek, as he spoke. Anders hardly needed his years of experience to tell that Silas was rather put off by more than just the still-low price he had quoted; any greenhorn with the Court would have seen the signs. “The workmanship, yes, quite good. And look at the carvings here as well. I think I can go no lower than perhaps 27 or 30 marks; anything further would simply be too much, too much indeed.” His nervous tic fluttered a few more times, and then vanished as Silas’ gaze returned to meet Anders’, his jaw working as he restored his calm. He even forced a slight smile.

Finally looking down at the elephant, where Silas had pointed, before looking back up, he continued his story as if Silas had responded and not directed the conversation abruptly away, obviously ignoring Anders’ previous comments on Elias. “Yeah! My brother works for one of the papers, and he says it’ll be all over the news tomorrow. They actually caught the people that did it! Parthans, apparently. And I’ll give you 20 marks.”As Anders spoke, Egil moved slightly, turning to keep the rest of the store in view. His eyes scanned over the other people, marking them and watching them, ready to respond if they moved to interrupt Anders’ conversation as it reached a critical point.

The change that came over Silas was surprising, not for its suddenness nor end result - Anders had seen many men go that still as if poleaxed, whether by the impact of a sentence or a fist - but for its completeness. All people have innate, instinctual reactions when surprised or paralyzed with shock, minute tells that give much away. No such thing with Silas; his expression had gone utterly still, the forced smile still frozen on his face. After several beats - and Anders could feel his heart rate going up a tiny little bit as he felt the tension rise in the room - Silas began moving again, reaching under the counter to fetch out some newspaper. He wrapped the elephant in it with brisk, experienced movements, and handed it to Anders - but kept his hand on top of it, reaching across the counter. His eyes glittered with concealed menace as he stared into Anders’, and his grin grew yet more forced, almost like a rictus, exposing his bared teeth. “Good day, sir. I think it’s best that you head back to your sister now; in such a cruel world, we would not want anything… untoward to happen.”

Some movement drew Egil’s attention, and he turned to see one of the solitary men step closer to them, beads of sweat obviously forming on his forehead. It was clear to Egil - or at least so he would claim - that he meant nothing good; and besides, his bulky clothing could hide anything underneath it. Even if he was a complete innocent, the tension between Anders and Silas had reached a critical point. It would be foolish to let someone interrupt it, to give Silas an ‘out’. He moved nonchalantly, stepping past Anders to inspect a carved mask on a display case behind them, facing the sweaty Parthan. As he did so, he made sure to brush back his coat, revealing the subdued gleam of a well-oiled gun underneath, before looking up to make eye contact with the man. A slight smile sufficed to make the man pause in his tracks, the combination of nonchalance and menace sending a quiver of fear up his spine.

Anders reached to accept the elephant, slowly putting his hand under it as if that would be that here at the Juju House, before grabbing Silas’ wrist instead, tugging him closer across the counter, before saying casually, quietly, “Oh, my sister isn’t expecting me back for a while.” Anders paused, as he fixed his gaze past Silas, as if he didn’t have the man’s wrist in a vise grip. “And since we’re getting to know each other so well, I don’t think she’d mind if I didn’t rush home.”

“Oh, sir,” Silas said, the forced smile growing even wider until it almost felt unnaturally stretched, “I think we know each other a great deal more than either of us think we do.” He paused. “Just like Mr. Elias and I understood each other - although he did not particularly care for that knowledge at the end.” His expression was challenging, practically taunting Anders. Silas knew that Anders knew, and he did not particularly care if Anders knew that either; his confidence was rather unnerving. The man was old and probably feeble, and from the looks of his shop was neither rich nor powerful. Yet he spoke with utter and complete confidence that it was Anders that was the powerless one, rather than the interrogator. Something more was afoot. Something Anders could not yet discern.

Anders’ eyes narrowed, as he released his grip on Silas’ wrist, taking the elephant. He shifted it to his other hand, before leaning against the counter to maintain the proximity and confidential air of the conversation. “And what’s got you so sure of yourself?” Anders said, needling the man, seeing if his confidence was but a ruse to cover feelings of being cornered. He continued, nonchalantly. “The Court has known about your little operation through Emerson Imports for a while now. Happy to let you be if it didn’t cut into the bottom line. But now Elias has been offed, and, well… that’s bad business. The Court thinks it’s time you get square with them.”

A flash of something - Anders could not tell if it was malice or amusement - stretched across Silas’ face before the man resumed his rather irritating smiling. He stepped back a half-step from the counter - still within arm’s reach, Anders noted - and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Well, I certainly have no such knowledge of any such horrible or awful things that are going on in this city, let alone a hand in it. Nonetheless, I’ll hold my tongue.” Silas winked slowly, assuring Anders that this was no unfortunate turn of phrase, but a distinct reference to Elias’ mutilation. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of the Court. Take your pound of flesh, confiscate what you will from my humble shop.”

Arching an eyebrow at the offer, Anders turned as if to take in the contents of the shop once more, to decide what would be acceptable tribute to pay the Court’s dues, before stopping and turning back to SIlas. He reached over the counter, and before SIlas could move away, he caught the leather thong about the man’s neck, tugging it, pulling it up to reveal a small brass key at the end. A smile spread across his face, nearly a match to SIlas’ own, as if he knew he had found something worth taking. “How about this? This and whatever you’ve hidden away with it?”

[Senkaku]

Uptown Klippenstaad
Belleau's

---

Faïçal put out the stub of his cigarette in the ashtray and delicately slid another out of his pack, gripping it gently with his mouth and cupping his hand as he flicked out his lighter once more, though his eyes never left Longwood as he spoke. He nodded as the man continued, trying not to frown at his obvious lack of interest in his drink- hospitality is not the same here, don't get offended.

He had nearly finished the cigarette by the time the Deputy Commissioner finished speaking, in his soft, slow voice, and pulled out his pack and lighter as the man finished, but hesitated before lighting up another, instead taking a bite of parrotfish and reclining thoughtfully for a moment while he chewed.

"Well, it certainly sounds as though you've got quite a lot on your hands. As for what I want to know... well, the names of the culprits, and the name of their employer and the address of his warehouse and his residence would all be useful, I suppose, and the name of someone who might be willing to show me whatever records the Port Authority has of his movements. If you happen to know which docks he visited, or anyone he saw at the university, that'd be good as well."

He frowned and took a sip of his drink, then leaned forward and offered a slight shrug.

"Frankly, Deputy Commissioner, I want to know everything you do. If you have a master file on the case that could be copied, or misplaced for a day or two by some careless detective stopping by my hotel for a nice lunch, that would be ideal. And I want you to update me when you learn anything new of importance- you can call my hotel's telephone number. If I'm not there ask for Serdil, he's the body man I've got to keep my affairs in order there, and leave whatever message you have for me with him."

He picked up the cigarette to light it, smiling politely at the other man. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I think a smart man like you will see the potential rewards of such an arrangement."

[Liecthenbourg]

Higa's shadow was cast across the library as he returned from his room. His sleeves were still rolled up, his white shirt now further unbuttoned and his tie was nothing more than a loose noose than a fixture of class. He strode in, a slight pride in his gait, as he carefully set down his tripod. The camera came atop it, a hefty thing with numerous reels of film and photo.

"Indeed, I do have a camera" he had told the group, but in truth Mireille. She had seemed agitated. He had offered her smokes, a cigar and even a toke from his pipe. When she inquired if he knew anyone in Jiaoying, he shook his head. Then when she added if he knew a place he stuttered slightly. "Oh, err," he appeared to be like a deer caught in headlights. "I know of Jiaoying, I have been in passing... I'm sure there are friends or members of my journalist union we could speak to there -- I could even write them a letter in advance! I think an old fl- acquaintance of mine might operate there, a Yokota Katsuko."

There was a concerned continuous stare from the receptionist, but he made no comment as the Korrukan began working on the lighting of the room and the specifics with his camera. He framed the statuette, still concealed, with his hands again and again. Biting the nails of his thumbs in ideal contemplation of his art, he would pay no mind to the distraught and impatient faces of his colleagues if there were any.

"Hmm... not as good as I'd..." his head tilted from one side to the other, "can you just shift the statuette a bit Sev- perfect."

It came a time where the statuette was in the right lighting, was at the perfect angle and was even in a... flattering position, as much as a the frame of a statuette could be. He carefully withdrew the pillow case and the first enveloping of cloth, leaving the second.

"On the count of three, I need one of you to yank that final wrapping off. Don't look. Don't look at it. Just hold yourself away and I'll take the photograph without even looking. Ready?"

"Good."

"3." His thumb nervously twitched over the flash button.

"2." He sharply inhaled, his neck turning to the right ever so slightly.

"1." He shut his eyes for good measure.

The flash was bright and white and enveloped the statuette in but a moment for an appearance of holy light.

[Yasuragi]

Luciano/the Group

"The Penhews... Yes, they are familiar to me," Luciano began slowly. "And they should be familiar to all of us, too. The head of the family, although he is the head by default, rather than heritage, since he is the last remnant of that family, is Comte Aubrey Penhew." He gazed around at the group, noting expressions of bewilderment on some, recognition on others. "For those who do not recall, Comte Penhew is a renowned Mehmetologist, and as such, he was recruited by Rutpert Carlyle to join his expedition in Asterdan." He grew more comfortable talking, his nervous tics vanishing entirely as he spoke. To the rest, his demeanor took on that of a professor lecturing his class - clipped, professional, and precise. "The Penhew family is one of the richest in the Kingdom, with their fortunes rivaling that of several great Duchies combined. At times, they've even outearned the Crown itself, although they are always careful to not conflate riches with power. They hailed from the Piedmonte region, during the Great Conversion. The head of the family, John d'Penhewe baptized his entire clan, maintaining his prestige and estates - and expanding them greatly in support of the Church's efforts to civilize the region. From there, the course of their family follows much of the same course as other great nobles. The occasional squabble or duel, the small bit of rebelliousness here or there," Luciano quirked an eyebrow slightly, "until the fourteenth century. 'Black Boris', as Sir Boris Penhew was called, was nearly beheaded for practicing vile arcane arts to commit treason against the Crown. A lot of tosh, of course," he shrugged, "but it's really the only blemish that seems relevant that I can think of."

"Naturally, it's irrelevant to the family today, or to the Foundation. The Foundation is well-known within Rothian academic circles, as it was founded to support and underwrite research expeditions at home and abroad. It's done so for sixty years, and offers many scholarships to fine young students. Comte Aubrey, the sole Penhew remaining, has dedicated his life to the pursuit of scholarship as well. Why, his work on the Royal Harem at Dhashur was groundbreaking, pardon the wordplay," a slight smirk, "and he's personally contributed a great deal to the study of Mehmetology. I can't imagine that the Comte of all people would be involved in anything shady. It's likely the Foundation was simply attempting to purchase the statuette for some bit of scholarship or the like." Luciano waved a hand dismissively at the wrapped package. "I sincerely doubt they were aware of the occult powers that you claim reside within the artifact." The skepticism in his tone was readily apparent to all.

"Regardless; with the death of the Comte, the estates stand to be inherited by the Crown, not the Foundation. The society is headquartered in Rothia, on Penhew land, but it's highly likely it will be allowed to stay there. It's a quite impressive estate - I personally have attended several talks there at their lyceum, and I quite think I would have known if they were conducting savage rituals or the like under our very feet!"

---

Higa/The Group

The bright flash of the camera cast the room into sharp contrast, banishing away all the shadows that lurked in the corners of the library. For a moment, blinking in the aftermath, the world was a dizzying array of spots and speckles - but this did not last long. Higa was no amateur, to have his lightbulb calibrated so high as to prolong the damage. And yet, people's eyes remained closed a touch longer than they needed to be, and when they did open them, it was with the slightest reluctance and trepidation. They needn't have feared, for the statuette stood before them, draped in cloth that obscured even the most basic of features. Nothing could be discerned through the fabric, but people still averted their eyes from it, preferring instead to talk nervously among themselves or with Mr. Higa, who was busy fiddling and fussing with the camera.

The group was left to discuss among themselves as Higa vanished into another room that he had - with the aid of various bottles and equipment in his luggage - converted into a crude room for developing the photographs he had taken. It did not require much, simply a quick wash of silver nitrate and some tartaric acid, and then a long, slow, agonizing wait as the silver particles adhered to the canvas and the photograph developed as Higa intended. It was not an ideal methodology, Yating brown, as it would only give him a sepia photograph, but it was the best he could handle on his own with the time pressures involved. More importantly, it didn't require any dark room, as he highly doubted the hotel would take kindly to him taking over yet another room within the building, as gracious as they had been. He found himself waiting impatiently, fidgeting and toying with scraps and pieces. The process did not take long, but in his heightened state, every second felt like an eternity.

The second he saw the slight browning of the treated paper, he cried out and grabbed it carefully with a pair of wooden tongs, carrying it out of the room in triumph, as proud as a hunter returning with a lion's head. "Come, come," he gestured for the group to gather around, as he placed the photograph on the table between them. "Bring more light; it will not harm the quality, and will allow us to see it better." A few more lamps were brought in, and the electric lights over the room were brightened a tad more, buzzing slightly as the power increased.

They waited with bated breath, their gaze darting between each other and the photograph, their heartbeat thudding in their ears. It seemed almost silly, didn't it? It was, after all, only a photograph. What could it show them that Higa or Sevia had not already spoken about? Yet, the strange fascinated gleam that sprang into their eye every time they spoke about their hypnosis had enthralled the rest of the group with a sort of morbid fascination. They too wanted to see this mysterious statuette, even if they did not yet have the courage - or the foolhardiness - to cast aside the coverings themselves.

Brown splotches and tints spread across the paper with increasing speed, and the various shades began forming recognizable shapes. There, the table the statuette rested on; there, a bookcase to one side. There, a hand holding the cloth covering, blurred heavily with movement. And there -- a collective intake of breath.

A pair of strange figures had begun to take shape as the photo finished developing. Flanking the statuette that rested between the two misshapen and distorted figures, they seemed to be impossibilities. Their bodies - if they could even be called that - were caricatures of a human, impossibly tall and slender, textureless and curved. Their legs were far too spindly to support them, and even as it were, they tapered to mere points, with no feet to be seen at all. Nor too could features be distinguished on their faces, mere circular blobs of brown on the photograph, unmarked by ears or eyes or noses or hair. And yet it was their hands that drew Higa's attention. Unlike their legs, which tapered to an impossibly thin point, their arms were perhaps almost recognizably human, were it not for their great length and razor sharp fingers. Perhaps most disturbingly of all, their arms were upraised and blurred - just like the arm of the person removing the statuette's cover - as if captured in the moment of lunging at the viewer.

The statuette in the photograph appeared innocuous, exactly as Higa and Sevia had described it. There was no aura here, no hypnotism or enchantment. No one gathered around it felt any compulsion to hold it, to cradle it, nor the murderous rage that Higa had felt. The strange figures in the photograph, too, inspired no otherworldly emotions, but instead the very human feelings of trepidation, anxiety, and... fear. Looking up, Higa saw nothing near the statuette. No movement, no shadows, not even the air stirred. And yet, glancing between the photograph, showing the lunging figures that surely stood only feet away, and the cloth-covered statuette, he could not stop his hands from trembling slightly, nor the hairs on the back of his neck from standing up. Unlike in Opiskella, there was no isolation here; he was surrounded by people. He could hear their murmuring just past the door to the atrium, their footsteps going up the stairs. If he strained, he could even hear the faint rumbling and rattling of an automobile or carriage passing by on the street outside. He was surrounded by people, hundreds or thousands of them, and yet, staring at the statuette that stood by itself on the table, Higa could not help but to feel horribly, unutterably, alone.

Judging from the expressions of many of his comrades around the table, he was not the only one grappling with these feelings. They were many steps closer - perhaps too close - to understanding Elias' strange behaviors in the past weeks or months.

---

Faical/Longwood

"You flatter me, sir. I'm sure our arrangement," Longwood said the word delicately, as if savoring it - or the thought of the money that would inevitably follow - "will be most satisfactory. Some of your requests are not difficult, but others will be....harder to arrange." He raised a hand as if to forestall Faical's protest. "I do not say this in an effort to press for more benefits from our arrangement. There is a great deal of interest in this case, and I quite enjoy the benefits and responsibilities of my current position to risk them by acting too rashly. You shall have your documents, Mr. Teck, before the week is out. Perhaps even by tomorrow evening; I assume you will be attending Mr. Elias' funeral?" He raised his glass for another sip, glancing over the rim to catch Faical's nod of confirmation.

"Good. I, too, will be in attendance, as will some aides of mine. At some point, my assistants will pass copies of the documents to some of your men, and none will be the wiser. Least of all the Council, nor the Court. Both will almost certainly have men in attendance, as both have taken a great deal of interest in this. Naturally," he smiled at Faical, "should we encounter each other at the funeral, I shall profess to have no knowledge of you, and I should like the same from you. The fewer who suspect - or worse, know - of our arrangement, the better."

"You need not wait until tomorrow for some information, however! I know a man like you would hate to be kept waiting. The men were employed by a man known as Marcel Bohn, who works at Emerson Imports. There is a warehouse by the dockyards; I shall provide you with the address as well. It's interesting to note that Mr. Bohn has another alias: Erik Karhu. As Mr. Karhu, he works for a fine Parthan establishment," the sarcasm was evident in Longwood's voice, "known as Fat Maybelle's. It is not an establishment for gentlemen such as you, Mr. Teck, nor any man who cares about their reputation. It caters to the worst elements, opium addicts or those addicted to... harsher things. A man who asks questions in Maybelle's is more likely than not to find someone asking him questions at the other end of a gun."

"Naturally, we're searching for Bohn, and once we find him, he will be interrogated thoroughly. It's likely he didn't have any knowledge of this," Longwood shrugged, "but he'll be asked anyway. We've men on his residence, and the Court has been asked to investigate Maybelle's. We'll find him."

"For Elias himself, I have little. Our files have a driver who dropped him off at Opiskella University a few days back, and prior to that, he paid yet another visit to the Carlyle estate -- Madam Carlyle says he was driven away by her guards -- his sixth such visit in as many days. He was quite determined to speak to Mrs. Carlyle, although the gods only know why. Beyond that, we know little, but the patrols are still searching for further reports. I'll include our latest information in the file tomorrow. Any further questions, Mr. Teck?" Longwood's relaxed demeanor began to dissipate as he straightened further in his seat and began toying with his mask on the table. "I would hate to offend you, but the longer we meet publicly, the more chances that people find out, and I think both of us would hate the undue attention."

If there was nothing further, Longwood would don his mask and leave, giving Faical a name of a Leutnant his valets could use to reach Longwood indirectly.

---

Anders/Egil

If Anders lived past today, he would look back on the encounter with Silas and realize he had misjudged the situation a bit too much, pressed the man just a touch too far. He had been acting as if Silas were a normal mark, one of the usual half-dozen people Anders shook down as part of his normal Court operations. This was not the case, as hindsight would (perhaps) make clear; Silas' behavior, his mannerisms and mood swings... they were closer to that of a neighborhood drunk, or perhaps one of the more aggressive homeless that made even Anders press a hand to his knife as they walked by. Silas' shop, and Silas himself, mostly his age, had lured him into a false sense of security. Most of the people who acted like Silas did found themselves dead or incarcerated before long, not running a small business as a septuagenarian.

In other words, it wasn't really Anders' fault that he didn't quite realize how utterly insane Silas was until he had set him off, but it was unfortunate he only came to this realization as he was dodging a knife that Silas was currently trying to behead him with. There had been a half-second where Anders had been focusing on the key and not on Silas, where the man's expression had contorted into near-incomprehensible fury, veins bulging across his forehead. That half-second had nearly proved to be fatal as Silas' left hand swept across the counter, carrying a half-foot of razor-sharp blade with it.

Anders had dodged, thankfully, taking only the slightest of cuts to the cheek as he did so, but in so doing, released his grip on the key and thong. He stumbled backwards, colliding slightly with Egil as his friend turned to see what the commotion was. It was then that the other man - the nervous one, that Egil had been keeping in check - made his move. Brandishing a curved knife that looked uncannily like the ones that Elias' attackers had been carrying, he rushed at Egil and collided with him, sending both of them crashing through a display case. Anders was too distracted to assist his friend, however, for Silas had rounded the counter and was advancing on him yet again.

Gone was the merriment in Silas' face, all the playful provocation and banter. Now, there was only anger, and his great rage gave his movements uncanny speed and power. His swipes of the knife, while unskilled and wild, were swift enough to give Anders pause. Reaching into his coat, Anders fetched out his own knife, but did not venture anything past a few perfunctory jabs of his own. Instead, he gave ground, retreating down the crowded aisle of the shop as Silas advanced. He could only spare a few glances over his shoulder to see if it was clear - spotting the waving coats of the other group of men as they scrambled to flee out the door. They, at least, would not be a problem for him and Egil.

And Egil had enough problems, certainly. Rolling in the half-crushed remnants of a display case, he didn't have enough room to extract his gun from his coat. He didn't even try; the man who had tackled him had a knife instead, and in close quarters like these, the knife was king. He couldn't even move, really, as the man straddled him, partially crushing him under his weight, pinning down Egil's legs. He could smell the man's breath, foul as it was, and see the faint yellowing of the man's eyes and the reddish staining of his teeth as he bared them in concentration, attempting to stab at Egil over and over. Egil caught the man's arm with one, and fumbled amidst the rubble of the display case for something, anything, that could help him. His arm trembled with the force of holding back the stimulant-fueled stabs of his attacker, and his shoulder burned with pain. He had been stabbed -- he didn't know how badly -- in the initial rush, when he had been distracted. His hand scrabbled over the detritus -- a mask, a figurine, a piece of wood splintered off from the display case's frame as it had shattered. His fingers closed on the last one, just as his attacker snarled and threw his entire weight on the knife. Egil's arm strained and trembled before collapsing, allowing his assailant to drive the knife into his chest with full force. Even as he screamed in pain and anger, he whipped his other hand around, driving the wood splinter full-force into the Parthan's face. The man screamed and scrabbled backwards, clutching at a ruined eye that poured blood down his face.

Anders heard Egil's scream and the Parthan's corresponding wail of agony, but he could not spare much attention to it either. He himself sported a few more cuts where he had deflected Silas' swipes, and his shirtfront was stained with splotches of sweat and blood. He had given as good as he had gotten, though, and Silas' comfortable vest was also tattered and stained. And yet, the man came on as aggressively as ever, showing few signs of slowing or stopping. Anders had no clue what fueled the man beyond emotion and insanity, but clearly there was no reasoning with him; this fight ended with one of them leaving, and the other bleeding out or unconscious on the floor of the shop.

There were no other options; Silas' relentless fury made sure of that, and common sense closed off all other avenues. If they incapacitated him, how would they be able to ensure they weren't attacked by his comrades when they went to fetch the rest of the group? And frog-marching an elderly man through the neighborhood would attract patrol attention that Anders wouldn't be able to deflect even with his Court credentials. All of these assumed that Egil was alive and well enough to help, which may not be the case, given the shouts and screams of pain from further in the shop.

No; Silas had to die. Or Anders did, but he didn't want to really think about that.

He grasped the knife a bit tighter, for the grip was becoming sweaty. The last thing he needed was for the knife to slip slightly to give Silas all the opening he needed to deliver the decisive stab. He watched the man closely, and knew he had to make a move soon, because the shop was not all that long, and Anders would soon find himself without room to maneuver, backed up against some bric-a-brac that would pin him in. He ventured a stab, and another, Silas parrying or dodging both, while he prepared; even as Silas dodged the last one, Anders lashed out with a foot, smashing Silas' kneecap under the blow. The old man dropped to one knee, a low moan escaping his grimace, but kept slashing and jabbing at Anders. Not nearly fast enough, not now; Anders was able to sidestep his efforts with relative ease and slice his arm. Silas' knife dropped from nerveless fingers, falling to the ground amidst all the detritus of their fight, but the old Parthan immediately began scrabbling for it.

Now was Anders' chance to land the mortal blow, killing Silas and bringing this fight to a decisive end. The noise from the other end of the shop suggested that Egil had not fared nearly as well as he had, with the low moaning of pain and gasping of breath. He could see his friend's boots protruding into the aisle, although the rest of his body lay still in the debris. He needed to act quickly, regardless of what he decided to do.

[Yasuragi]

Newcomers

Anders hurried over to the disturbingly still body of his friend; still, that was, save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Faint, barely discernible, but present. He was alive, for now, although Anders could judge from the stab wound in his chest that that was only a temporary relief. His friend needed help, and quickly. He could do some things, staunch the bleeding, bandage the smaller wound, but for the rest, he'd need help. Anders had minimal experience tending to scraped knuckles or the occasional sprain or broken bone. Maybe some stitching here and there, but he dared not risk it with Egil's life hanging precariously in the balance.

He'd need to fetch a physician, or a nurse. If they were in a more public area, he could have flagged a carriage or called an ambulance -- and that's if there wasn't a physician on a house-call nearby, which there often was. Here, in the poorest area of the city, it was dubious he'd find anyone willing to help, and the nearest tram station was at least a five minute walk away. Across the aisle, the Parthan moaned in pain, continuing to clutch his ruined face. His ragged breathing and groans of pain irritated Anders, interrupting his thoughts, but unlike Silas, it was unlikely he would continue to fight, Anders judged. Still, he couldn't risk further allies coming. He needed to ward off attention before attending to Egil, the best he could.

Hurrying to the entrance, Anders stepped over the body of Silas, preparing to latch the door and flip the sign to 'Closed' - all the better to delay bystanders, and give him some advance warning if Silas had had some allies stationed outside. Yet, when he reached the door, he found people already there. Two of them, to be precise, a man and a woman, although judging from their age and race, not related nor in a relationship. The man was old, his balding hair forming a horseshoe around his dome, pale with age and speckled with many freckles. Small in stature, he was smaller still due to being bent over a walking stick, and his clothes - well-made and tailored, several cuts above the neighborhood quality - still hung loose from his bony frame. His bright blue eyes were quick and darting, belying his age, and yet his cuffs bore signs of infrequent inkstains - an academic, Anders judged.

The woman was another story entirely. A Parthan, her skin was perfectly dark and smooth, without a single freckle or blemish, and her hair hung in well-framed bangs around her face. She was young, yes, but she carried herself with a degree of confidence, and her plaid blouse and woolen skirt were neatly pressed. Her gloves, too, were perfectly white and crisp, and the hand-bag she carried on one arm was of cheap quality, but well-stitched and repaired. Her jaw jutted in determination, and her eyes widened and hardened as she saw Anders approach. "Good day, sir. We are looking for --"

"Gods above, is that blood? Millie, it's blood!" The man blurted out, pointing to a few slashes that were eminently visible. Anders had had the foresight to hide most of the wounds quickly upon seeing visitors, but had not the time to disguise them all. Even if he had hidden, they would have entered - he hadn't the time to throw the locks yet. Best to meet them head-on, with a comment about an accident. With luck, they would buy his half-baked story about a slight issue with a shattered display case, and depart without investigating further.

It did not work, although the older man appeared mollified, clasping both hands on top of his walking stick. The woman, however, stepped closer, into the doorway, inspecting Anders with a critical eye. "I am looking for a Mister Silas N'kwame, sir, to discuss some matters of personal importa--" she began, but was once again cut off, this time by herself, as she saw the wreckage behind Anders, and immediately pushed by, followed by the old man and his stick. He at least had the decency to pause and offer a hand to Anders, introducing himself as Dr. "Mordecai" Lemming. Perhaps Anders had heard of him? He offered his services to many, including the Klippenstaad Police Department, regarding folklore and genealogy? No? A shame; perhaps later Anders might have a chance to read his well-received book on the topic....available for only a few marks at most bookstores...

His torrent too, broke off as he noticed the wreckage, and the crumbled body of Silas lying amidst the ruins a few feet away. The woman knelt next to it, quickly examining the body with a practiced eye and hand; realizing he was dead, she stood and moved down the aisle towards Egil and the Parthan, her handbag still clutched under one arm. The sight would have sent most spinning in a tizzy, but she seemed to be reacting with controlled calm, her jaw clenched. Anders made to follow her, whether to stop her or to ask for her help, only to find himself facing the butt end of Dr. Lemming's walking stick, yellowed with use. His eyes nearly went cross-eyed as he saw it, so close was it to his face, as Dr. Lemming frowned from the other end.

"Listen here, sonny-boy, Mrs. Adams and I are on a very important search for Mr. N'Kwame, and we have no time for any of this 'funny business' of yours." He frowned, and Anders could not but help noticing the wattle under his chin bobbing as he spoke. "If you're here to rob the place, have at it, but by the gods, you best not have murdered Mr. N'Kwame before Mrs. Millie has had a chance to have words with him!" He trailed off, letting the cane hit the floor so he could lean on it once more. Tutting, he made no move to inspect the body more closely, nor venture further into the shop. Indeed, his demeanor was more nervous, despite his apparent bravado confronting Anders, and his gaze never lingered for long on any one thing, instead scuttling from object to object, and always darting back and forth from the body before jerking away. It seemed Dr. Lemming was a man unaccustomed to death, at least such violent death.

He cleared his throat, calling down the length of the store. "Mrs. Adams? Do you need help down there?"

"No, thank you, Dr. Lemming," Mrs. Adams' voice responded, before she returned down the aisle, tucking her white gloves into her handbag as she walked. "Both those men down there need help, the white man more than the other. That one's in shock, as far as I can tell, while the white man's been stabbed. I can help, a bit, to stop the bleeding, but I think you owe us an explanation, sir. Assuming you're not here to simply rob and murder some Parthans?" She raised an eyebrow, confident in her assessment. "It will not be a satisfactory replacement for adequate care, but it will do to get him to a doctor without bleeding out. Fetch me some thread; there should be some behind the counter, and while you do so, you can explain what, exactly, happened here."

Something in her tone and demeanor indicated to Anders that this woman was not a normal bystander - Dr. Lemming, perhaps, was - and that he could trust her perhaps a bit more than a normal stranger. Not that that necessarily meant telling her the whole truth, but perhaps a bit of it, to help the rest of the lies go down more smoothly. Or maybe he could tell her the truth in its entirety; she showed no signs of fear, despite standing in the midst of a battlefield, and she had, after all, been searching for Mr. N'Kwame as well.... If she was an accomplice of his, why would she have searched for him...?

There was much for Anders to consider, and little time.

[The Biosyn]

Ransom Court, mid-afternoon, day before the funeral

As much as he would have liked to get something more out of SIlas, Anders knew it would not only be futile, but, now, also dangerous. Before Silas could reach his knife, Anders ended it, quickly and more painlessly than he would have liked if Silas was in fact somehow responsible for Elias’ death. But that was that. He snatched the key from around Silas’ neck, and after finding Egil still alive, though just barely it seemed, he stepped over to the door to ensure they wouldn’t be interrupted, only to find he was too late.

A man and a woman entered the shop, just as he reached the door. Not only that, but they quickly spotted that he was injured, moved into the shop, further revealing the dead Silas, stabbed Egil, and injured Parthan. The man by the name of “Mordecai” Lemming, threatened Anders with his cane, before leaving off, as the woman, a Mrs. Millie Adams, instructed him to fetch her some thread so that she could patch up Egil well enough to get him some real help, and then pointedly asked what he was doing here amidst the dead and bleeding.

WIth a sigh at how the day had ended up within the past two minutes, Anders rounded behind the counter to find Mrs. Adams some thread. As he knelt down, he rummaged a moment, quickly finding thread, but also taking stock of what there might be that the key goes to. Behind the counter he found nothing: the small lockbox present had a keyhole all the wrong size, and everything else was string, wrapping materials, paperwork, and business cards. However something else did catch his eye. As he stood up to hand the thread over, he quickly and surreptitiously nudged the rug covering the wooden floor behind the counter. And out of the corner of his eye, he saw a hatch, with a padlock inset to the floor. He brought his eyes solidly forward, and nudged the rug back out. He wasn’t about to go further exploring when strangers were present and said strangers held the life of his friend in their hands.

Having been quiet for long enough to make Mordecai look like he was considering threatening Anders again with his cane, however futilely, to demand answers, Anders finally spoke, deciding the level of information he was willing to divulge. He remained behind the counter, and leaned his elbows upon it, keeping his eyes on Mrs. Adams as she worked. “No, you are correct, Madame,” he said. “I did not come here to rob or murder anyone. In fact, I myself came in search of Mr. N’Kwane to ask him my own questions. I….” Anders paused a second, searching for the right words. “I find I may have pushed too hard with my questions, as our conversation abruptly ended when he swung at my head with his knife, over there.” He gestured towards it. “It was quickly clear only he or I would walk away alive. So. I made my choice. And you, Madame? Mordecai? What brings you here seeking Mr. N’Kwane?”

[Liecthenbourg]

They were spectres. As clear as day. As clear as any other photo he'd ever taken.

His eyes opened wide. His mouth hang agape. His hands trembled in awe and fear. Higa turned to face his compatriots, slowly proffering the developed photograph to each. He said no words, but mumbled out "spirits", "demons" and "spectres" under his breath. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, then lodge itself in his throat.

A hand rested on the gun he had tucked into his trousers. He stepped forward, unsure. 'Once more, into the breach!' he could hear in his own voice, the tattered, broken and uneven fields of Ibrahama clear as day in his mind. Yet all the soldiers that were ingrained in that memory were gone. Their places had been stolen by the ethereal caricatures of humanity that found themselves burned into his photograph.

He waved his hand over where each was in the photo. Unsure. No resistance. Nothing. He ignored the statue. Despite the noise around the library, he felt alone. His eyes shut. They opened again. The voices from his friends and companions were faint and whispers before they resumed a normal pitch.

And a horrifying idea came to his mind.

He swung his hand as slowly as he could through where the apparition was in the picture, and whilst still standing there, pressed the flash button he held in his right hand.

"I don't like this," he said. "There they are, as clear as day and as true as the eye can make them so. Horrifying things. They inhabit this statue. And who knows? There could be so many more in Opiskella, Elias' room, his coffin... wherever we do end up planning to go next; no longer do we have Penhews and Parthans, but poltergeists now too?"

[Fanaglia]

Mireille's eyes still lingered on the two humanoid apparitions in Mr. Higa's photograph as he wandered away from the group, muttering to himself. She was unsure of what to make of them, but, whatever they were, they made something within her stomach crawl. And they were there in the room with them. Suddenly, she jumped out of her skin when another flash lit up the room

"...no longer do we have Penhews and Parthans, but poltergeists now too?" Mr. Higa was standing near the statue, his hand outstretched, reaching towards where one of those...things had appeared in his first photograph.

Her immediate reaction was to call out, "Mr. Higa! What are you doing!?" But she held her tongue. She quickly realized what he was up to and left him to tend to his newest photo in the other room, quite curious as to what would materialize when it developed. When he was gone, she lit another cigarette and, gesturing towards the photo, asked, "What do you make of that, Professor Raminotto?" Surely, she thought, this would be the proof the professor needed to take the admittedly wild-sounding claims of Sevia and Mr. Higa seriously. She wondered if the Penhews really knew what they were after when they had pursued this statue. If Raminotto was correct, it would probably be best not to share their curse with such upstanding folk. On the other hand, there were far too many connections between Aubrey Penhew and whatever Elias had been on to for her to believe that everything at the Penhew Foundation was above board. Mireille's mind wandered to what Sevia had learned about the Wideners and their decline. Aubrey Penhew was the last of his noble line. What if he had taken an interest in whatever dark magic his great-great-great-great grandfather had dabbled in and, like the Wideners, it brought about their end?

Her imagination was running wild. But, then again, these were wild times. "I would still like to reach out to the Penhews for some sort of comment, but perhaps it would be best...not to send them these images, at least not until we understand what we're dealing with a little more. Maybe we could instead send them a sket--" she cut herself off when she remembered how sketching the statue went last time for poor Sevia. "Send them a friendly letter describing it instead?"

[Yasuragi]

Anders/Egil

Mrs. Adams went to work quickly, removing Egil's overcoat and unbuttoning his shirt at least to the midriff, exposing a torso covered with blood and scars. "A harsh life he's had, then, poor boy," she commented, using the shirt as a makeshift sponge to wipe clean most of the blood around the wounds themselves. "He'll live, with some luck, and a visit to a pharmacist for some sulfa powder to clear up any potential for infection." She gave Anders a wry smile that vanished as she returned to stitching together the wounds. "Wonder drug, that one. Had we had it in the war, well, things would have been different. Not much, but still. Every little makes a difference, gods know."

"Nevermind that, Mrs. Adams," Mordecai said brusquely - Anders noted the previous 'Millie' and 'dear girl' tone had vanished as they talked again about the fight. So too did he notice the old man's eyes straying down the aisle to the crumpled figure by the door, only to jerk away suddenly as he shuffled. "We are here, young man, on a very important mission. It is a matter of life and death, and its crux is near at hand - but unfortunately, you -" he jabbed a wrinkled finger at Anders "-may well have deprived us of the vital information needed to save an innocent life from a horrible fate! May the gods have sympathy, my lad, for certainly I will not!" He followed his pronouncements with a few watery harrumphs and throat-clearing gurgles, before continuing with slightly less confidence. His attempted tongue-lashing was clearly not having an effect on an increasingly befuddled and perhaps amused Anders. "Our only hope--"

"Mr. Lemming, please. Mr. Cork is in equally dire straits, having only just completed a dire struggle for life and death. I have no doubt he bears us little ill will," Millie said, standing and placing a placating hand on Mordecai's elbow. It was clean, Anders noted, having been wiped clean on Egil's overcoat, and he looked down to see his friend's wounds stitched cleanly. Egil looked better - not well, assuredly not, but a little more color stole into his cheeks, and his breathing seemed less harsh and ragged.

"As I said, Mr. Cork, he will need a doctor. For now, he is safely away from death's door, and I am afraid I must keep you for a few minutes. For a few questions." A hard glint entered Millie's eyes, and Anders felt assured that the woman would have no compunctions about stepping over Egil's legs and cold-cocking him should he resist. Her beauty, it seemed, was matched only by her tenacity. "My name is, as you have heard, Millie Adams." She paused, seemingly awaiting a reaction. Finding none, she elaborated: "The wife of Harkon Adams."

Now that name, Anders knew, and knew well. Harkon Adams, the Bedtime Ripper, the relentless serial killer that had terrorized Klippenstaad for months after a string of public murders. After a lengthy and embarrassingly long police hunt, Harkon had finally been arrested after being found standing above the body of the Bedtime Ripper's last victim. A local patrolman had heard the dying screams of the man and rushed into the alleyway, only to see Harkon fling the knife used to murder the man further into the alley before attempting to rush past the astonished patrolman. It was juicy and dramatic news - a righteous officer of the law, alert and confronting the heinous Parthan responsible for terrorizing the country.

The city, desperate for good news, snatched it up with relief, and Harkon Adams had been convicted in record time. Sentenced to death with the express permission of the Council of Masks.

It was all a lie, Millie explained, an elaborate ruse. "My husband was set up. The real killers - and there are many, Mr. Adams - killed more than just those rich folks. They killed dozens of us down here in the streets. Less flashy, less dramatically, but they killed us all the same. The police wouldn't do anything. The Court didn't either. So Harkon turned to his army friends, from the war - the Volchats, airborne troops --" a slight smile of pride crossed her lips as she spoke about her husband's wartime prowess. "They organized a posse to investigate, and hunt down the real killers. My husband didn't involve me, of course. He never wanted to trouble me. But I heard some things all the same. And there were some things my husband couldn't hide from me, either."

"The police," Mordecai said, knowingly.

"Yes. Several of our friends were let go from their jobs. Always with a reason, of course. But they knew it was because they were hunting the killers. People around here get real fidgety when you poke too hard, Mr. Cork. Real fidgety." She nodded. "The police, too. You can't make them look bad, after all. So they made some stops near our home, talked to some of my friends, even spoke to my mother. 'Don't make waves,' they always said. 'Don't rock the boat'. But Harkon kept going."

"I had been helping the police on this matter, of course," Mordecai broke in again, "but they weren't listening to me. I had told them, again and again, that it was some silly make-believe cult doing this, a group of like-minded psychopaths, likely on some drugs or another. Captain Robson ignored me, though, especially once he thought he had caught his man. Loathsome fellow."

"We have no more money, Mr. Cork. I've spent all I have, even selling much of my wardrobe to my neighbors. My friends have given what they can. There is no hope of appealing the trial - and even if I could muster the financial means to fight it, Harkon has not a hope of winning without additional evidence to clear his name. I've been following up on everything he said or mentioned, every scrap of information I gleaned over the years. This, is my last hope. 'Ju-Ju House', he said a few months ago. It was one of the places he was going to watch, but I don't know any of the others. So I came here, hoping if I confronted Mr. N'kwane myself, well," a slight tear beaded at the corner of one brown eye, "perhaps something might have shaken loose. But now I do not even have that hope." Mordecai reciprocated her earlier comforting gesture, covering her hand that rested on his elbow with his own, offering her a warm smile as well.

A self-absorbed academic he may be, but not without a heart, Anders judged. Either the two of them were some of the best thespians of the era - better than the finest stars of the talkies - or they genuinely believed in what they were saying. That didn't make it true, of course, but... let's say that after the events of the previous two days, he was more inclined to give credence to the impossible than before.

---

The library: To be added.

---

Funeral scene (next day): To be added.

[The Biosyn]

Ju-ju House, Ransom Court
mid-afternoon, day before the funeral

For a long moment, Anders continued to lean on the counter between him and the other two, watching as Mordecai comforted Millie before he glanced over to where Egil lay. He closed his eyes, considering how close he had come to losing yet another friend, before making his decision. He opened his eyes again, and addressed the two of them. “Madame, Mordecai, I will not regret my choices of the last half hour, but I am sorry to have robbed you of whatever answers Mr. N’Kwane may have given you. While I will want to get my friend on the floor there more help, and thank you for what help you were able to provide, I will answer whatever questions you may have, as best I can, while I wrap things up here. Of course,” here he put the key he had palmed off Silas’ body on the counter and kicked up a corner of the rug to reveal the trapdoor. “Perhaps, you would also like to see what secrets Mr. N’Kwane had hidden while you ask your questions?”

“A trapdoor key? Will wonders never cease; today simply feels as if it has been lifted directly from the pages of a penny dreadful,” Millie said, a short and mildly insincere smile crossing her lips. “Do you suppose there will be much there other than more bric-a-brac or stores?”

“Well, considering that Mr. N’Kwane tried to kill me when I…” Anders paused as he searched for a more diplomatic word than ‘extort’. “...asked him about the key he had on a cord ‘round his neck, I would hope there’s more down there.”

“Perhaps trade secrets. More likely not, given his reaction, then,” Millie conceded. “Please, Mr. Cork- do the honors. I assure you, however, I have many questions waiting, but I think discerning what lies underneath is perhaps more pressing in the short run. Besides, I think it’s not unwarranted to say that the police would take rather a dim view of us three gabbling like fishmongers next to several….. Unfortunately deceased individuals.”

“Hear hear,” Mordecai said, pressing a handkerchief to his liver-spotted forehead. “The trapdoor, if you please.”

With a brisk nod, Anders finished kicking away the rug before kneeling down to unlock and open the trapdoor, getting sharply reminded by his injuries that they still did, in fact, exist along the way. Pulling out his flashlight in one hand as he opened the hatch, he listened to the dark before flicking his light on. The sharp odor was the first thing he noticed, being thick and….pungent. Not the smell of a midden heap, or of too many drunks relieving themselves in dark corners, nor even the smell of a basement in need of a good cleaning. It was a thick smell, reminiscent of a farm - goats, cows, pigs, perhaps. An organic smell, of something accustomed to creating rather a lot of filth, and then living in it. It was not a smell he would have expected to come across in the middle of the city, not at all.

His flashlight’s dim light barely cut through the darkness below, but it did illuminate a narrow and rickety wooden ladder that led down in the shadows. Barely wide enough for one man to descend at a time, but no dust or cobwebs obscured its steps. It was well used - and Anders realized, belatedly, that the hinges of the trapdoor themselves had been silent and smooth, as if well-kept with a steady diet of oil. Below, he could see little of the floor or room -- his flashlight danced over stone-brick walls on either side, a few feet apart. Whatever room it was, it was closer to a hallway, but what hallway was near to twenty feet in height?

“Gods above,” Mordecai whispered, his handkerchief now covering his nose, “what a stench.” Beside him, Millie nodded similarly, although she showed no signs of flinching or even attempting to block the smell. “What do you see, Mr. Cork?” she asked, attempting to peer around him. “Where does the ladder lead? A storeroom? Something more?”

Brow furrowed at the sight and smell before him, any remaining doubts he may have had that Silas wasn’t ‘just a shop owner’, of which he had almost none at this point, were dispelled. Given the dusty state of the shop around him, that wasn’t how Silas had made his money, but with the use this hatch and ladder has obviously seen, his guess was that here was Ju-ju House’s money-maker… maybe.

“Well, not too much from here. Stone walls, a hallway, I guess, though the ceiling seems high for that.” He set the hatch down and open, preparing to make his way down, testing the ladder to ensure it wouldn’t collapse on it. “I do think, given the state of things, however our dear Mr. N’Kwane kept this shop going, we’ll find out how down here.” Finding the ladder sturdy under his feet, he descended, knife in one hand, flashlight in the other; one never knows who might be hiding in hidden cellars.

Barely had he touched the flagstones on the floor than the ladder began to shake as Mordecai began to descend - more shakily by far than Anders had, but determinedly nonetheless - and at the lip of the trapdoor, Millie stood, watching over the two and - with one foot on the top rung - clearly waiting for her turn to descend as well. “Don’t keep us waiting. Speak!” A sense of urgency and desperation entered her voice as she strained to follow the beam of Anders’ flashlight.

There were no knives flashing in the dark - at least, not yet. The stone walls and floor that surrounded them left no hiding spots as far as he could tell, and the room itself was clearly… a hallway, he supposed, although a most unusual one. It stretched some forty feet long and soared to nearly twenty feet high, and yet it was no more than four or five feet wide at most. He could easily walk through the length of it with his arms touching both walls. And yet… he felt something further was…. wrong. The walls - stone at first glance, yes, and still stone upon closer inspection, but not the clean stone bricks he had seen from above. Now, there were unfamiliar symbols carved into the stone, shallow but still visible in the beam of his flashlight. Panning his flashlight up the wall, he could see the symbols were carved in their multitudes, thousands - perhaps tens of thousands - crowding every single square inch of the walls. Flicking the light towards - yes, there too, the symbols clustered underfoot. They did not move, did not change, but they gave him an eerie feeling nonetheless, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It was something he would expect to find more in an ancient Omaholvi rather than in some basement in Klippenstaad.

“Just a hallway, though I’ve never seen one like this,” Anders said, trying, but failing, to brush off the eerieness he was getting off the walls, and floor, as he maintained his grip on his knife, prepared for an attack that his instincts insisted was imminent.

“Korp’s feathers,” Mordecai breathed, catching sight of the symbols. “What a stunning sight. Imagine the man-hours that went into carving these symbols - and the symbols themselves! Why,” he brushed the tips of his fingers over a few that were at chest-height, “I’ve seen a few of these in manuscripts from Menid, but those are ancient, easily several hundred years old, if not thousands. Ancient Asterdani, perhaps? These cultists, whoever they may be, have certainly done their research. I can only imagine where they copied these glyphs from, but I for one would love to find those books. Completely wasted on those savages, obviously, but in the hands of a real scholar…” He trailed off as he inspected a few more glyphs, almost getting so lost in thought that he nearly forgot to move out of Millie’s way as she descended.

“Bizarre indeed,” Mrs. Adams said, rather matter-of-factly - perhaps even dismissively. “However, the scholarly pursuits must wait - we are after something rather more contemporary. Evidence that my husband was here, or that the cultists involved with this shop are responsible for the murders. That sort of thing. Come, Mr. Cork, this way,” she said, gesturing down the hallway. “There’s something down there, I presume.”

Releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, Anders did his best to shelve his unease, though still prepared face any future dangers they may encounter, and began to make his way down the hallway, avoiding the walls, if only because he was actively ignoring them and the symbols on them, shining his flashlight on the floor in front of them, periodically bringing it up to cast the light before them down the hallway.

Millie was quite right; there was something at the end of the hallway, on the right side specifically. A door. A rather solid one, even taking into consideration Anders’ ingenuity in bypassing such things. At least two inches of thick oak wood, with solid iron strips and studs reinforcing it at set intervals. The hinges, too, were solid iron, well tended-to, and as tricky as a volchat to remove if it came to that, Anders could see. However, it seemed as if they would not need such a thing, for above the handles was a small keyhole, nearly identical to the one on the trapdoor above. However, Anders could see several things clearly, and they only made the criminal in him more confused at the goings-on. The hinges, for one, were on the outside - abnormal for a door presumably designed to deny entry. Furthermore, the heavy oak wood and iron strips would have made the door extremely difficult to put into place - costly, not only in marks, but in time and effort as well. Why would Silas have gone to such efforts and expenses to secure this room, and yet use the same key for this door and the trapdoor above, and left the hinges on the outside to boot?

“Oh-hoh, now these glyphs are interesting,” Mordecai interrupted once more, reaching past Anders to tap one of the iron strips. There, Anders realized, the symbols continued - but here, even his untrained eye could perceive a difference. The other symbols covering the walls were sharp and angular, full of right turns and repetitive geometric patterns. These symbols, the ones on the iron, however, were the opposite. Thin and lightly scored, they were almost organic in nature, all loops and curves and barely an angle to be seen. “Not ancient Asterdani at all, nor Mendean as far as I can tell. Really, they look almost like some Razonican script, perhaps, but nothing modern. Honestly, your guess would be as good as mine as to what culture these Parthans copied these symbols from.” He snorted in dismissal. “Shows Captain Robson indeed, hah! A cult of personality, nothing more, using some hodge-podge of ‘ancient writings’ cobbled together from a half-dozen cultures across the globe. No wonder their crimes are so varied and, frankly, nonsensical.”

“And yet no less deadly for it,” Millie said, a small note of reproach in her voice. “Perhaps their lack of doctrine explains their willingness to prey on the poor and the weak; few religions do the same. Maybe they seek to tie their murderous nature to something akin to the medieval death cults we tell our children at night. Binding their adherents together with the stain of murder….and history.”