The Children of Starlight

Prologue

A single panoramic window overlooked the ruined city of Terra below. The land was scorched, the very earth left smoldering, and the beauty of creation was marred by decades of violent war. Most of the land’s flora and fauna had been driven to extinction—erased by the flames of the apocalypse. Two religions, two forms of magic, two goddesses, and two men diametrically opposed in both ideals and beliefs locked in a brutal war of attrition. The room around them was still, isolated high atop the tallest spire of the only palace left standing—the final bastion of humanity.

The Arbiter slid two golden chalices across the small wooden table, one for each of the weary men situated across from each other. These were no ordinary men. They were the last two living vessels of incredible power—abilities bestowed upon them by deities. They were the last two sorcerers left to walk the realm of Iorth.

The powers these men held were once a blessing to humankind, but such power in the hands of mortals proved to be a dangerous prospect, one with terrible consequences. For such power tends to create a hunger, an unending lust for more. Eventually, the gifts which had been intended to better the world were turned to weapons, their true purpose twisted and corrupted by the weak minds of zealous men, minds filled with fiery ambition and an unquenchable thirst for power.

After decades of strife and bloodshed, the end of the world was now upon them. The war had gone too far, taken too many lives, and destroyed nearly everything once held dear to them. The only solution, a chalice decorated with rubies and other precious gems, rested on the table in front of the two men.

“It could have been different,” said one of the men as he received his chalice with shaky hands. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, his face dirty and aged. His white beard was overgrown like a dense briar, and his once-immaculate white robes were stained and tattered. “It should never have come to this.”

“Some things are inevitable. You of all people should know this.” The other man situated across the table turned his golden cup around in his hands, inspecting the jewels adorning its sides.

This man’s choice of outfit was intentional—symbolic. He wore long, jet-black robes in contrast to his opponent. It was a subtle but powerful sentiment. Unlike his counterpart, he had taken the time to bathe prior to their meeting; his robes were freshly laundered and his short beard trimmed to perfection, yet another statement. Around his neck hung astone pendant, the color of deep ocean water with a faint glow emanating from its core.

“My lords,” the Arbiter interrupted, standing over the table, watching each of the sorcerers closely;  he wastasked with making sure the pact was fulfilled and that no deception was at play. “You both agreed to the terms and all matters have already been settled. It is time. Shall we proceed?”

“Of course, Arbiter. I am more than ready. Are you?” the man in black replied, directing his question to his counterpart across the table.

“To think it would come to this,” the white-robed man spoke as he pulled his chalice closer, shooting a disapproving glance across the table. “Look at us, old friend…what we have become. If our fathers were here, they would be ashamed.”

“Those days have long passed, old friend.”

“All because of your incessant hunger for power, Umbross.”

“My lords!” the Arbiter spoke sternly, his patience waning.

“You are deluded, Zenithis!” the man in black, called Lord Umbross, shouted. “You think of you and your family as some altruistic protectors of Iorth.”

“Enough!” the Arbiter shouted, slamming his fists down on the table.

The bickering ceased, leaving a silent tension hanging in the air between the two men as they stared at each other with hatred burning in their eyes.

“This is the only way,” Lord Zenithis broke the silence after a long moment. “It will never end unless we stop it now.”

“If we must, then we must,” Lord Umbross replied.

The men hesitated, both waiting for the Arbiter to continue with his assigned duties. It had all come to this: the only resolution remaining. There would be no clear winner of this war, no prize and no glory to be gained. Once close friends, these two men had become mortal enemies. Now they were situated across from one another, contempt and anger flowing openly between them. Both of their armies had been destroyed, all of their fellow sorcerers had fallen, and both of their homes lay devastated. The realm of Iorth had been wrecked by their hatred and a deeply rooted conflict of ideals. The small wooden table between them now represented a permanent scar upon their friendship—a schism between them that would ultimately become their own demise. Differing ideals, differing morals, differing beliefs—incompatible and destructive differences. There remained only one way to end the war and preserve the last signs of life on their world.

The Arbiter leaned forward over the table quietly announcing that the time had at last come. The sorcerers lifted the chalices, watching each other meticulously with great distrust.

“So long, my old friend.” Lord Zenithis spoke as he tipped his cup into the air.

“If only just for now.” Lord Umbross smiled, raising his cup in response.

Together, they drank the contents of the cups then placed them on the table. They each leaned back in turn, waiting in silence, studying each other’s reactions. While Lord Zenithis struggled to hide his obvious fear by squeezing the arms of his chair, Lord Umbross displayed an unsettlingly jovial smile as the poison coursed through their veins.

Lord Zenithis closed his eyes; a warm sensation crept up the back of his neck. A numbness flowed outward from his chest, into his arms, down his legs and to his feet, and eventually across his face. Then came a tingling sensation that was neither painful nor pleasant. His breathing slowed as a wave of calm washed over him, like falling into a pool of warm water. His eyelids became heavy, as if invisible strings tied to rocks were attached to them, and the world started to fade away.

The war came to an end when the two men died; both sorcerers slouched over lifelessly across from one another at the small wooden table. The Arbiter, feeling their necks for a heartbeat, confirmed their deaths. He would then announce to the world that resolution had at long last come. Half-hearted celebrations would be had among the few remaining survivors as the horrors of the great war had finally come to end, and with the passing of the last two sorcerers, magic left the world.

Part One

Upon the charred remains of a world, a spark of remembrance.

Chapter One

800 Years Later

It was just past midnight and Lord Essen was going about some dark work. Possibly treasonous work if anyone were to ever know of it—work that the secretary of the High Court should not be dabbling in. Spying on the king’s secretive dealings could potentially cost Essen his head, but it was the lingering suspicion of a foul conspiracy that drove him to the point of this: creeping through the palace crypts in the dead of night, the likes of a madman.

The crypts below the palace were the final resting place of the many kings before Exular—a cold, damp memorial for men who had lived and died ruling the realm of Iorth. The twisting tunnels had been carved through stone deep below the earth and into a claustrophobic maze that very few—other than the dead—had ever seen. Essen was certain that he would find answers here: evidence for what he knew had to be some kind of grand conspiracy. Unless Exular had suddenly developed a newly found passion for his ancestry, there was no logical explanation for why the king was down here at such an hour. Especially without one of his loyal guardsmen to protect him.

Lord Essen’s suspicions had been growing for months, and it all began when a fellow member of the High Court was unexpectedly cast out and replaced after decades of loyal service. Without warning, the High Judge had been thrown out and replaced with another, a woman who had no rightful claim to a place among the nobility; someone who had only recently seemed to appear out of nowhere. Many people questioned her legitimacy and the king’s decision to employ her, but no one dared speak of it openly. Luckily, if there was one thing Kilroy Essen was very good at, it was paperwork–the bread-crumb trail that can tell the story of every person from beginning to end. As for the shadowy woman now sitting on the High Court, the paperwork Essen had dug up was an interesting and unexpectedly short trail of crumbs. Something foul was afoot. Essen wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but whatever it was, it was big.

Lord Essen crept farther through the tunnels as they descended deeper under the palace. Despite his best efforts, every tiny click of his shoes against the stone ground echoed loudly through the darkness. For the sake of avoiding discovery, he thought it best to remove his shoes and continue barefoot, carrying his shoes in his off-hand. The floor felt cold on his pedicure-perfect feet as his toes found small pools of stagnant water waiting along the stony floor. There was no light within the tunnels; no oil-burning sconces affixed to the walls like in other parts of the palace above. There weren’t even places to hang torches like they used in the old days. He was forced to make his way through the tunnels blindly, with outstretched hands feeling along the damp walls. The air was heavy and a strong musk made his nares curl up in revulsion. He caught a glimpse of King Exular’s flickering lantern up ahead, forcing him to stop and allow the king to gain more distance again.

Kilroy Essen was the last person one would expect to find walking barefoot through tunnels, or doing any of his own work for that matter. He was nobility, born to high blood, swimming with wealth, and with much to lose. Typically Essen would hire lesser people to do such low-born work, but not today. For in this instance, Essen felt it necessary to take things into his own hands and get his feet a little dirty. 

As Essen navigated the depths of the palace’s underbelly, he was stricken yet again with a fleeting episode of fear—the logical concern for getting caught. What am I doing? He stopped himself. His heart raced as he thought about what would happen to his family, or worse yet, what would happen to his family’s name if he were caught spying on the king in such a manner as this. He thought through some possible explanations to use in that event, but none of them would hold up to much scrutiny. 

No! He shook the thought away. I must do this. Someone needs to figure out what Exular is up to. After taking a deep breath and making a short, desperate prayer for strength, he carried on into the dark labyrinth of interlocking tunnels.

At last, following several long minutes of creeping about through the crypts, Essen could see the king’s lantern light ahead come to a stop and turn into a side door. He heard the wooden door’s rusty hinges creak closed, followed by the sounds of bolts sliding and a key turning to lock it. Essen tip-toed up to the door, checking his surroundings for anyone who might be approaching from behind. The coast seemed clear enough. His heart pounded inside his chest as he apprehensively leaned his face against the door, peering through a keyhole. 

Beyond the door was a wide room lit by several decorative candelabra. Dim candle flames flickered and danced around, casting light and shadows erratically on the people inside. King Exular stood with his back to the door, conversing with three mysterious hooded figures dressed in long, dark-gray cloaks, their faces hidden by baggy oversized hoods. Essen squinted to look closer and noticed the candlelight glinting off something on one of their chests–a golden crescent-moon brooch securing the cloak around their shoulders. 

It was not a design or insignia that Essen was familiar with, and it was not one that belonged to any of the noble houses of Terra or the surrounding areas. However, Essen was unfamiliar with some of the other noble houses in the more distant parts of the world. Perhaps it’s a Velorian insignia of some kind? Essen thought. Hmm. Probably not. Not unless it is of some lesser Velorian house I don’t know about. It is certainly too fancy for any of the Archspanian houses. 

The people beyond the door were speaking in hushed tones. Essen struggled to make out anything that they were saying, so he nervously readjusted himself, placing his ear gently against the splintery wood of the door. 

“Tonight, my grace, marks the beginning of the celestial event…and what poetic timing!” a person unknown to Essen announced. “For tonight, your grace, we have for you the most blessed news!” 

“Oh? Is that so, my child?” the King replied, his distinctively deep voice louder than the others’. “And just what blessed news has this celestial event brought us?” 

“Your grace, may I celebrate with the highest of honors in bringing you this incredible news!” the hooded man replied. His voice was noticeably that of an elderly man. “Alas, we have found it! After many years of strife, botheration, and red herrings, we have finally acquired the artifact!”  

“Let me see it!” the king burst in hastily. “Do not waste my time, Child!”  

Lord Essen lifted his ear to once again squint through the keyhole just in time to watch as one of the robed figures presented a small object. It was too small, and too far away, for Essen to identify what exactly this aforementioned artifact was. The shadowy person handed the object over to the king, and King Exular swiped the object away like a child reaching for a sugary treat. “What the fuck is that thing?” Essen accidently whispered under his breath. He bit his tongue and squinted harder, trying desperately to see through the tiny hole.

As the king received the object, two of the cloaked figures watched excitedly, their hands fidgeting while the third person suddenly stepped backwards, stumbling slightly. They quickly regained balance, straightening into an attentive pose. 

“Great Goddess! My oh my, how it shines!” The king stared intensely at the object in his hands; a wide smile spread across his face. “Such illustrious light! And the weight, its mass is more than I expected. It is truly incredible!”

The king turned the object around in his hands, continuing to make observations as the others watched him in silence. 

“I can hear it speaking to me,” the king continued, surprised. “It calls out to me!” He laughed. “You have done fantastic work here, my Children of Starlight!”

“Thank you, your grace. We agree that it does in fact beckon you, as was it promised. We live to serve Him, and thus we live to serve you, O’ Holy Vessel.”

Lord Essen watched through the keyhole as the object in the king’s hands glowed with a dim blue light, just bright enough to seemingly reflect off the king’s face as he inspected the item—his eyes widening as they took in the light. What in the fucking name of— 

Essen’s thoughts were interrupted by one of the cloaked figures turning around to retrieve a candle from behind. He held it at chest level while leading a soft chant of strange strings of words in an unknown language. The other two mysterious figures quickly joined in, mimicking the actions and words of the first. As the chanting spread across the room, their volume increased, becoming boisterous. The sound of their voices bounced off the stone walls, making it seem like twice as many people were chanting than actually were. 

Essen’s pupil dilated as he observed the Children of Starlight form a circle surrounding the king as their chanting continued. Strange words. Dark words. Evil words. The king spoke again, loud enough to be heard over the chant with conviction and power. “The time has come!”

“So it was promised!” The others stopped chanting in the strange language and responded in common tongue, their voices in synchrony. 

“The royal blood will spill and give life to the spirit!” the king boomed, with a menacing smile upon his face, the blue glow of the artifact up-lighting the sharp angles of his facial features.

“So it was promised!” they responded, even louder.

“Born again into new! The return of starlight to this world! 

“So it was promised!”

“Hark! The Returner! We shall alas bring forth the second coming of our great lord, Umbross!” King Exular shouted and was met with cheering from his mysterious cohort.

Except for that one–the third person in the back, who had stumbled earlier. They don’t seem nearly as enthused as their companions. Lord Essen backed away from the door, discomfort and confusion filling his mind. He knew whatever he had just witnessed here was some form of dark work indeed. His suspicions were confirmed, but not explained. This escapade had revealed more questions than answers. Just as he tried to process what he had seen, his attention was suddenly diverted to a sound coming from down the tunnel; Footsteps, he realized. Shit. Someone’s coming. 

Essen hastily tip-toed away from the oncoming source of sound, back the way he had originally come. He briefly glanced back and noticed a light filling the tunnel from around a corner. A second later, a lantern appeared as a figure approached, moving toward the same door through which Essen was just eavesdropping. 

The lantern was abruptly snuffed out, so Essen felt it safe to stop and peek back at the oncomer. The figure stood at the door in darkness but did not enter the room. Who the hell is that? Essen thought as he snuck cautiously closer, hugging the damp stone wall to get a better look at the person. Dim, flickering candlelight from beneath the door and through the tiny keyhole barely illuminated the figure. It was not enough for Essen to make out any recognizable features. The mysterious person appeared to be looking through the keyhole, just as Essen had been doing moments before. The lantern was then suddenly re-ignited and the tunnel burst alight. Essen jumped back and scurried around a corner into hiding as the sound of footsteps progressed in his direction.

Shit, Essen thought, as he backed away.

He clutched his shoes tightly and sprinted barefoot down the tunnel, running as hard as he possibly could through the underground maze, his feet becoming calloused as they scraped against the freezing stone underfoot. He was running blindly in the darkness, desperately navigating with his arms extended before him. In his haste, he misjudged a turn and slammed into a wall, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. His shoes were flung from his grip and tumbled away in the darkness. 

“Fuck!” quietly let loose from his panicked thoughts, realizing the implications of leaving behind evidence of him being here. 

He dove down, sweeping his arms across the ground, feeling for the shoes. The footsteps grew closer, their exact distance difficult to judge due to the strange acoustics of the tunnels. There! he thought, grabbing one of them by the strings. A light formed behind him, just as he discovered the second. With both of the shoes recovered, Essen leapt to his feet and sprinted forward, away from the approaching person. The jagged, uneven stone surface below caught his toes, jamming them violently. The nail on his left little toe was ripped away from its bed, sending a frozen bolt of pain through his foot. He stifled a scream. With a firm grunt, he pushed on, escaping from the situation.

Once a safe distance away, Essen stopped to catch his breath and gingerly slipped his shoes back over his cold, damaged feet with a grimace. In the silence of the dark tunnel, Essen reflected on what he had just witnessed; a strange, and likely very dangerous, conspiracy was afoot—one that someone else had also seen. I will have to be way more careful moving forward, he thought, limping home.

Chapter Two

Inspector Prospect Anna Westin and her mentor approached the Bridgewater deputy’s office just as the dawn sun crested the trees on the horizon, threatening to burn away the morning fog. An urgent middle-of-the-night assignment handed down directly from the captain of the Terran City Watch had sent the two inspectors twenty miles east of the city on horseback. It was a chilly late-autumn morning, and despite her thick overcoat, Anna could feel the cold wind of the extended ride biting into her very bones.

“Wake up, Rookie,” Inspector Nolan Oakgrove shouted. “I know it’s damn-fucking early but there must be a good reason for the cap’ to send us all the way out here in the sticks.”

“I am awake, old man!” Anna responded as they rode side by side into the small rural town. “I believe it was you who was falling asleep!” She smiled at her preceptor, her face numb and tingly from the damp morning air. 

“Oh hush, don’t get all in a tizzy, kid,” Nolan chuckled. “Besides, I don’t need to be awake for any of this—I ain’t the one who’ll be doing the work today!”

“Lovely! I thought you were going to cut me loose months ago anyways, Nolan. But here I am, still doing all your work for you.” 

Over the last year, their relationship had become less formal and more friendly. Nolan was a wise man and one of the best inspectors the watch had ever seen, despite his teaching methods being a little more of the old-school mentality. Anna had eventually come to enjoy his lessons built upon the idea of sink or swim, and Nolan had come to enjoy Anna’s smart-ass back talking and spunk. In a way, they were more similar than either of them ever wanted to admit.

“Ain’t no way I’m gonna cut you loose and go back to writing my own reports!” Nolan jested. “But, I do suppose the cap’ is probably getting tired of paying you to do all my shit for me.”

Anna was the youngest inspector on the City Watch—an Inspector Prospect nearly ready to transition to the title of Inspector. She was top of her class at the university and was an extremely bright and talented Inspector Prospect in the academy—inquisitive, with a mind as sharp as a knife and a personality full of defiantly youthful energy. She had come a long way since she came under Nolan’s tutelage but still had a long way to go. Both of them knew that it was almost time for her to break free of her preceptorship and figure out her own ways of doing things, but for now, one more job under Inspector Nolan’s eyes wouldn’t hurt. 

The little town of Bridgewater was situated in a densely forested area on the east side of the Great River. Under Terran control and acting as an extension of the eponymous city of Terra, Bridgewater functioned independently of the city as a small logging community turned town. Following the Great Reset centuries earlier, reforestation efforts along the Great River gave birth to a bustling economy of logging, and thus towns like Bridgewater formed around the sawmills. It was quite rare for the City Watch to send inspectors so far out of the city proper, as Bridgewater had its own deputized law enforcement, but occasionally an aberrant situation would require the city’s experts to intercede. 

Anna and Nolan found the Bridgewater deputy’s office on the far end of town, along a cobblestone pathway overrun with weeds that had been nipped by the morning frost. The building was more of a shack than a proper office.

“I’ve seen chicken coops bigger than this fucking place,” Nolan whispered as they dismounted from their horses and approached the door.

Nolan knocked on the rickety wooden door and it unexpectedly flew open on loose hinges. 

“Sorry, been meaning to get that fixed. It don’t stay shut,” came a voice from inside the room.

Anna and Nolan stepped inside. It was a quaint, single room outfit—half of it an office and the other half a single celled jail and drunk tank. Nolan resisted shaking his head in sheer embarrassment. Anna could almost read his mind from the expression on his face—it would be something like: Damnit, I hate this small-town bullshit. 

“Good morning, Inspectors!” a man said, nervously stumbling through the process of making morning tea. 

Deputy Yeats was an elderly man, well into his eightieth year, having served as deputy of Bridgewater for most of that time. Being the deputy of a tiny rural town on the outskirts of a major city was, for the most part, a pretty uneventful job for an old timer. Very little happens in a place like Bridgewater, little more than the occasional domestic disturbance, property dispute, or some bored kids wreaking havoc, as kids tend to do. A certain aura of anxiety rested over the deputy’s face that was inconsistent with the level of stress expected from a job like his. Both inspectors caught notice of this and shared an inquisitive glance.

“Good morning, sir. We got here as quickly as we could, given the hour of the day. How may the City Watch be of assistance to you?” Anna started in, trying to maintain a sense of professionalism—a trait for which her mentor was not the strongest role model.

The old deputy shakily held out two steamy cups of morning tea, one for each inspector. Nolan gave him a nod of appreciation while Anna held up a hand in polite refusal and whispered out an appreciative “no thank you” with a hearty smile. The deputy shrugged then raised the cup to his lips and started drinking it himself. 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Inspectors. I’m Deputy Yeats.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir. I am Inspector Prospect Anna Westin and this is my Inspector Precept Nolan Oakgrove.” She held out a hand and Yeats welcomed it with a gentle handshake; his hand was frail and bony.

“Thank you both so much for coming. I called your captain requesting assistance in the middle of the night, and I appreciate the quick response more than you know.” The deputy gulped. “We had an incident. I think it best to just show you if y’all don’t mind.” 

Anna and Nolan shared a look of curiosity, maybe a bit of annoyance. What could possibly be so important that he couldn’t just tell us about it here and now, Anna wondered, then reminded herself to be patient. Professional. She smiled and reached for the door that was swinging loosely on its hinges. “After you, sir,” she replied.

Deputy Yeats guided the inspectors to the northwest side of town where the river bent around a massive lumber yard. The morning sun was bright and warm, evaporating the frosty dew that covered grass. The fog had lifted and the warmth was a welcome change from the early morning chill. The rapid current of the Great River could be heard flowing as the group approached their destination.

As they neared the main building of the sawmill, the Inspectors were met by a group of loggers standing in a circle, talking quietly amongst themselves. They held their hats to their chests. The sawmill was at a total standstill; no smoke was seen from the stacks and no sounds of machinery could be heard from within the long building on the water’s edge. Just upstream of the mill, logs were piling up in the river as the river hogs, normally responsible for driving the logs downstream and into the mill, all stood on the distal riverbank without intervening on the growing log jamb. 

“Well, that is odd. No logging means no money for this town. Must be something pretty damn big to cease operations,” Nolan said to Anna.

The crews of millworkers and lumberjacks watched the officers walk by without saying a word, respectfully keeping their distance as the deputy led the inspectors down to the river’s edge where the log catches were built to direct logs from the river into the sawmill. There, they were greeted by a younger man in an officer’s uniform.

“Deputy Armstraad!” Yeats called out to the man. Deputy Armstraad waved the officers down closer to the lumber chutes, where he stood by silently as the group approached the scene. 

“Holy Shit!” Nolan saw it first.

Anna approached the chute and was immediately taken aback with what she found. There, stuck in the logging chutes, was a young girl, or rather the corpse of a young girl—maybe fifteen or sixteen years of age with long, silvery white hair, wearing soggy white robes stained with blood and dirty river water. Her hair floated in the shallow water surrounding her and her skin was as pale as the midnight moon.

“The night-shift foreman found her right where she lays now,” Deputy Armstraad explained. “He was coming onto the night shift when he noticed this girl, clearly dead, stuck in the production line. She appears to have drifted in with the lumber sometime last night and got sucked up into the catches.”

“Drowned?” asked Anna.

“Well, we assumed so at first,” Yeats replied. “Most logically just some horrible accident, but…” 

“But what?” Nolan asked.

“But then we took a closer look. She has multiple stab wounds to her chest and torso. Not to mention, all the cuts along both of her forearms. They may be defensive wounds, we reckoned. Soon as we noticed that, we called you in. We made sure not to move the poor thing or do anything to fuck up the crime scene, inspectors. Clearly, this is not something we have ever dealt with in Bridgewater.”

Anna bent down to inspect the girl’s body closer. She needed to get a better look at the wounds, but the young girl was twisted and jammed up in the logging mechanisms so Anna instructed the local authorities to pull the corpse out of the water. They lifted the girl’s limp body out of the shallow water of the chute and lay her gently on dry ground. There, Anna went to work utilizing all of her training in forensics, accounting for all the wounds and injuries: five stab wounds, as she could make out, scattered defensive lacerations to her arms, a very thin and faint ligature mark on her neck—probably partially strangled by some kind of thin rope or line. The rigor had already started to set in and the girl’s legs and one arm were mangled, most likely from being crushed by logs entering the catches.

“What is your assessment, inspector?” Nolan asked, standing behind his preceptee. 

“Well, this wasn’t just any old drowning, that’s for damn sure. These wounds are pretty obviously stab wounds.  Wouldn’t have been caused by the logs and debris in the river. These were clearly put there by some sort of small dagger or knife, I would guess by their size.”

“I concur, and you might just get a gold star for the day after all! But keep going. Need more details, kid.” 

“Thanks.” Anna glared back at Nolan. “Judging by the wounds on her arms, she was most likely attacked and subsequently murdered. My best guess is her body was disposed of in the river, where she then floated downstream until she flowed into the sawmill. Do we know who this girl is, Deputy?”

“Yes. We are actually certain of who she is,” Armstraad replied. “Her name is Marjorie Blackstone. Her family is…pretty notorious around these parts.” 

“What do you mean by that?” Anna questioned.

“Well, her family is…quite eccentric, I guess you could sa–”

“They’re fuckin’ weirdos,” Deputy Yeats interrupted. “That’s what my young partner here is tryin’ to get at.” 

“Yeah, that is what I meant. I was trying to be, um, a little more tactful about it though.” 

“Ain’t nothin’ tactful about this kinda work, kid. Ain’t I right, inspectors?” Yeats chuckled.

“Have you gone to notify her parents yet?” Anna asked, politely ignoring the deputy’s slightly misguided idiom.

“No, like I said, we really felt it best to seek expert assistance with this one,” replied Yeats. 

Anna could see the discomfort in the old officer’s face. These were two small town officers, clearly in over their heads. She quietly sighed in frustration—the realization that this entire investigation was about to become her own problem.  

“Was there any other suspicious activity reported last night?” she probed further.

“Nope. Only other report that came in last night was just your run o’ the mill coyote sighting. Mangy little fuckers. It ain’t uncommon for them wild ass mutts to be getting’ at folks’ livestock in the autumn,” replied Yeats.

Anna looked over the body one last time, trying to process all the information systematically in her head. She had in her hands several pieces to a puzzle but no idea how they all fit together yet. I need more context, she thought. Who is this poor girl, and who would do such a thing to her?

“Alright deputies, have some helpers take her to the morgue and allow these men to get back to work,” instructed Anna. “And for us, I think we need to go pay a visit to the Blackstone family,” Anna sighed.

Notifying family members that a loved one had died was definitely one of, if not the worst, part of this job—especially when it was a kid whose family would be the primary suspects by default. Anna realized that her day would not be easy, and she now regretted not taking that cup of tea.

Chapter Three

Raglan Redmane, known to his very few friends as Rags, started his day in the typical fashion—wake up at the shelter, eat a bowl of the cheap-ass mush they served for breakfast, and then immediately chase his next fix.

Anodyne was quite the expensive habit to sustain, but it would seemingly become essential to survival once one fell into its vicious cycle. It hadn’t always been this way for Rags, but it was far too late to change things now. He knew that if he couldn’t panhandle at least twenty silver before midday, the sickness would surely come. It was an ailment that Rags dreaded above all; it had taken control of his entire life. Most days, the only reason he would climb out of bed was to get a fix; his only motivation was stopping the sickness from coming. It was an endless loop. Day after day, month after month, year after year, with no escape in sight.

Rags had a tried-and-true routine, a rotation of all the best places to secure funds as quickly as possible. The first of these places, and the most likely to produce results, was on the corner of Lark and Second Street. It was an arduous journey from his shelter in the Under-District to Uptown where there tended to always be a high concentration of people touring, shopping, and dining at the local establishments. It was considered to be the nice part of town, home to the Palace and some of the most luxurious homes in the entire kingdom—a place for people with deep pockets and coin to spare. Rags walked through the crisp autumn air and eventually took a spot on the stone-paved sidewalk, where he began the humiliating yet profitable job of begging. His dirty face, untamed hair, and squalid clothing were sure to elicit sympathy from passing nobles and rich folk—hopefully ones with a heart for philanthropy. 

Uptown was alive with the sights and sounds of booming commerce. Horses pulling exquisite carriages squeezed through the tight cobblestone streets, weaving in and out of the crowds of people walking from shop to shop. The men wore finely tailored suits with oversized jackets and top hats, a stylistic choice that came and went every few years, falling in and out of favor more frequently than Rags could acquire a single new outfit. The women, modestly dressed for the colder months, wore thick overcoats of muted blues and grays.

Rags sat with his back against the brick wall of a bakery, ever so slightly in the way of people walking down the sidewalk. Despite the high levels of foot traffic, most people walked right past, ignoring him as if he were some kind of specter. Some of them would shake their heads in disapproval, passing judgment without knowing anything about him, and he wondered how people could be so disapproving without knowing the childhood that he had faced. Rags would be the first to explain how he wasn’t dealt a hand of high cards; rather he was dealt a hand of five deuces—impossibly bad. He now had an entire book of endless excuses and near-infinite justifications for begging, to subsidize his addiction. 

Time passed, and the sun approached its zenith, bringing the morning to an unsuccessful close as the coldness in the air shifted to a slightly more tolerable temperature. Rags checked his collection tin. Five silver. Shit day. He was falling behind on his quota, and the time had at last come to move on to his second spot. 

Ten minutes and only two silver later, the City Watch came along and booted him from the new location. The following three spots produced only a handful more copper and two additional silver. Rags knew his time was running out and the nausea, shakes, and pain were fast approaching. Even the anticipation of the sickness itself tended to bring about its own symptoms of anxiety and fear. Rags couldn’t be sure what exactly would happen to him if the sickness came and stayed for too long, but not knowing any better, he always assumed that he would probably die from it within a few days. 

Desperation set in, and one final idea came to Rags in the form of a last-ditch effort. He raced back through the streets of Terra, driven by a persistent sense of dread, to the south-western section of town—the Under-District. The place he called home. He made his way to the familiar alley running parallel to Tenth Street. 

Trog’s shop was not the kind of shop found anywhere outside the District. It wasn’t as much a shop as it was a pile of junk. Here, the alley was littered with discarded construction materials–damaged lumber and broken bricks piled haphazardly in the alley–probably from a fire some years ago that no one had bothered to clean up. Trog would hang around the area most days, and he was known to have a large customer base. After a year, the alley behind Tenth street had become a mainstay for folks like Rags. Eventually, people started referring to it as Trog’s shop. 

“Hey Trog.” Rags approached cautiously. “Look man, I am down on my luck today. What can I get for, uh, a little less than ten chips?” He found the giant man leaning against the wall, just inside a clearing within the tangled mess of wood, steel, and stone spanning an entire city block down the alley. 

“Not fuckin’ shit, Rags. You already owe me fifty!” Trog replied with his terrifyingly deep voice. He stood over seven feet tall, with black, scraggly hair hanging down past his shoulders—wider than a horse’s ass. It wasn’t totally uncommon to see Archspanians from the distant north on the streets of Terra, but Trog was quite possibly the only one of them in his specific trade. 

“I got nine and some change, Trog. Can’t you please just split up a phial for me, just this once?” Rags begged. “Please, I fuckin’ need it man, even if it is just a little bit.”

“Fuck off with you! What you need ain’t my god damn problem, now is it?” The dealer puffed up his chest, stepping up to Rags. His assertion was very clear; if Rags didn’t leave or produce money from his pockets immediately, he was going to be beaten to a pulp. Rags knew better than to push his luck with Trog, a muscular giant standing two feet taller than Rags with arms the size of tree trunks. Rags raised his hands in surrender and backed away, cursing under his breath.  

Rags was left with only one option, which he never liked: crime. He could steal the money pretty easily, but the Watch knew Rags all too well. He was a notorious urchin and they always had an eye out for people like him. He contemplated the possibility of running a quick con on the other side of town; however, his biggest apprehension to committing crime was getting thrown into jail. He had been there before and knew from experience that they don’t serve anodyne in the slammer. Therefore, jail-time equated to the most horrific sickness imaginable. With this thought, Rags reconsidered his idea, deciding it wouldn’t be worth the risk. Just before Rags scurried away from the shop, a man called out from behind.

“I’ll pay on his behalf.” 

The man approached Trog and tossed him a bag full of coins. Trog skeptically opened it, inspecting the contents, then looked up to stare questioningly at the newcomer. Hesitantly, the dealer pocketed the bag of coins and in exchange tossed a small, glass phial filled with a milky white substance over to Rags. 

“I guess it’s your lucky day,” Trog sneered. 

Rags gave the generous man a quick nod of appreciation before turning his back to down half of the phial’s contents with a single gulp. Near-instantaneous relief washed over his body. The drug didn’t get Rags high anymore, not like it used to. However, it did make him feel normal again, at least for a short time. 

“Thank you.” Rags turned back to face the mysterious man. 

“Don’t sweat it,” he replied, approaching Rags.

“Alright, what do you want?” Rags asked, studying the man’s face. Usually, on the streets, an act of kindness was merely a front for some kind of bigger con. 

“Maybe I just felt like being a good person today,” the man smiled sarcastically.

“I’m sure. Name your cost,” exhaled Rags. In the District, there was always a cost. 

“You certainly know how this all works, don’t you?” The man’s smile faded. “Fair enough, I’ll be straight with you. See, it’s rather quite simple. I have some work that needs done, and you seem in need of work to do.”

“How much does this man owe you, again?” the newcomer turned and asked Trog.

Trog glanced at Rags. “Fifty silver. Plus interest? I would reckon he owes me about a hundred now.”

“A whole fuckin’ gold coin, Trog? Really?”

“That's quite a bit of debt, friend.” The man shook his head.

Fuck. Rags knew he was trapped. “What kind of work are we talkin’?” 

“Ha!” The man let out a quick laugh. “You really think you’re in any position to ask questions, do ya?”

Rags rolled his eyes. He had expected this from the moment the man tossed the coins to Trog, but he was desperate enough to accept it for what it was and wouldn’t argue. This was simply just how things worked in the District. 

“I’ll be fair about it though, on account of how nice of a guy I am.” The man smiled widely; he was missing most of his teeth. “One job, then you are free to go—your debt paid in full. But, just so you’re aware, there is a lot more coin to be made if you so wish to continue to work for me, which I expect you will. Now for this particular job, all’s we need is somebody to deliver a package. And that’s pretty much it.”   

“Just a delivery, eh?” 

“Yeah, pretty much. And if you do good at this one, maybe we can see about more interesting work.” The man extended his hand out to Rags. “Name’s Dom, and yours?”

“Rags,” he replied, shaking his new employer’s hand.

“Well that’s a pretty fucking fitting name now ain’t it?” Dom chuckled as Rags lowered his eyes at the man.

“So, what exactly am I supposed to be delivering?” Rags snapped to the point. He figured it would probably be some kind of illegal delivery like drugs or contraband weapons—this much was to be expected.

“I am glad you asked. Come with me. I’ll introduce you to the crew. We’ll tell you all you need to know and get you started.”

“I take it you mean right now?” Rags asked, hoping for some time.

“Yeah, are you fuckin’ stupid or something? Yes, right now. Let’s go.”

Rags let out a long sigh. If it weren’t for the anodyne pumping through his veins, he would be much more concerned about his current situation. Every street urchin knew that owing a debt and paying it with work was never an equal trade. There was always a catch of some kind. Rags followed Dom and prepared to do something that was most likely terrible and dangerous. However, he had achieved his goal for the day—the sickness had been staved off, so all was well with the world—for the time being.

More to come!

-EVS