Solanacea, High Elf Rogue in Emon (Tal’Dorei)

Growing up on the estate in Southgate Farms, Solanacea had a fairly sheltered childhood. Most of her nearby age-mates were sons and daughters of farmers, and thus less likely to be free to play. Not that her parents, Dauces & Preasica, would allow for much mingling with the, to them, lower classes of society anyway. Solanacea was taught to behave, and more importantly, to be silent unless spoken to.

The estate and its lands had a view of Greyskull Keep, the fortress formerly belonging to the heroes of Vox Machina, which her parents never failed to mention to guests. Naturally, the people that her parents DID mingle with, were either of similar (perceived) importance or of a higher standing in Emon as a whole. With at least one ball or social call a month, sometimes lasting for several days, Solanacea spent several days left to her own devices, save for the servants, whom she was cordially friendly with, whenever her parents were not around.

During one of such stints, she would dress in the darkest clothes available, and sneak out of the hours of darkness had settled over Southgate, surely there would be some other noble estate, where someone of her own age-like state of mind would reside, and maybe they could talk. She, admittedly, had not thought the next steps fully through, as the nightly venture had been the main focus of her planning. Observing the routes of the night watchmen and their dogs, noting down the faces of the moon, and even the usual bedtimes and sleeping patterns of the more important members of the estate’s staff.

Moving closer to the city walls of inner Emon, she finally saw a house that looked both sufficiently large, as well as sufficiently dark and silent. Even though she hadn’t had previous stints of running away, her parents had her room door closed and shut with a lock and key. And in the late hours of her years, she had practiced with hair pins, combs, writing quills, and other utensils to jimmy the lock open. As such, the kitchen entry way to this estate was not much hassle to open. She carefully snuck up to the private chambers, finding them unlocked and unoccupied, she began searching through for signs of someone like herself. If her stint was succesful, she had planned on revisiting some other time, in hopes of getting in contact with said youth.

The estate that she had chosen however, was one of a pair of heirless nobles, no children, young or adult, was present here. Instead a secondary bedroom had been turned into a study, with books, ledgers, list of purchases and other records. A locked drawer in a desk intrigued her, yielding it’s contents with some work of the lock. It was a love-letter from another noble, clearly one of the estate’s inhabitants was having an affair. Memorizing the contents of the letter, she decided to head home for the night, as the sun would soon set, and her parents might come home, come morning.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline of her nightly stint that was still in her, but she decided to tell her parents about the letter, she caught herself thinking she was in trouble, but the smirks on her parents faces, told of a different outcome. Instead of a stern talking, her parents now become overly sweet, but very much still controlling. Her father took her on shopping trips for clothing in the city, specifically pointing out which noble lived where. At first she didn’t understand exactly why this sudden change of personality in her parents came to be, but it was better than being a show-piece at home. It was first much, much later that she realized the truth of the matter; her parents was using her in order to blackmail other nobles, and she could do nothing about it.

The thought of the scale of her deed made her stomach cramp up, she was an accomplice, and every time, the arrogant smirks of her parents would haunt her in her trances. She had the means to run, it would be easy in fact, but where would she go? She knew basically no-one in the city, and certainly not outside of it either. Her parents had severed connections to both their families, and she had never once been able to assert why, except for one time when her mother had hummed a tune of tribute, dedicated to someone named “Riskel Daxio”, but Solanacea was not familiar with the name.

Finally, after having revisited one of her previous break-ins, Solanacea saw the effects of the blackmail. The estate was cold, despite the long nights of winter approaching with steadfast gales, there was no joy in this building, but the tension and anxiety was palpable, she even saw a member of staff, sleep-deprived and paranoid. The realization made her almost reveal herself, as a sickening dry-heave forced its way out from her throat; she was the cause of this. She couldn’t take it anymore, how many households had been destroyed because of secrets she had uncovered? How many lives ruined? It was unbearable. She would return home only once more, to collect all the gear that her parents had bought for her, prober tools and armor. And that would be that, never to return. If possible.

A new life was waiting somewhere else in the city, hopefully, far, far way from the manacles of her family.

Redwoods at Nightfall, part 3

Carlos seemed more pushy than usual, I guess that was due to the rain. The LS River was able to handle large amounts of waters, but the body was currently placed on the flat part closest to the water. It would take much more to actually wash the corpse away, but if the body was placed in water for a while, the time of death could be harder to set down precisely.

“Alright, let’s get back to the station and talk to the kids who found the body.” Jim made a hurried dash to the Washington, and waited patiently for me to unlock the car. As we got in, the two tents had been taken down, Carlos had always been efficient, and one of his assistants was now scrubbing the concrete. With the rain like today a corpse wouldn’t leave much of a mark, but even in an enclosed area like the LS River, homicide and forensics had always had the ordeal to “leave as little trace of corpses as possible”, city hall doesn’t want blemishes on their city, though they aren’t exactly keen on removing grafiti and such. In itself, I understood, if someone discovered a pool of blood, they could panic and start to spread rumours. This task had been partly suspended in certain districts, like Davis and Rancho, due to increased gang activity.

“What do we know about the kids, sir?” Jim asked me, and I shrugged. “Not much at the moment, they dialed 9-1-1 and told that they were racing dirt bikes on the bank of the river. Apparently they initially thought the corpse was just a pile of garbage.” Jim nodded, and scribbled some notes down for himself, he was still scribbling when he spoke again, “So… are we pressing charges for trespassing on them?” I shook my head slightly, as the Washington rolled up to the gate. “It’s not up to me or you, talk to the Bulldog if you want to know. We’re homicide, so unless there’s reason to believe that they are suspects in this particular case, it’s an all administrative decision.”

The different parts of the force had always it out for one another, with traffic being lowest of the low. It didn’t make things any better that if there was even a hint of a case belonging to another part, they could essentially just snatch the case away, demand that the current officers shared everything. Then, months later, they’d get the case back, only to find that they would get nothing new from the other department. This wasn’t just collegiate bullying, it came down to spending, as city hall had made some significant changes a couple of years back. Essentially the state would pay per case solved. Naturally, traffic department more or less got the axe, other than speeding and car crashes, they barely had any people in the streets anymore. Their payment were funneled through P&E for the city, over a weekend, it meant that more than three-hundred men and women were told to find different jobs. Not even the Chief, a personal friend of the mayor, and the governor’s cousin’s husband, could stand and defend that idea, but had acknowledge that “this was the new reality, we all have to do ours for the sake of the city.”

Here in homicide, things had always been complex; if there was a married couple or there were kids in the relationship, it was domestic (unless it was fatal, then we got the case AFTER domestic had looked). It was even worse with non-gang related murders, if they happened in or near the gang-heavy districts, we could be pretty sure that they’d send a senior officer to look through what we could find, and from that deduce whether or not it was a case for the gang department. The mayor had been adamant about taking the fight to the gangs, so the gang department of the force all got reinforced cars, buildings, and all got new computers, and lots of other hardware that was brand new.

The rain was still falling without end, as Jim and I shut the doors to the Washington inside the Mission Row parking garage. “Alright Jim, we’re likely going to have the two of them separated, I want you to take one of them. The guys should run the kids through our systems, to see if they are past offenders of something. Use it as leverage, if there is any. Any questions?” I could see that he had taken a decent amount of notes already. It took him a while before he looked up to nod, “Hmm… Well, just one sir; should I mention about how we think he died?” I shook my head slowly, “No… for the time being, it’s better to refer it as an accident, if it’s brought up at all. I reckon they will be more focused on clearing their own name.”

As we got to the interrogation rooms, an officer stood awaiting with two clipboards. He looked new to me, well-ironed uniform, shiny buttons and badge, and his back stiff and straight as a board. From how Jim was following me, with his coat slouched over his arm, I think it was clear to him that I was more than just another cop. “These are the witnesses for the 10-67 in the river?” The greenhorn saluted, but held the clipboards close, “Sir, yes sir, here’s their files.” I grabbed them both, instantly handing one over to Jim. I didn’t look at it at first, instead I took the time to study the new cop. His demeanor was more fitting that of soldier, possibly a reject. “At ease son, this isn’t the army. You can call me Inspector Bates, and what’s your name?” He seemed to automatically click into a more relaxed pose at the order, “Marvin Petterson, sir.” The army habit was still there, those things don’t disappear easily. “Alright Marvin, you’re fairly green on the force, right? Where did you serve before?” Marvin seemed surprised that I could tell that much, despite it being fairly obvious, a junior detective would likely have noticed it, “Fort Zancudo, sir, Ordnance and Munitions Services, sir.” I nodded, it wasn’t unusual that we’d get rejects or lay-offs from Zancudo or the other way around, there was a mutual understanding that, as long as it wasn’t Merryweather, we’d both give a bit of leeway in terms of letting people in. “Good good, now Marvin, you’re going to monitor me and detective Richards as we interview these young kids, obviously interject if we overstep our duties, or intervene if any of them get overly hostile. Other than that, I’d like you to look for any changes in their posing and facial expression. Alright, we all set?” I said the last part a little louder to Jim, who was sifting through the one clipboard.

The kid in the interview room sat with a bored expression on his face, he had time to settle down and be less panicked about being picked up by cops. I had a cup of coffee in the one hand, the clipboard and a can of e-cola in the other, as I entered, the kid seemed to regain interest. “So what, you pigs are going to let me go or what? You can’t just keep me here, I’ve got rights, you know.” I just shook my head slightly, insults and all that, that’s just part of the job, sliding the can towards him, “Hey hey, calm down okay? I just want to know what you and your friend saw.” He still seemed very defensive; this was going to be one of those days, wasn’t it? He crossed his arms, “I’m not telling no pig anything.” I sighed, okay, that was the attitude, no need to play nice anymore then. Slamming my fist down next to the clipboard, I made it bounce into the air a bit, my sudden change of behaviour caught him by surprise, “Listen here, we’re not not the anti-gang unit, this is murder, and I quite frankly don’t give a shit about what colour cap you’re wearing, or the type of shoes you’re using. I got a dead body, and you and your friend was the first ones to find him, so you tell me what you saw, or I’ll throw you into a holding cell for withholding information, are we clear?” Using his slight pausing to get my point across, I took a deliberate sip of my coffee, to let the message sink in. I noticed over the top of the cup, that he seemed to fidget with his hands on the table. An audible sigh came from him, it seemed reason had won out over his anti-authoritarian beliefs, “Alright alright man, shit… I’ll tell you.” I changed my pose to a more open one, giving him a nod to continue. “We were down racing these new Manches, then it started raining like crazy, you know? So we decided to head on home, then PJ almost hit the body. At first we were like, aww shit that was close, but then we saw the blood and like totally freaked. I was like, yo P, we gotta get outta here, but PJ was all it’s a white dude, it ain’t no ganger. So then we called 9-1-1 from PJs phone and waited under the bridge, it was freaky man, like why’s a white dude gotta jump from a bridge like that?” I nodded slowly while listening, taking a slurp of coffee from time to time while he told his story. It sounded true, he didn’t appear to be lying, at least not from what I could tell. “Okay, just a few more questions, and we’re done here. First off, you said that you two used your friend’s phone, why not yours?” He looked to regain some vigor, but it was still a mumbling voice that I couldn’t quite hear, “I’m sorry, come again.” “I’m grounded, okay? My old man got my phone tracked, so if I run with it, he knows.” I had heard of parents going to relatively extreme measures to keep track of their kids, in the case of a kidnapping, it would be smart, but kind of intrusive otherwise. “Okay, last question. The bikes, these Maibatsu Manches, they aren’t registered anywhere, who do they belong to?” The kid looked it pained him, but finally gave in, “It’s my dad and PJ’s uncle that got them, PJ’s uncle stripped them down and was getting new markers. Shit man, I just wanted to test them out, I didn’t want no body right up my grill.”

With that, I finished up the questioning, it would be some time before we could release those kids, as we’d need to confirm as many things as possible, before letting potential suspects slip through our grasps.

The Journal of Grimoire, chapter II

This is the journal of Grimoire, based on what Grimoire have seen or heard, including his thoughts on the matters at hand and the state of the world around him.

With Jess, Ignis, and Riniya all heading for the burning stable, upon hearing the sounds of distressed whinnying, the manor, engulfed in flames, were left to Melvin, Dande, and myself. Dande looked the body over; it was not the flames that had ended his life, but rather an elongated blade of some sorts. Clearing the body, Dande grapped into his jacket pocket for something, and headed towards the stable as well, I could not see the item from my point of view, but I’d suspect it to be an item that could mitigate the fire in some capacity. As such, if there was anything to be gleamed from the remains of the manor, it was up to me and Melvin. Now I knew that Melvin was just as, if not even more, proficient in opening closed doors, but it seemed fairly certain that the manor was lost, with all windows already burst from the heat, fire licking black, sodden tongues up the outer walls, the interior would be utterly destroyed. Books and furniture would have burnt, and with the heat being as intense as it was, I doubt many metallic containers would be much more than mostly melted remains. Heading in to search for survivors would be equal to suicide, unless the manor had a reinforced basement, the flames at this stage would have consumed almost everything.

Still though, in part because a locked door will always peak my curiosity, and in part because, there was a feint chance that someone might have made it to the front doors. If they could be saved and brought back to reason, they could very likely part with some important information. Things that might not be of great use here and now, but if I’ve learned anything over the past ten-fifteen years of solving cases in Onadbyr, then it’s that no piece of information should be discarded on the spot. And while I might not know, at the time of putting these words to journal, of to whom this information may be important, I feel I might know someone who could tell me more.

The brass door handle was sizzling and smoking, even from a distance, it was quite possibly scalding. Using a simple evocation, I covered the handles in a thin layer of ice crystals, this would temporarily cool the handle to avoid damaging my hands. Admitted, my heritage as a Teifling does give me an edge over most other creatures, but even we of so-called “devil’s blood” can acquire burn-wounds. Thankfully, though heavy, the door was not locked, and it opened easily, only to face a wall of writhing, red-hot flames, which then from the extra air now circulating, did bust out a heatwave into my face. Unpleasant for sure, but nothing a soothing bath later won’t fix.

Instead me and Melvin went around the manor, if there was any signs of a break in, or if the fire had started out here, we were most likely the best suited for such an investigation. I informed Melvin that with how the flames looked, combined with the non-burned corpse, that my suspicion pointed towards arson. Especially as every other building belonging to the estate, was in a similar state of burning to the ground. One building can be lost due to an accidental fire, sure, but multiple barns, stables, the staff house AND the manor all at once? No, there was nothing coincidental about this fire. An idea that was reinforced as we got around the manor; the backdoor that would open up out to the main garden, was blocked from access by a number of barrels. Judging by their size, food storage barrels, wine barrels usually have a different size and form. The fact that none of the barrels had spigots only strengthened this view. Clearly, the barrels had been put into place to block an exit route out of the manor.

I was about to head towards one of the other buildings, as we heard a feint knocking come from the barrels. Checking one of them revealed it to contain fish, salted for preservation, much to Melvin’s obvious delight. I had to remind him that we were looking for clues, I’ll need to teach him prober work ethics, if he is truly to escape the crimes of his past. We found the barrel that the knocks came from, and candidly I asked the barrel if “Everything was alright?”. Naturally, being in a barrel that’s made out of wood, next to manor that’s engulfed in flames, would not sit high on my personal list of “Things that are alright”, but this was the first line of words that sprung into my mind. The barrel in question was laying sideways, and wedged in between two standing barrels, we would not be able to pull the lid off of either end, until we’d moved the other barrels first. Thankfully it did seem like the fire wasn’t breaking through this side, so we would have some time to handle this. Melvin suggested we could just roll it out, but that would have sent it down a set of stone stairs into the garden, and I doubt whoever was inside would enjoy that experience. Unfortunately, the standing barrels proved much too heavy for Melvin or myself to move, I’ll admit, a burst of strength is not where I field my prowess. Instead we took out a crowbar each, and started prying the boards of the barrel apart.

An elderly lady, from her clothing, I’d say she was part of the kitchen staff at the manor, she had hidden herself in one of the barrels, as the Lord Romlyn and family had been assaulted and kidnapped. Clearly distraught, she mentioned a Lady Merrytail had been amongst the kidnappers, who had all adorned black robes with hoods. It seems our dear Lord Monder was correct in the rumours he had heard, as the old lady had heard them talk about a sacrifice at the Old Grinder, an old and abandoned mill about a mile away from the manor. The others had managed to rescue and secure Miss Ivory, so at least not all is lost. Melvin and I updated the others about our find, and with the chance that Lord Romlyn was still alive, we made a dash towards the mill.

When we arrived, we checked to see if there should be alternate routes inside (or out, for that matter), but only one way in was found. We had little time to plan anything, as this was a matter of life and death. My normal cases work more on an “after the crime” basis, rather than preventing crime, but that’s not to say that my cases haven’t sometimes turned into a stand-off with the suspect. Jess and Melvin tried to device a plan to throw Melvin up to a window, as a way to spot the inside out, but it would involve too much risk to Melvin given the height. Instead Jess broke the old, worn door down, rushing inside. We were all about to follow when the entrance was blocked by a large stone, that was rolled in front of the doorway, trapping us out here, and more importantly, Jess in there alone. Although Jess isn’t a frail character, being a Minotaur and all, even the most capable mage or warrior can’t deal with being outnumbered for too long. We had to get the stone out of the way, or at the very least, move it enough that we could enter to help Jess out.

While I wedged a crowbar in, Dande pushed the millstone just enough aside, that the others could either shoot through, or move through. We could hear sounds of combat coming from the inside, seems Jess was giving the opposition a fight for their life. Heard spells cast to the right of me, Dande had conjured something up inside, I was struggling to hold the stone in place as he cast his spell, but I managed to wedge my crowbar in, which seemed to do the trick. Finally getting inside, one cultist had already fallen, two more were still fighting, but Jess was looking pretty rough, despite her size and armour. As the two cultists saw they were outnumbered, they surrendered, only for Jess to knock them out. Dande and I headed up a ladder, while the others headed down. Two more were upstairs, one capable of simple spells, but working in unison, we quickly took them down, looking to join the others in the basement. We’ve heard Jess trying to persuade them into surrendering, and then something that sounded as an explosion.

Getting downstairs, a horrific sight met me; two noblemen had already been killed, their bodies laying in pools of their blood in a glowing magic circle, and a hooded figure was trying her best to avoid daggers and blows. A young boy was flung to the side, a grievous stab wound in the back of his head, informed me that he was in bad need of help. One of my potions would have to suffice, seeing as we had not hired a priest or a cleric to venture with us. I just hope that I’m not too late.

The Journal of Grimoire, chapter I

This is the journal of Grimoire, based on what Grimoire have seen or heard, including his thoughts on the matters at hand and the state of the world around him.

Raffolk Ginsi had gotten himself a serious problem. A 200 gold pieces or his life problem. The man is a gambler, and it appears that his debt have been accumulating over quite some time. The collector Gulfa, a brute of a Bugbear, made sure that the message was very clear. Personally, I think I would have handled the collecting of debt differently, an agreement that would have benefitted me over time, is more my style. Then again, I know a few of the types that venture the supposedly gilded halls of the Triple Nine gambling den, and not many of them would gladly accept a slow deal. They live fast, and apparently, they also die fast.

We walked together with Raffolk, after agreeing to help him. The colourful feather, according to our resident wildlife expert Riniya the Elf, was the feather of a Ko-attel (I do not know the spelling of this creature, nor am I aware of what this creature looks like, apart from it having feathers). I say was, as the fire that Gulfa caused utterly destroyed the beautiful feather and as such ruined Raffolk’s plans complete. These creatures are rarely seen, so their feathers are worth a small fortune to collectors. Indeed Lord Monder, the Crownwarden himself, was supposedly willing to pay upwards of 535 gold pieces for a single feather, more than twice the amount that Raffolk was needing to pay off his debt. Raffolk’s plan was simple; his grandmother had another of these feathers, heirlooms both of them, if only we provide the funding, to pay her, then we were promised the excess from the sale; by a quick estimate, upwards of 135 gold pieces. I’d like to consider myself a generous soul, within reason, so myself and Dande, a landlocked Haregon sailor with some grasp of magic, agreed to part with 100 gold pieces each. On top of Raffolk’s 50, this would suffice to appease his grandmother. I’d much rather that we had walked alongside Raffolk, to the Triple Nine and Gulfa, and paid directly, rather than letting a, potentially, priced heirloom go to waste, this would also have saved 50 gold pieces down the line. The feather of the grandmother looked a little different in colouration, but about the same size and glamour.

Raffolk said that Lord Monder would return with the money for the purchase, and suggested that we’d walk to his estate together. The Halfling appeared in greater spirits now, I reckon having a death threat removed can be rather uplifting, though I am in no rush to attempt such a feeling myself. En route to the Lord’s villa, we discussed the possibilities for Raffolk to avoid gambling in the future, he claimed to be of little skill in terms of practical jobs, but Dande suggested that he’d get in touch with some colleagues down at the harbour. From what little I know of seafaring, ship’s crews tend to be tightly knit, and most captains frown upon sailors gambling, even while docked. Any larger ship could always use an extra pair of hands, and while it can be mildly dangerous out at sea, it’s a job that builds character. Raffolk seemed not entirely displeased with the idea, though I don’t believe it exactly thrilled him either. Instead he seemed to want to steer the conversation towards the upcoming Day of the Crown festivities, namely the tournament.

I personally find bouts and tests of strength for the sake of public amusement to be rather barbaric, even if they are rooted in history. I’ll admit that I do find the cheaper food and drink to be quite a welcome gesture, but with all the rabble in the streets, it is difficult to find a nice and quiet place to settle down with a good book, or to finish up some case notes. People are significantly easier to interrogate though, albeit, too many drinks makes questioning a difficult task. And many a lowlife sees opportunity in the large gatherings, easy pickpockets and even break-ins, do tend to give a few extra cases in the coming weeks after.

The others in the group, to my utmost admiration, did not seem too approving of the tournament either. Dande pointed out that it was a bad habit of Raffolk’s, besides, the last couple of years, the king had won it himself. Among some of the more dubious gamblers, there have been talk that the tournament is actually fixed. It would be on the verge of impossibilities to actually prove, and I have not yet received an offer to take such a case. At least not one, that would truly pay for my time and trouble that is. Raffolk seemed to understand the notion, and instead started talking about the parade of the Day of the Crown, but just as any of us were about to say our piece on the matter, he bolted off down one of the side-streets. Melvin, Ignis, and Riniya all took after. Raffolk seemed mighty speedy for one of his Halfling stature, and other than the Elf, they didn’t look like they’d be able to catch him. As for myself and Dande, I suggested we’d take another route, as to encircle him and acquire an explanation for his sudden running away. This would not be the first time I’ve had to chase down a witness, or even a suspect. I prefer to use my brains over brawn of legs everyday, and I know quite a few of these narrow alleys. Or at least where they will eventually lead.

As expected, Raffolk came out of a side-alley to one of the larger roads, likely hoping to disappear within the crowds of everyday traffic. But then the odd thing happened, with his back to me and Dande, he changed his shape and appearance to that of a regular Human, slowing down as if he figured no-one had noticed. This is what perpetrators often do; they get too cocky and careless. And rather than outrun me, they’d have to outsmart me. Besides, I have others that are plenty capable in the running department. We apprehended him to ask, though tiny alarm bells were already in motion in my mind. I suppose my intuition should have been clearer, when he refused the direct (and cheaper) payment of his debt, but it now became very obvious that we had been conned. Upon closer examination of the grandmother’s feather which Dande had held onto, it became clear to me, that it was not of the same pattern or quality of the first feather, instead this was the feather of a large parrot, which of course wasn’t rare at all in comparison.

We handed the illusionist over to the guards, though he claimed ignorance. Thankfully, and perhaps much to the chagrin of Raffolk (if that truly was his name), the guards and I have a long history, as I have aided them on several occasions in cases regarding magic. Although I could not outright prove the perpetrator’s guilt, I could at the very least ensure that one thief would be locked away; enough witnesses at the Lucky Leap would be able to back our explanation for a possible conviction. As the Lord Monder was one of those witnesses, the guard wanted us all to follow them to the Lord’s villa in the High District. Upon arriving at the villa, we were greeted by a servant, before the Lord himself bid us enter. Only our Minotaur seemed unfazed by this wealthy abode, while Melvin seemed even more nervous than normal. Reasonable enough, given Melvin’s background.

As I had feared, the Lord Monder had not in fact been visiting the Lucky Leap that day, and he had not been looking to acquire such a feather. Clearly, at least to me, this whole ordeal was a large setup. Lord Monder suggested it to be the work of the Golden Masks, a band of thieves known for using illusions and disguises in their crimes, and apologized for the loss of our coin. I personally could have cared less about the amount, and while I’m certainly not vindictive, I do not like to be schemed or conned.

Perhaps seeing us all as a cohesive unit, Lord Monder then asked if we could perform a small task for him, he did recognize my name, though I don’t believe he knew the others. The task sounded simple; acquire the Lord Monder’s horse (named Miss Ivory) from the villa of Lord Romlyn just south-east of the city gates, it shouldn’t take much more than an hour by foot. I knew at once that something was amiss; this task was much too easy for a band of six adventurers to partake, there was a hidden agenda beneath. Not one for secrecy, especially not when it comes to my work, I pressed him for the truth of the matter. He caved, and admitted that there were rumours of dark rituals, foul magic, and other types of witchcraft being used out near the Royal Stud Farm, so if we were to “come across” any of that, we were to root it out, if possible.

I’m always happy to improve my standing with the guard, and the Red Cloaks too, but I’d understand if the rest of the party was less than enthused about partaking this job. Fortunately, there were but a few complaints and questions, and we would be able to depart for the villa, as soon as the Minotaur reacquired her gear. Heading down the road, an eerie sight greeted us in the horizon; plumes of black smoke rising from where the villa would be. As we closed in, the entire place, every single building, was set ablaze. We hastened towards the front entry, where the corpse of some poor fellow was laying in a pool of blood. His death was certainly not caused by the fire. Some of the others heard the panicked sound of a horse, and rushed towards the barn to aid the creature. We were all left with the same questions; who could have done this, and, perhaps more important, why?

A Catacrach Guard Missive

To all members of the Catacrach City Guard, Haddorn Dockyards.

As you may have heard, the city have had some trouble with counterfeit wares, namely shipments of jewelry, that turned out to be much lighter or much heavier than they were supposed to, gems made of glass, painted crowns and tiaras. Now, if people were aware of these items being illegitimate, things would not be a problem. However, it seems that someone in the Marrow got their undergarments on wrong, when they found out their “priceless” jewelries were fake. That someone then took it to our colleagues in the Marrow, and eventually it became a mission for all districts handling wares, to stop this.

I personally believe it to be a waste of the guard’s time, especially if the reports out of Daaze’s Walk, about increased Thieves’ Guild activity, are true. But, an order is an order. On a more serious note, guards from Henjathi Theater have reported potential shipments of the highly addictive Liquid Courage. As you know, the Council have deemed the substance illegal, as it damages people’s free will and ability to think for themselves, Mind-wiper Juice, as some have taken to call it. So far, only small amounts have been recovered by the Henjahti Theater guards, but our sources believe a larger shipment may arrive any day now. This is easier to do by barge, as we cannot be expected to check every single crate and barrel coming through.

However, I have reached out to the Commander and to the Council on this matter. To our luck, the Council have emitted a month-long special law. This allows us to search any and all cargo, if there’s reasonable suspicion present. Suspicion includes crates or barrels (or other containers) oddly by themselves, marked containers, individuals guarding or inspecting the crates. We are also permitted to search persons, for the sake of identifying and confiscating shipments or even bottles of Liquid Courage. We are NOT allowed to search individuals for the false jewelry though. Another hitch, is that for any search that turns out empty-handed, the guard have to offer 10 gp as compensation. If the jewelry is found, a patrol is to seize the area, and call for back-up using the signal horns assigned to each patrol.

Good luck, and may Ioun grant you his favor to find the goods swiftly.
Signed by, Wradhall Clordeaxas, Captain of Haddorn Dockyards.
For Justice & Honor!

Thieves’ Guild Missive

Dear newest associate.

Our flock is small, but we take care of one another. If we work together, we will also all profit. That being said, the Thieves’ Guild have standards, these have been had for generations, and it has kept us hidden so far. As Hand-man for the Guild, I see no reason to change these traditions.

Obviously, we do not steal from family. Jealousy leads to greed, greed leads to violence. These are things a family shouldn’t face. On behalf of the Guild, I ask that you think about your targets, stealing from those with few coins makes no sense. It is also risky as people on the verge have nothing to lose.

For you initiation, the Guild have a special task that you can carry out as a team, or as a single person.
An assortment of wares are stranded, however, they are set in full 5 by 5 ft crates, it would take the strength of a Giant and more luck than Avandra have ever bestowed upon someone, to move the boxes to safety. Instead you will need to mark down the crates that we seek, there are three in total. The mark you are to place, is a three fingered hand; the mark of the Guild. Our people will know to pick it up later. The type of crate is pretty common, so you’ll probably have to look through multiple crates. I shouldn’t need to say this, but searching through crates is going to cast suspicion on you. In case someone should make you out, get out as fast as you can, the Guild have provided you with some standard gas-bombs.

If you are caught, you can consider yourself as leaving the family, the Thieves’ Guild DOES NOT do jailbreaks.

With that, may fortune favor you and the Guild.

Redwoods at Nightfall, part 2

I grabbed another coffee for the ride, and a lid to put on it in the rain, asked if Jim wanted something as well, but he already had a bottle of water with protein in it. Some cops took to drinking massive amounts of coffee, others took to alcohol. I remember my wife, rest her soul, had tried to get me to eat healthier. Protein was good for building muscle mass or something like that, but the only thing I’d really need muscles for, was for the occasional fist fight or tackle with a suspect, and those were few and far between these days. The Washington rumbled into action, and it made me think of my old car. I used to have an Albany Emperor, a classic box-shaped car with a soft suspension, old girl had to call the quits after I stopped a fleeing bank-robber’s muscle car with it. A damn shame, I liked that car. I had gotten the Washington on offer, from the county no less. Some booser in a suit had fucked up an order for the FIB, added an extra zero, so they suddenly stood with way too many cars for their agents. Looks like your average sleek sedan, but it’s got a good acceleration and turns like a dream too. I could have coughed up another 80.000 dollars, and gotten the federal agent version, tinted glass, reinforced tires, enhanced engine performance, but why would I ever want that? Back in my younger days it might have interested me, but I saw no point in sprucing cars up like that. If it could drive, had a roof and functional air-condition, that was pretty much all I needed in a car.

I had met Jim a couple of days prior this case, he and some other young officers had all passed the academy. Turns out his instructor was none other than my old partner, Johnathan Chesterfield, so Jim knew a lot about me, well he knew whatever nonsense John had stuffed his ears full off. As I told him, when he began to ask about the numbers of case that I had worked on, “Son, I don’t give a crap about how many, I’m here to do my job and that’s it.” Jim understood, it seems, and began to ask about more technical stuff, I told him what I could remember. As I turned the car off of Mission Row, looking for service entries to the river along the Little Bighorn Avenue, I calmly asked him, “So, have you heard of Carlos? Or did John skip that part?” Jim looked puzzled, no wonder, John had never been keen on seeing dead bodies, but in a gang-town like Los Santos, you’d get used to it pretty quick. “Well, Carlos is Mission Row’s forensic expert, perhaps the best in Los Santos, he’s a fucking lunatic with bodies, but he knows his stuff. He likes to creep out greenhorns, just a heads up. You don’t have to get close to the body though, if you don’t want to. If you do want to see, don’t touch anything unless Carlos says you can. I finally found the chain-link fence with a gate. “Ah shucks, figures Carlos would have an assistant close this again,” I tucked my coat up around my neck, “hey, check the glove compartment, there should be a set of service keys in there.” Jim reached in, past my service 9 millimeter, and found the set of mostly green keys. I nodded as he showed them, “Alright, they should be labeled, one that says “river access” will be the one you need, I’ll drive the car through when you’ve open the gate, and will wait for you to close it up again.”

Jim tucked his raincoat over him, no complaints about going out in the rain. The gate was narrow, and as civilians weren’t really meant to be running around along the river, it wasn’t an obvious entrance. The light from the front-lights helped Jim find the padlock and open it, he pushed one side of the doors open, then the other, for me to slowly pull the car through. Behind me, Jim closed and locked the gate once more, and rushed to get into the car. The narrow concrete entrance was steep, but soon we reached the river, dark and close to the secondary plateau, if this weather carried on much longer, the entire river would be full. The dim purple lights under the bridge to Mission Row mixed together with a brighter white light coming from some standing spotlights. We could see two small yellow canvas-tents. I parked under the bridge, no need to get it wetter than it already was. An unmarked white van, a Vapid Speedo, was parked near the furthest of the two tents. Yellow and black tape on the entrance to the closest one, told me that the body was in there. Carlos could be in either tent, preparing the body or waiting with his assistants in the other.

The dry warmth of the car was switched out for a drenched, eerie cold, I had the cigarette in my mouth and lit it. The fabric of the tents was thick, waterproof and it wasn’t possible to see if anyone was inside of them or not. Jim was on my heels, a big kid, 6′2″ or so, back in my days as a greenhorn, big guys like that usually didn’t end up in homicide. I had noticed a small notes-block and a pen in one of his pockets, so he wasn’t for taking notes on his phone then. While walking towards the non-taped tent, I spoke, loudly enough to penetrate the rain, and presumably for Carlos and his team to hear me, “So, you want to look at the body first or after we’ve talked to Carlos?” Jim shrugged, “I don’t know, sir, but shouldn’t we hear the forensics first, before starting the investigation?” Just as we approached, a person stuck their head out. “This is a murder… Oh, hey Graham, do come in. New assistant?” As always, Carlos was not one to care much for grade, rank or anything, as he once said; “if you end up on my table, you’re going to be a corpse either way.” Carlos opened the tent’s zipper-door for us to enter.

Inside the tent was cramped. Carlos, and his two assistants, had two tables and a miniature version of a whiteboard set up inside, from what I could tell, they had scribbled down what they had gathered so far, and the personal belongings was placed on one of the tables. The two assistants, both young-looking, a man and a woman, both stood up from the table. It seems all they had been waiting for, was for a detective to call the shots, and tell them to haul the body back to the station. Carlos looked Jim over shortly, then turned to me, “So, Bulldog’s got you to take it? I can tell you this much straight away; there’s not a whole lot to go on. But, you’re used to that by now. Alright, Ted and Ellen, move the van closer, prepare the boxes for belongings, and get the stretcher out. Ted, make sure the camera is protected from this weather, don’t want to lose the photos or have them damaged.” The assistants both moved out of the tent, and Carlos signalled for me and Jim to follow. Carlos had some blue latex gloves on his hands, as per usual really. I sighed, just having gotten used to the dryness of the tent, oh well it was part of the job.

We looked at the body, Carlos and his team had cleared up nicely, but it was still not a pretty sight. The man was Caucasian, relatively average in build with brownish hair. He had a blue designer polo-shirt tucked in his fitted cream coloured pants and a pair of white running shoes with reddish accents. His body was lying face down in a washed out puddle of blood. The rain had made the blood slowly trickle towards the river, but the main source of the blood wouldn’t be emptied that easy. Carlos grinned in his own creepy way, “That’s just his back, his face isn’t exactly pretty now.” Without further warning, Carlos latched a hand onto the corpse’s polo, and lifted him up by the shoulder. As his face left the concrete, we could see the smashed remains of his face, an open fracture had his cheekbone visible. “Jesus Christ!” Jim instinctively took a step back. Carlos chuckled his raspy laugh, “I should think not, he certainly didn’t fly coming off of the bridge. That, or someone hit his face really hard, with something really heavy.” Despite Carlos’ laugh, he wasn’t joking, never did. Jim regained his composure, fishing his note-block out of the pocket, “So, do you think he was pushed or fell off of the bridge? The fall would have been lethal with a fall like that, I presume.” Carlos dusted himself off slightly, but kept sitting by the corpse, “The fall probably would have killed with that landing yes, but I have my doubts to it being the cause of death,” with that, Carlos turned the man over on his side, “it’s more likely this, of course it’s too early to say for sure.” Carlos pointed towards a a darkened crimson slit in the light-blue polo; the head-wound was not what had caused the blood. This man had been stabbed. “There is only a single entry wound, but it’s very close to his heart, once I’ve gotten him on the slab in the lab, I’ll know if it was lethal.” Our small-talk about the body was interrupted as the beeping of the Speedo backing up, cleared through the rain. With that, Carlos let the man slump back down to the concrete, “Well, I’ll call you once I have the autopsy done. The personal items should be available within a few hours.”

Redwoods at Nightfall

2:57 am, Graham Bates’ apartment, Lindsay Circus, Los Santos

It was 3 am, when was I brutally awakened by the noisy ringing of my phone. I thought about letting it ring, but the display told me it was my boss. Already having a hunch, about what the call would be about, I got out of my bed to get dressed while I was talking. The Bulldog sounded the same as always, his grumpy, baritone voice was pretty easy to remember: “Bates? Yeah, someone have found a body in the River… So, get yourself up and come down to the station, oh and give that Jim Richards a call, he could use the experience of some night-time work.” I didn’t get to say anything, not that I planned to really, when the Bulldog is talking, it is just so much easier to shut up. While I descended the staircase from my apartment on the third floor, I phoned Jim. Jim, or James as his name is, had applied to become a detective’s assistant, eventually hoping to become a detective himself one day. Some guys up high, even above the Bulldog, had decided that I should have the “honour”, of having a young, overly-eager officer running tail on my day. I was worried at first, but Jim turned out alright, he’s got a good head and he knows when to use it.

The phone didn’t ring for long, and Jim sounded a lot more awake than me, despite being woken up in the same way as me. “Hey Jim, boss says we’ve got a 419 down in the LS River, briefing’s at the station in one hour. I’m coming by to pick you up, so be ready, alright? Be there in 10.” Jim doesn’t have a driver’s license, and he refuses to borrow his wife’s Radius, until he have a license. Not that anyone would bat an eye if he didn’t. No-one really cares in this town.

As I walked out onto Lindsay Circus, I lid a cigarette. As expected, the weather was awful, it was raining heavily, and the hot summer night made my overcoat stick to my body, like wet paper. Before getting into my car, a dark burgundy Washington, I checked the tires and the engine. just to be sure. The Korean Mobsters of Little Seoul usually wouldn’t tamper with such, instead they’d go straight to the man. However, the gangs had been on their toes recently. Apparently, shootout between the Lost MC and the Vagos happened on the parking lot next to the Del Peiro peer just last night. Of course, we got no notice from the hospitals, that someone had entered with a bullet wound.

I parked the Washington outside Jim’s house in the Vespucci Canals. I was in no mood to get out in this kind of weather, so I just honked the horn a couple of times. It didn’t take long for Jim to come, he was already in his uniform, with an apple in his one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. I had told him, he didn’t need the uniform as a detective, but as Jim pointed out; he wasn’t a detective yet. Considering the size of Los Santos, there were surprisingly few cars out on the streets. I guess the weather didn’t exactly call for a nightly drive. In my job though, I couldn’t really be that lucky to have a choice. Driving through Downtown was like a haunted house, only a few windows high up on skyscrapers, had the lights on. Like eerie, yellow eyes staring down on the little man.

The bridge across from Downtown to East Los Santos was empty, looming over Mission Row, as I turned the car in and down into the parking garage below the station. The rain could still be heard, battering at concrete and tarmac all the same. I looked at my watch, we were here fifteen minutes earlier than needed, so when we got up the stairs, I went to get a cup of coffee from the dispenser. Black, of course. As we passed the homicide department, I could see through the window, that the whiteboard for putting details onto, had already been cleaned up. Knowing the Bulldog, it would likely had been the first, the best, officer, he met as he came in. I knocked a few times on the tinted glass on the Bulldog’s door. The handle turned and the door opened.

The office was fairly large and well-lid, but the presence of the Bulldog, did take the focus off of the rest of the room. Besides the Bulldog himself, there was only one other person in the room, a young, red-haired police assistant, I didn’t know her name. Then again, most of the people I knew on the force, have now retired or perished from police work in other ways. A fancy overhead projector had been set up on a table, the dim blue light fitting on a whiteboard on the wall. Must have been the girl’s work, the Bulldog was notoriously bad at anything that resembled technology. Back in the old days, we used chalk and post-it notes on a black board for these info boards on cases. The Bulldog cleared his throat to gain our attention.

“Alright, we don’t know much about the body yet, other than it’s a Caucasian male. The body was discovered by some punks, racing dirt bikes on the slopes of the river, that was two hours ago, at 2 am. Carlos is already down there, setting up, so he can give you more details, I reckon. We assume that this is not a gang crime, but we cannot, as of yet, completely rule it out. We’ve got the punks sitting in the interview rooms, their bikes weren’t registered anywhere. But head down and talk to Carlos first, see what you can figure out.”