3. M for Murder by Isolde Garibaldi

M for Murder by Isolde Garibaldi


  • To Capture A Killer II - A Dance In Red

    The stairs down to the sub-basement were twisted, elongated, a spiral staircase leading down, down and down - 'an impossible spiral, each', my inner voice whispered. The hair of the slain, soaked in their own blood - was it possible we were traversing that spiral now, that the hair wasn't so much hidden as it was 'transformed', a part of the realm we now traversed?

    We walked for what seemed an eternity, ever down, with spellpower waning and weariness screaming through every fibre. I clung to my rage, tried to hone it, sharpen it to a fine point. Finally, a doorway stood before us, familiar dark stone with eerie, leering eyes glowing sickly green. The door we had opened before, had come for now - but beyond, we saw no raised dais, no composer's chair.

    Instead, a grand ball room, decked in heavy crimson drapes, two figures moving in a slow waltz upon the floor. M dressed in black, straight in posture but thin and wiry, dancing with a lady in red. As we enter, the female figure flickers and fades from view.

    'Where are you going, my dear?', asks M. I think I hear lament in his tone, spy a hand outstretched to the fading crimson figure, but perhaps it's all a show. He turns towards us with a malicious smirk, sweeping his arm in mock welcome to the show, immediately fixing on me.

    'Ah, my wayward apprentice. It took you some time, but I knew you'd make it. I knew you could play it.'

    That same mix of condescending and pride, of lecturing and 'inclusion', mingled with hateful scorn. Oh, I was a slow student, dimwitted and reluctant, but I was 'his' student and I 'would' learn.

    I wish I could remember what I said, the details of our verbal spar. I recall all too well the fury, the itching 'need' to scream and shout my defiance, my denial of any link between us, any 'us' at all. I tried to swallow down my rage though, tried to appeal to whatever humanity yet remained within him.

    'You know you're plane-touched right? Did 'she' trick you, wear the face of your wife? What would Devona say to all this, really?'

    He scoffs at first - of course he would, to think himself a victim is impossible, downright laughable - he is the great composer, the mastermind, ever in control. But when I mention Devona's name again, M snaps.

    'Don't you 'dare' speak her name!'

    A sore spot, go figure. He retorts, retreats and beckons me onto the dancefloor, but I'm not ~that~ stupid.

    'Please. You think I can't see the traps?'

    'You 'have' been learning', he notes with almost satisfaction and a smirk of his thin lips. Even now, the lectures - do I, do any of us truly 'understand' what it is he's done? The genious of his work, the nature of what is around us? The Far Realm, the monsters within it - they are the monsters within us, our darkest fears materialized.

    'You'll understand', he hisses, lunging at me. Cold steel at my throat, a prick of pain as the blade cuts into my skin. 'I will 'make' you see!'

    'I just have to KILL you first!'

    Z barrels into his side, and I reel aside, bleeding. M scowls, lunging for me vehemently, again and again. Gongs are set off, tearing at our senses, M's knife flashing. I'm struggling, reaching for potion after potion. The fight is a blur of pain, red, hot blood trickling down my skin.

    Ysberyl topples gong after gong, Maria's magic sparks. Gnarl roars and swings his axe, Roslyn's bow sings its deadly song - yet M has eyes only for me. His unwilling 'apprentice', his hatred and desire. His blade sinks deep, and I stagger, clutching at my gut - clutching, in fact, the clasps of my dreamjade belt, just as he's about to finish me off.

    'You DARE use Lord Sixx's gift 'against' me!?', he roars in rage, in sheer affront.

    Another Heal potion down, I lost count on how many. Stoneskin, as my best spells to shield me has long since faded. I flicker back into view and he lunges again, death in his eyes.

    A knife at my throat anew, but Roslyn's arrow deflects it, sents it clattering across the floor. He reaches for my neck with his bare hands instead, a strangling chokehold. I see red, I kick but my strength is fading. My vision flickers, but my party, oh my party are not idle, and for all his cunning and skill, M is still a mortal man.

    They swarm around us, steel and spell flashing.

    Suddenly I'm free, gasping for air. My vision's still veiled in a haze of red, but I see M staggering back, falling to his knees. Slowly he topples, crumbles to the ball room floor in a pool of blood. Yet even as he lays there dying, he wears that same sneering face. As I approach, I hear his faint and gurgling voice, see a cold glee in his spiteful eyes.

    'Even now…', M wheezes. '...I win.'


  • To Capture A Killer I - The Kildarn Estate Revisited

    Another visit to the Hemway house saw me yet again confide details of the case to Garric (what 'is' it with me doing that?), though my true errand there was much different. Then again, he 'is' an able arcanist, knows much of the murky waters of the Night Parade and his family lives not far from the Kildarn estate. He of course opted to meddle, though agreed on a subtle course of action that I hoped would bring no ill attention to him and his.

    There'd been no sightings of M recently, nor any new murders - but I was certain he was still here. Still 'watching' me.

    A few days later, I recieved word: a dimensional anchor has been set around the Kildarn estate, though Garric cautioned he was uncertain how long it would last. Whatever ritual was used to create the portal within is now complete, and he could sense the presence of an otherworldly entity inside. He's forever telling me to not be so rash, but now haste was of the essence even in Garric's book.

    As if on cue, a 'second' letter arrived that same night.

    'Tick tock, Isolde Garibaldi. Have you even tried to perform them yet? You know what I mean. This is your last chance.'

    Screw you, M! He hadn't signed the note - there was no need, it was so clearly his hand, and I could all but hear that disdainful yet fervent voice, a dry whisper against my neck, a shiver down my spine.

    I 'could' have played those gut- and soulwrenching, gods-awful notes already - I studied them, I let that horrid arrythmia in, tried to make sense of the senseless - but I would not let it pass my lips. That would please him too much, and what's more, I could tell that the purpose of the 'music' was to call on creatures from the Far Realm. And my intention is most definitely to silence the call, 'not' become M's chorus girl.

    Tick-tock.

    When the time came to act, time seemed the scarcest of commodities. So much to explain, so little time to do it - many of those volunteering to tackle the estate were more or less strangers to the convoluted details of the case: Maria, Alvaniel, Leena and Gnarl. And even those in the know - Roslyn, Ysberyl, Z and Sheserai - needed to learn the recent research results, and the precautions needed to complete our task with sanity intact.

    An omnious thunderstorm shook the windowpanes of the Edge, where we'd retreated from the heavy rain for some privacy - but even so, a young boy, drenched and freezing, found his way inside. A boy with an otherworldly 'something' to his person - a tinge of the Far Realm, perhaps?

    He claimed to live in the Residential district, and I fought my paranoia. M wouldn't be so bold as to march into the hands of the group out to catch him, surely? Still, he was ushered downstairs while I tried my very best to explain a complicated state of affairs in quick and simple terms.

    'Basically, expect the unexpected, because nothing's going to be quite as it seems. Find M, find the hair - and don't let the Scarlet Lady twist our minds', I concluded with a knot of anxiety in my gut, my heartbeat crying tick tock, tick tock. Ready or not, the time is now.

    The estate loomed before us in the dark and stormy night. It 'looked' normal, but everything about it felt wrong. I could see the snaking tendrils writhing, reality itself 'twisting' from the corners of my eyes. A fresh lock on the door confirmed M's presence, and Roslyn took the front after having struggled it open with hinnish persistance.

    The lobby opened up before us, larger than I remember, visibly 'different' and transformed. But what our eyes told us were a lie, a thin veil of normalcy draped over the true horrors beneath. Maria's True Seeing, cast on our scout, had Roslyn stunned. She appeared not to see us, staggering towards the fireplace as though in a daze - right into the flames, which licked her form before she was forcibly dragged out.

    'I saw her', Roslyn mumbled with a faraway look in her eyes. 'The Red Lady…'

    Soon, we could all feel it, sense that 'other' reality pressing down, tearing against the protections Maria had embued upon us like a constant headache. With a hissing shriek, a cacophanous wail, the veil tore and we could see the 'real' surroundings, the nightmarishly fluctuating realm beyond, tinted red, filled with biting, clawing, gnashing 'things', with tentacles and spidery limbs, fangs and claws and sheer malignant intent!

    No. No, no, no.. focus, calm! We 'need' to stay calm.

    There is the room, the fireplace, a roaring fire within, a grid of swords. Disregard what's real, choose reality and 'focus' on this. The fireplace, the path down to the sub-basement.

    There'll be a lock, and for every lock there is a key. Even here, that's true - right...?

    Though reality kept 'slipping', we focused on the search. The fireplace had four holes in the mantlepiece, but the wrong shape to fit Roslyn's Night Parade key, or the Kildarn finger. But curiously, four pieces of wood lay strewn around the room. Could it really be that simple?

    The wood slotted into place, miraculously enough, and with a rush of flame, the fire died out and the blades vanished, the fireplace swivelling. But still the path was locked. Still four slots, square and thin, set into the white marble.

    Piano keys, like before? In asking the older residents of the College about Devona Finhund, I had learned that she was not just a pianist, but a locksmith - in fact, the artful melody lock in Ofilia's room was of a style originating from Devona. Ofilia herself strikes me as the one most like Marcel's dead wife - and she was presumably first in line for that reason.

    There was a piano nearby, to the left of the fireplace. It was missing precisely four keys, and a seemingly old and forgotten note was discovered near it. A scolding note, to a young mischievous boy - who had been playing with the keys?

    The note mentioned four rooms, and the room did have four doors, which now that we studied them more closely, seemed to have signs corresponding with the note. But had they, before we read it? I couldn't shake the feeling that this place was in flux, reforming itself, quite possibly to M:s will.

    Rats in the maze indeed. But what choice did we have at this point?

    The art gallery was our first choice, the door sliding open to reveal a vast space, filled with galleries and paintings. It seemed still under construction, though cobwebs hung from the half-finished beams in the ceiling. The lighting was dim, but the paintings called to me, despite our pressing need for haste. The longer we stayed, the more our spells would fade and leave our minds bare and open to the horrors under the surface of things.

    Still. We had to actually find the key, and so we settled into a search, starting with what seemed the main gallery. There, a picture of a boy hung, a boy with a distinctly mischievous expression. Our little piano key thief, no doubt - and that seems not all he stole, as Roslyn discovered a small cache of items hidden in a hollowed out section behind the picture itself. There was also a small childish map, pointing to a fifth and hidden room.

    We hasted through, searching now for a painting that might appeal to a young boy's mind, or... perhaps a not so young boy. I halted infront of the painting of the young woman, clad in resplendant crimson silk. A vivid red dress, red as her hair, as her pretty lips which smiled demurely at the viewer. Devona Finhund - it 'must' be. Young, beautiful and next...

    Behind the painting, the piano key was hidden, expertly retrieved by Ysberyl's spry fingers. But just then, a rumble shook the room. The beams creaked, the spiderwebs swayed. A fine dust rose as one rumble turned two, three, four.. something was coming this way. Something 'BIG'.

    My breath caught in my throat as I peered past a hole in the gallery wall - it hulked, a giant beast made of thin red strands, tightly knitted like flesh, like strands of muscle lain bare. Its very presence screamed danger, and after I shook my chill off, I began to sidle very carefully through the wall.

    Maria, knowing not all of our party were built for stealth, bravely threw herself into harm's way, diverting the red hulk's attention while we all made our way past in various ways. She tumbled through the door last, shaken and bloodied.

    One down, and the Red Lady's heavy sniffing at our heels.

    We dared not linger, could not rest, hasting on to the next room at random. The baths were steaming pools, submerged into the marble floor. In any other setting, such a room would be pleasant, luxurious and inviting, but here, it filled me with dread. The waters were mostly obscured by the mist rising from it, but 'something' glinted at the bottom of the pool there, no?

    'Someone' should go in and get it. A metaphorical cricket chirp, as the same instinctive feeling of dread snaked its way though us all. Don't go in the water, don't go in the water, don't go in the water, chimed my inner voice of reason. But what if we dangled Roslyn, the most lightweight amongst us, into the pool, ready to pull her out at the first sign of danger?

    With a 'gee, thanks Isolde' look in my direction, Roslyn agreed and I tied the elven rope securely around her waist. She set one foot in. The water 'rippled', but remained still. Warm, white mist rose around the swirl in the surface. Another step, a third, a fourth - now, Roslyn was up to her waist and looking oh so small and vunerable. She felt around with her foot, but couldn't get the hidden 'something' up without dipping her head down, reaching with her hand.

    A clench in my gut as the brave girl did just that, then 'panic' when the water turned red, churning with grasping red threads, ensnaring, sucking Roslyn down. I pulled with all my might, then with Gnarl and Alvaniel's considerable strength added to the effort, but Ros stayed under, flailing madly. The others started chopping and cutting at the strands, 'til finally, ~finally~ they loosened their grip and Roslyn reemerged with a wet flop, bleeding and gasping for air.

    But in her hand, a stone key of sorts. Not the one we were looking for, but surely it would have a use. Sorry honey, I'll never volunteer you again - but well done!

    The next pool awaited, eerily still and calm, like the first. But this time, we thought we knew the danger. Leena's bones cracked and snapped as she took the shape of a giant tiger, snarling at the water as if to warn it when she stepped in. Again, it came to life as she neared the centre of the pool - but this time, not as choking, ensnaring threads, but a whirlpool of red, sucking her down, down and down into an impossibly endless funnel.

    Leena vanished from sight, but the whirlpool churned on - wherever she'd gone, she would not be alone! I jumped in after, Roslyn too, and someone else - I forget the details, they're a wash of red, followed by that wretched cacophany, the creeping mass of spidery limbs and gnashing fangs, the Far Realm horrors assailing us mercilessly.

    Above, though, the rest of our party took alternate action - Z managing to dispel the whirlpool vortex through the timely use of some scrollls, and with that, we were back - bleeding, sopping wet and in my case, shaking. Between cat Leena's snarling fangs, a white gleam of marble. The second key, retrieved from the bottom of the pool.

    Success! I felt giddy, getting out of the pool, light-headed and foolhardily approaching the third, though our errand was already complete. But what if there was 'treasure'...

    Z ushered me away, gentle but firm. That guy will make a fantastic parent, gosh! 'You can have my golden figurine, just like the one in the pool', he added, to my pouting protests. I blame the Far Realm's tug on my mind, for this childish episode. Aherm!

    The library was our next stop, another vast chamber filled with bookcases, row upon row of titles, hundreds, thousands. Where in all this would we find a hidden key? We spread out in search when suddenly the room shook. Uh-oh. Uh-most definitely-oh.

    The red hulk sniffed the air, lumbering through the aisles as the floorboards shook and the books rattled on the shelves. We scurried from hiding spot to hiding spot, spread out and separated, trying to find .... where would the key be, amongst all these books?!

    A loud 'grunt' behind the shelf I was huddling by. A huff of fetid air, the slow lurch of a red limb. I panicked, a sound much like a mouse to a cat escaping my lips..!

    Meanwhile, Ysberyl spotted a tome on the topic of pianos, and found the marble key hidden within its back. She retrieved it, just before our hasty and disorganized run for the exit began. It had our scent now, and followed more quickly this time. We had to hide, and rushed to find the fifth, the hidden room. The door materialized in the far corner, a clever contingency spell on the map revealing it and the stone key Roslyn had retrieved fitting perfectly in the lock.

    But just as we opened the door, the red hulk burst through the library and into the lobby. Gnarl's armor 'clanked' as he tried to tiptoe after us, and the beast heard, it spied us and began to follow. Damnit!

    The room inside had not much cover. It was ill suited to hide in, but for the fact that it had been hidden away, unknown and conceiled from the start. But that glorious advantage had been blown, and with it our chance at a much needed rest. We looked around frantically, while the hulk started tearing at the door.

    An easel there... a painting of a familiar moustached man. Oscar Halbrook, and not just that, notes on his mannerisms and contacts. If this, combined with the Doppelganger flesh, did not convince the magistrates of his innocence, I'd eat my 'hat'. The corpse of a woman lay nearby. Wanda B Wallomworth, I presume - or whatever that poor lady's name was in life. Just another tool to M, who cared not for her true name, or her unique story. She lay discarded, like refuse, of little more significance than the squeezed out tubes of paint by the easel.

    A surge of anger stirred inside me, a hard and hot edge to cut away at the fear. I tried to cling to that feeling, but the red beast muscled into the room and I screamed out loud instead, running wildly for the door. Maria, again last to leave, collapsed the doorway behind her, buying us a precious window of time. But not much, as we heard the beast digging and clawing at the rubble already.

    One door left. It creaked open to an abandoned and overgrown courtyard, the bushes and trees vegetation slowly swallowing the gravel pathways. The air was still and the gravel crunched loudly underfoot, as we made our way inside, my heart still racing wildly. Even here, in the still courtyard, I felt 'hunted' Exposed. And as we neared the centre of the space, the vegetation lashed out to snare and tug us in! Z vanished, entwined in red vines and clinging crimson thorns, but the Chauntean faithful knows his way around even the fiercest growth!

    I hurried away from the grasping tendrils, into the very centre of the courtyard. Here, a large statue of a man stood. I peered up, and thought I caught the glint of something shiny in its darkened eyesockets. With a quiet prayer for the wretched thing not to animate on me, I climbed the statue to perch on its shoulder, wrenching the fourth and final key out with my hair pin.

    Yessss, that's all of them!

    Back in the central room, we fitted the keys easily enough, but that alone would not open the door. Behind us, the grunt and shuffle of earth and rubble, as the red hulk tried to get through. The sounds came closer, gradually louder...

    A sinking feeling in my gut, a foolhardy attempt at everything and the kitchen sink, before I had to face the proverbial music. The opening 'theme' could be only one thing.

    Tick tock, Isolde Garibaldi. This is your last chance.

    Bastard.

    A sour taste in my mouth, a writhing, skin-prickling reluctance. Damn you, M! You're going to 'make' me play it, aren't you?

    Rubble flew from the blocked door, which shook uneasily in its collapsed frame.

    Okay.

    FINE!

    I played M's cacophany. I played it, his rat in the maze, his little chorus girl, and felt the rage of before return, brighter and hotter, burning away at the nausea and fear, mingling with the cold and clammy disgust of bringing forth such pollution of all that's beautiful. I played it with loathing, with fury, and the door swung open before us.


  • Research Interlude

    I turned to the experts, and they in turn said 'go to the books' - what the hells, Godfrey/a? I'm already talking to a book! Oh well - who'd believe me on this particular count anyway? It does sound like I'm plane-touched, to be chit-chatting in glowing, hovering letters to a book, doesn't it?

    A few things are starting to become apparant though, in speaking to various knowledgeable individuals (on this plane and others) - one, the Far Realm is ~very dangerous~ - and two, not very well known. Three, it is also in many ways fundamentally 'different' from other planes.

    Pure chaos, Godfrey said - unlike Limbo, which while undoubtedly chaotic still has its own brand of order in disorder. Not so with the Far Realm. Pure malice, he added, the text flashing red, insistant. Danger, avoid, avoid,

    Beeble said much the same - avoid the place, do 'not' enter, but we just had to sally forth like brave, beautiful fools, didn't we? 'If he has been touched by the Far Realm', said Godfrey gravely, 'then he is no longer himself' - this of the Red Killer. But is that true of us too, now? Are we warped and twisted from exposure to this malignant plane?

    Apparantly not, Godfrey concluded after examining me (I'll skip the how, but wow) - somehow, we were protected. 'Whatever precautions you took then, you must take again', he noted, stressing that we had two options the way he saw it:

    Close the gateway - this requires a skilled and able arcanist, and one willing to take the risks involved in the venture. I spoke to Maria afterwards, seeking advice, and was daunted to learn that even she thought the matter challenging, risky and filled with unknown factors.

    Close the gateway manually, or close it 'permanently' by silencing the call, Godfrey continued. The ritual murders, the select type of victims, the 'music' which I have concluded does indeed appear to summon forth creatures of the Far Realm… these are all part of a select, specific call, designed for a particular 'listener'. But 'which'? What is M trying to summon?

    It took a lot of digging, but deep within the farthest shelves of Oscura's duskiest library corner, I found the answer. A dusty, murky old tome, filled with details of creatures and denizens of the Far Realm. Its authors are anonymous, though the book claim to be a 'collection' of reports from those whove been exposed to the Far Realm and gone mad - reassuring, isn't it?

    The reports, per the book, were collected by a student of the planes and the book's editor named Gallavan. I browsed descriptions after spine-chilling description of all manner of ghastly things - beholders, floating eyes, and other monstrosities when at last, I came to an entry with the title that the writer has labelled 'Scarlet Lady'...

    The entry is written as follows, in a shaky hand:

    "Scarlet Lady

    Creature unlike the others. Changer of skin, reaper of minds! It appears as a woman, but it lies! It LIES! Initially it approached me under the guise of a beautiful red-haired woman. She appeared in town, at my hall, at the library. I wonder now if she was ever really there. But it was a LIE! A LIE!

    Oh, when I saw them, the dead. In my mind, I saw them, each more brutal than the last. I saw them, but were they dead? This, I cannot say, nor do I wish to know. Were they dead, yet? Dead, yes, but discarded, that was NOT what it WANTED me to see. It shewed me the strands of their hair, their red hair, distributed as they are in a three-sided triangle around a central point. Hidden, secret, soaked in the blood of to whom they belong, and the specific strands themselves knotted into a peculiar shape–an impossible spiral, each.

    The LIE was made CLEAR when I began to suspect. Yes, I began to suspect, and I drank it. I drank the potion and looked at her, and I saw it I saw it all I swear I saw it. It is made entirely of thin, red threads. A body like a woman's but it is NO WOMAN. The thin, red threads are tight and taut. She is face-less, eye-less, mouth-less, nose-less.

    Matron of art most foul! Oh but she tempted me with music, sweet music, but when I saw IT, not HER, but IT, I heard IT too--befouling of my EARS! MOST FOUL! I shunned her away, and I pray only now that she leave me ALONE. I fear for my mind and my life. Do not heed the siren song of scarlet."

    This… this is it. This is most definitely 'it', but even knowing, what can I do? I know the call, I know the caller, the would-be listener... but how do I use this knowledge to 'silence the call'? The hair - find it, destroy it? The 'song'? Could I possibly thwart the dischord with harmonious music, cranked up as loud as my special equipment allows?

    I think we'll definitely need True Seeing - as for 'protection' from the Realm's disturbing, distorting effects, I'm trying to think back to what we did then. But I'm coming up blank. What did we do, but go where mortals have no business going? What can we do to shield ourselves next?

    Perhaps, just perhaps we had a guardian angel of sorts. Though Beeble insists he did not go past the gateway with us. He was too afraid, he said - but I know, I'm certain now that I reflect on it, that he is why I have suffered not a single nightmare after my near death inside.

    I continued my library efforts, the Scarlet Lady opening up a few new leads to persue:

    The History of Calimport, two centuries ago. This entry is written by one Albus Pollux, historian of Great Cities.

    "Khelben Arunsun once spoke thusly of Calimport: 'I care about Calimport as much as I care not to step on a viper. It is vile place of tangled intrigues miles thick that end up in the few profiting over the many…' His words hold true to this day, and many historians point to intrigue as the reason why the causes of certain atrocities remain unsolved to this day." 'This day' being some two centuries ago, I'll add. Pollux continues, and this is where it gets interesting:

    "The group of women were found disposed of in bins, many times in pieces. Sliced, dismembered, and neatly packaged as if they were butcher's meat. The local constables arrested a young man but a few months after the first body was found. The young man pleaded guilty on all charges, confessed and cried - his eyes flowing rivers, per eyewitness accounts. When asked why, he simply said that he "had to." Attributing this reply to some sort of wickedness inside of him, he was imprisoned for life, and the murders ceased.

    This is the orthodox view, and all the written documentation of the events - both official and historical - claim it as fact. There is, of course, the heterodox view - the view ascribed to by certain bards and researchers alike as well as the more suspicious-minded folk - that the confession was forced, either by the constables themselves or by the true culprits.

    The heterodox view spawned namely from the fact that the women's hair was never found. Each of the victims families had no trouble identifying their dead - except in the cases where the heads were totally mangled. And there was a noticeable pattern that was the talk of the city's leisurely investigators and speculators - namely the colour of the women's hair. Each was a redheaded woman, and when interviewed about why this pattern, why he felt compelled to slay the redheaded women, the young man could not give a reply other than his initial: "I had to."

    This incident - this string of 6 or 7 murders - is but a minor speck in comparison to the other atrocities that were come later, however…"

    Herald Fisher's incomplete work on The Noble Houses of Peltarch features the following on the minor House Finhund:

    "House Finhund - a minor noblehouse of middling influence. Its ancestry immigrated to Peltarch a long time ago - approximately four centuries, and thus spanning six to eight generations. It deals primarily with the silk trade. Its women tend to be fair of hair, blonde, and greeneyed, whilst the men tend to take on the attributes of the original patron father.

    Marcel Finhund was a relatively quiet head of the family, who married for political reasons and bore many children. Eager to pass the mantle of House leadership to his son, the current generation of Finhund and manager of the family business.

    ...Having not been seen in public for some time, official documents list Marcel as dead, and the assumption is that the Finhunds held a private funeral. None of this is confirmed, however, despite the man's disappearance.

    A known patron of the arts, Marcel was known to donate to the Bardic College during his reign as head of the Finhund estate. Marcel would oft commission paintings, music, and other works in his youth. In his old age, however, this practice ceased. Many claim that the newer works were not to his taste, though the real reason remains a mystery.

    Marcel's wife, Devona Finhund, died young of illness. A pianist and a painter, she was considered a true beauty of the Bardic College. Her portrait, with her fair red hair, hangs in Finhund estate."

    I paused here, feeling sick. My mind's eye returned to another fair redheaded pianist of the Bardic College, dead by M's hand. But for 'what'? Suddenly I wonder if the Scarlet Lady appeared to him in the guise of his dead wife, to lure him in and warp his mind…

    Fisher continues:

    "It is after her death that Marcel eagerly passed on leadership of Finhund's estate to his eldest male child, who currently runs their affairs. Marcel, as noted earlier, has not been seen in some time. No eulogy was given, and word is that he wished for a private, quiet, and anonymous funeral."

    The entry ends there. It goes on to describe the children, which I myself helped put behind bars during the Ravelzilch affair. I can't help but shiver again, wondering at the sort of twisted and conflicting emotions I must evoke in M - no wonder then, that he seemed at once so ardent to sway me to 'understanding' his art, and so spitefully venomous. I wonder if I look like her - if we 'all' look like her, for all that he claims to care nothing for any of the women he killed.


  • The Bends

    I heard it through the grapevine - rumors that strange things have been happening in the residential district. There's talk of eyes in the shadows, glowing an iridescent green, of flowers wilting. Some people even claim that their 'walls are bending'. Inspections are said to reveal that the structure of certain homes has indeed bent, though it's ascribed it to collateral damage from the war. Most of this activity is reported 'around' the Kildarn estate, the complaints originating from the neighbours.

    This is no coincidence, no baseless spook stories - not with 'that' estate at the epicentre. Not after what we saw beyond the doors in the sub-basement, in that strange and changeable, nightmarish beyond. In revisiting the experience in my mind's eye, my memory was jogged - I had noted something pertinent in the screaming chaos of that confusing place, but the heavy air, the panic and my near death had clouded the details. But I remember now:

    The podium where the quill and sheet had rested, and the chair beside it - they were each made with the same material as the doors. A strange, dark obsidian-blue, with yellowish/greenish eyes peering out all around. The way into the Far Realm seemed to 'end' at the podium and chair - and the podium and chair seemed to anchor everything into place, make it 'accessible' to mortals. It was the only landmark, the one thing that wasn't constantly changing, bending, and twisting… and it definitely struck me as something magical, supernatural, or planar.

    A few things seem clear: there is a 'way' open into the Far Realm or something like it, and M has spent a great deal of time at that chair/podium (presumably to write his 'songs'..). Also, Roslyn whispered urgently that Beeble warned her not to go in there. I thought at first it was a warning based on the malicious creatures lurking within, but now I'm starting to think that the nature of the plane itself is dangerous enough.

    I went stalking as darkness fell, clad in my best stealth-gear and a black shawl around my hair. Poking around the Kildarn estate, I felt a chill race down my spine. While there was nothing detectable in the Weave (I guess there wouldn't be anyway, for the supernatural and/or planar), I could feel it, I knew from the taste in the air, that uneasy gut sensation. Something was 'wrong'.

    Through the Night Parade mask, I can see certain things, but it was dark, so very dark that night. The clouds cast their nocturnal shadows, blocking the moon and rendering the residential district into a murky fog. I thought I saw a pair of greenish eyes in an alleyway, just near the Kildarn home, lurking in the dark, watching me. Focusing on the eyes, I could swear I saw 'tendrils,' of a sort, seeping from... somewhere, reaching for the eyes, lurking around them. They were faint, hazy, but they 'were' there. After looking for a while yet, I saw that the eyes belonged to a familiar feline. The white cat - once asleep in the garden, was now poised atop a fence, fully awake, watching me. Phew, it's just a cat, right?

    ...right?

    I stared and the cat stared back. It was dead silent and continued to watch me, while another chill prickled my skin. I tried to call to it, cooed and cajoled, offered food even - but the cat just sat there, still as a statue, those eerie green-glowing eyes fixed on me. Eventually, though, it turned and walked along the fence, and then atop the Kildarn estate. The cat vanished on the rooftop, its movements soft and soundless.

    I follow, making my way along the same trail. The fence is different than when I was last here. The wood seems darker, duller in some areas, and yet catches the light more vividly in other areas, seemingly greener than normal. The wood is also somewhat warped. Rain damage, perhaps? Though surely the fence has endured some rain before... It is attached to Kildarn estate and runs along its garden-yard. There are flowers in the garden, past which I can see the door to the estate - and a man beneath a lamppost across the street, sitting on a bench.

    Just like the fence, there's something decidedly strange about the flowers. They almost all appear to be growing 'towards' the home, now - rather than up towards the sky. They are half-horizontal, diagonal, some of them having writhed into small spirals - their stems circling around on themselves before reaching towards the home. They, like the cat, are perfectly still.

    I peer cautiously towards the man across the street, but he is not very visible from my hidden vantage point. He sits alone on a bench beneath the lamppost, wearing a hat that obscures most of his face. I shiver, taking my surroundings in. Something is very definitely 'wrong'. Something M did, or even something we did, going into that hidden, alien place? Is that 'him', across the street? Damned that hat!

    The man remains seated, quiet. His hands are folded in his lap and he appears to be facing the home. Still, like the cat, like the flowers, like everything around the estate in this black dead of night. Far too still. Wary of being spotted, I retreat a bit, fully out of view, to look up at the closest window, trying to judge the distance and possibility of scaling it with my web-stick. It's certainly doable. But there's also a chance the man or someone else might see me.

    I'm torn - there's no way of knowing who the man is, not without getting close enough to see his face (with the right magic to do so). It could be M - but it might not be. More and more, I feel certain something's very wrong inside the building, and so I opt to try and get in. Spiderstick, climbing, and then picking the window open - it's worked before, and the dark, murky night hangs thick around me for cover.

    I fumble the first attempt, but the second web hits true, latching on to the rooftop's side. As I climb up, I must've caught the light of the lamppost, swinging along. Anyone watching would've seen me, and my heart beats like a jackhammer, so loudly that even if I have not been spotted, the man below must surely have 'heard'. But here I am, alone on the roof. The window is but a few paces away. I stay still for some time, making myself small as I crawl over to the ledge, trying to catch a tiny glimpse of the bench below.

    There is the man, still sitting, still observing the home.

    I watch him for some time, before taking a soft breath and eeling back towards the windows. As I watch him, all the while, he simply sits and observes the house. I approach the windows. They are dark and it's difficult to see inside... They're also locked, and on this side of the home at least, boarded shut.

    In the distance, I hear a slow, dim wolf howl. A cloud floats by the moon, and past it - illuminating a glimpse of the rooftop. I think I see something, a faint streak of oddly glowing green inside the home, past one of the boards on the windows... It 'was' there, wasn't it? My skin creeps and tightens at the chill breeze.

    Was that the cat? Where did it go, anyway? I see no sign of it, anywhere on the rooftop. Geez, Isolde. Calm down - the cat is 'not' M. It's not about to sneak up on padded paws and murder you. ...right?

    I slip the amplifier out of my pack, using it to listen intently near the closest window. At first, there's nothing. Just the faint howl of the wind nearby, from the outside of the home. A slow, cold carress to my eardrum. But then I begin to sense it. A crawling, winding, distant thrum.

    The noise itself twists and turns and seemingly violates all manner of auditory sense - it's loud and quiet at the same time, distant but oh so near, and it reminds me all too much of M's 'music'. It isn't, but the resemblance is there, tickling at the back of my performer's ear. It is a long, slow, realm's groan - the breath of the mad, the gasp of the wild, wrapped in a vortex and draped in distance and ambiguity. My heart is pounding, and Garric Hemway's words echo through my head: certain summoning rites, certain specific 'sacrifices'...

    The bloodied sacrifical altar, the 'parts' of victims collected in the cells below... And the doorway in the basement, very much active and real. Did my near death, the blood I spilled somehow 'count'? Or is this M's doing, a reaction to his innermost sanctum's breach, a rush towards his end game?

    A slow, measured breath to calm my breathing, then I reach down to touch one of the boards that bar the window, giving a tentative tug. No such luck - the board is nailed into the wall from the inside, just like all the rest on this, the front portion of the house. I could pick the locks and try to open them, and then pry off the wood - but it'd take too long, make too much noise.

    The dark clouds have returned, the glimpse of moonlight a scarce, passing moment. I slip across to the other side of the rooftop - still no cat, but there... one available window, facing away from the street, into the Kildarn manor's isolated courtyard. The window is open. There is a faint, bright, sickly green light emanating from it. So faint it cannot be noticed by mere observation from the street or even perhaps the courtyard.

    The cat is nowhere to be seen - but that must be where it went...

    I shudder as I slowly, quietly makes my way over to the open window. Why am I so frightened of the cat? Too frightened, even, to peer in at first - instead I use the amplifyer again, this time adding the Clairaudience magic.

    The effect kicks in and the amplifier returns with the same strange, groaning, twisted, hollow sound that I heard before. Plus something 'else'. An odd little grindy noise - a sort of purring and snoring. But the sound echoes in on itself, and the breaths are far, far too deep. There is a hint of an otherworldly growl as the purring exhales. Curiosity (the death of cats and nosy bards) kicks in, despite multiple warning bells ringing. I dig up a potion of True Seeing, drink it and then peek my head down for a look inside the window...

    The window is only half-boarded, and the glass has been broken. It is the bedroom on the top floor, the one we investigated before, but it looks different now. The bed is round, not square, as if spiralling in on itself, the sheets having turned to liquid, dripping off the sides and into the center in a whirlpool. The drawer, closet and mirrors have all been morphed and twisted, stretched and bled into the walls and the ceiling, each totally disproportionate and lurched over the bed which centers the room.

    A strange anti-light, green and pale, dead and yellow and sickly, illuminates the ghostly scene. In the center of the bed is the cat, tendrils of the bed's 'liquid sheets' wrapping it as it slumbers. Perhaps the same tendrils I glimpsed before. The cat is larger now, and its furr blotched and bleached that strange, greenish colour. Its whiskers have turned sharp, its fangs jagged, with two sets of eyes and two sets of ears.

    I recoil in horror - more than a little reluctant to go inside the house now, where reality itself seems to twist and morph. Intent on using my expensive potion to the full, I creep away from the window and the monsterous 'cat' to get the man into view again.

    I peer down from the safest vantage point I can find. There he is, simply sitting underneath the lamppost, with his arms folded and his hat tipped down. He sits, observing the house. But looking closely, I see something 'else' now. I see 'them', the large, strange 'bends' in the air, just in front of his face.

    The air ripples like water, bending and churning. These bends appear to be 'dancing' in front of the man's eyes, dancing backwards, moving, churning hypnotically. Following the ripples, my enhanced vision see that they lead to the doorway of the house.

    To my great alarm, I begin to realize that the very air around the house is filled with this odd, strange 'bending', morphing, twisting. As if the air makes too much sense, here, and the house is somehow 'correcting' that. 'All' of the air around the house is bending and rippling. Even the air around me. This is the true source of my discomfort, of the chills down my spine. This is what I glimpsed faintly through the mask, but couldn't quite make out until True Seeing kicked in.

    I'm frightened now, feeling a powerful urge to get off the roof before I grow a second set of eyes and start sprouting tentacles. I quickly wriggle over to my spider-rope, but maneuvering down it, it begins to writhe in my hands. It moves and twists, begins to wrap itself around my fingers, my palms, my arms...

    The web-rope's turned dark now, as though were it some sort of ink, a sticky, goopey substance, wrapping itself around my hands and arms, coiling and clinging around my thighs and feet as I shimmy down. I bite back a scream, wriggling like a fly caught in this black, twisted net, then reach for my rapier with one hand. It's a struggle, but I manage it - but in focusing on the task, in blinking my eyes shut for but a brief moment, realization hits - a cool, chilling clarity settling in as my eyes flutter open.

    I am about to sever the rope, when I see that it remains but a rope - and the portion my rapier's aimed at is just above my own grip. I wouldn't have cut myself free of a trap, but instead brought about my own highly painful, rapid descent to the ground.

    The air continues to bend and morph and twist around me, and I can still vaguely hear the distant sounds of that hollow, breathless groan. Clinging tightly to that chill sense of clarity, I lower myself down to the ground and tug at the rope to remove all evidence of the visit up on high.

    The potion wears off, and the strange, green anti-light, the bends and twists in the air, and the inky tendrils are gone. The house is but a house, now. Glancing over and across the street, I note with a bitter sting that the man is no longer on the bench. He must have moved during my struggle with the rope.

    I can't help but feel another chill, the sneaking suspicion that he 'knew' I was there all along, and that the only part of the 'trap' that was real was M's desire that I should fall to my death. The flowers remain strangely wilted, the fence strangely bent, the overall atmosphere around the house odd and otherworldly - but only partially, subtly so. Only because I wear the mask, because I 'know'.

    Frustrated, creeped out and distinctly unwilling to tackle the house and its horrors on my own, I doubled back towards the College. A certain someone with a special interest in planar disturbances might be up for roast chicken and research, I hoped. But instead, I fell fast asleep, the moment I sat down in the Masters Quarters.


  • The Kildarn Estate

    My suspicions towards this house being in use were considerably strengthened by the recent findings, and our small investigative team (Roslyn, Rasuil and Z) decided to persue a search of the building. According to Tristyn, abandoned buildings are a sort of grey area with regards to breaking and entering, and I had no intention of tipping our hand by attempting to get a search warrant. With Halbrook behind bars, we need to take independant and proactive measures in the hunt for M.

    The house was locked up and the windows shuttered, an old man idling on the front porch while a sleepy cat loitered in the back garden. We distracted the cat with some food, and set about springing the lock. It was a highly complex mechanism, or rather twin mechanisms, requiring all of Roslyn's skill and then some. A thrill of excitement - with this sort of security, the house was quite likely still of interest to 'someone'.

    Within, a long corridor riddled with traps, and overgrown with a variety of blossoming plants. It was a veritable indoor garden, with a soft dirt floor and carefully adjusted lighting. Rasuil noted several, if not all of M's used toxin sources here, snipping off some Ruby Blushrose after warning us of its airborne qualities.

    While the corridor was a veritable gauntlet, the mansion past the defences seemed quite a lot less deadly. The lounge was empty, a large square chamber where the dust lay thick, lit by everburning candles and a crackling fire. The Kildarn family crest leered from the wall, an eye with a hawk in the center of it, its wings outspred to form dark feathery lashes.

    A stern-faced Geoff Kildarn, stone hawk on his shoulder, loomed in one corner of the room, while his wife adorned the opposite one, surrounded by doves. Gargoyles adorned the resplendant fireplace - Roslyn's canny eye noted one of these grotesque creatures eyes being loose, and free from the dust that cling to most all other surfaces. It seemed… pressable.

    As we tried just that, a shudder rippled through the room. With a slow screech of stone, the fireplace swivelled, revealing a secret black marble door leading down to the sub-basement. But it was locked, and there was no traditional mechanism to pick. It must be something to do with the Night Parade, and had an unorthodox, specific type of key. The hole itself looked about right for a finger, but more rectangular.

    A finger, but not a 'real' finger... the statues!

    Geoff Kildarn had large hands, squarely cut - and the statue was noticably missing one index finger. That must be the key, but it was clearly elsewhere. Hidden, or did M have it on his person?

    We continued our search, ever wary of any sounds of movement in the quiet, still house. Past the lounge, a pantry of sorts, storing various mundane household goods. Another door lead out into a different corridor, past the large front doors and leading up a flight of stairs.

    In a small office on the ground floor, we found more recent signs of habitation. Music sheets, signed 'M', but without the wildly arythmic cacophanous qualities, and a book detailing the history of the Night Parade, including the most recent chapter in Peltarch. The book seems relatively recently written, though there was no quill on the desk or elsewhere in the room.

    Upstairs, several of the bedrooms were sealed shut. But at the end of the corridor, one door was in obviously well kept condition, revealing a large bedroom within, including a bed that had been recently slept in. Alas, M was nowhere in sight now. But underneath a bearskin rug, Z discovered a trap door, containing a lockbox. Instead of a traditional lock, the 'key' was a strange protrusion which could be unfolded from Roslyn's gloves - gloves which Tristyn believes quite probably once belonged to Marcel himself.

    Inside the box were a number of potions and scrolls, including Dominate Person, as well as a stone finger, the very one we needed to enter the Night Parade's secret basement, past the black marble door downstairs.

    The sub-basement was eerie, at once giving the sensation of stepping outside our realm proper. To our right, a set of obsidian doors, upon which a myriad of eyes blinked and leered disturbingly. Instead of a lock, these doors held spherical indentations. Without such a 'key', we could not enter.

    That is, if we wanted to enter at all. Roslyn grew alarmed, noting that we should by no accounts open these doors up, and before we'd taken more than five steps in, some in our party started hearing voices.

    I focused on the rooms to the left, where several prison cells were placed, each opened by an adjescent lever in the corridor. The first cell looked like a torture chamber. Dried blood darkened the floor, and a brighter streak of red glimpsed there too - a long strand of hair. No doubt belonging to one of M's victims...

    I collected this, alongside a single tooth from the next cell, as evidence. And then I too heard it. The voice - a hollow, sexless, eerie voice, echoing inside my head: 'Ffffforwaaards...' A long, dried streak of blood on the corridor floor, leading from up ahead and to our right, past the doors with the eyes.

    'Hhhheeere...'

    Wary, unsettled, we continued until the end of the corridor. There, two doors awaited, one solid obsidian and locked through a lever - on the 'cell block side', and the other unlocked, to the right. We felt a pull to the left, an 'insistance' on our minds, but chose instead to open the door on the right.

    Ugh.

    A sacrifical altar with a glowing globe hovering over it, an equally bloody 'work bench', red sigils surrounding a heap of what looked like human skin. A thin-bladed flaying knife beside it...

    I had no magic remaining to make sense of the sigils. In retrospect, I should have taken greater care to study them, but the voice, the heavy, oppressive air, the pull on our minds all contributed to a distinct unease. I dispelled the magic, collected skin and knife as evidence and then noted a book, left open on a cleaner shelf. A book on the Far Realm... I took it, noting a few of the passages aloud as I rejoined the others.

    The prison door on the left still awaited. The voice kept insisting, louder now, distinctly male, more human. When I focused on the door, my mask let me see 'through' it, to the hunched and pained humanoid figure beyond, wailing and grasping at its head.

    After some cautionary measures and preparations, we opened the door.

    Inside, we saw the figure, still blurry and indistinct to my eyes, trapped within a circle of red-glowing swords and runes. Each one an eye, each one turned inwards, watching the creature in the centre.

    'Save me, save me! Free me, I'm one of your own, I'm like you', cried the creature, but through the mask, through Z's True Seeing blessing, its true nature was revealed to all - a grey skinned being, faceless, sexless, tall but hunched in pain, with pitch black eyes. The Doppelganger was missing parts of its skin, a few of its finger, even some of its flesh - this, then, must be the secret 'ingredient' behind M's transformational feats.

    For all that such creatures are dangerous, wicked and deceitful according to Z and Rasuil, I couldn't help but to pity it. Whatever its true nature, here, in this cell, it was just another of M's victims to me, used, abused and clearly suffering.

    'Thock me...', the creature hissed and moaned, clutching its head. '...captured me... lured me... with his soong... save me... set me fffree!'

    Roslyn too took pity on the tortured captive, arguing strongly for its right to be freed, to be let go, back from whence it came. At its urging, she retrieved the orb from the room opposite, the key to the doors on the right, while I disrupted the sigils and freed the Doppelganger.

    It bolted at once, wounded though it was, but Rasuil's arrow caught it square in the back. Still it clawed itself forwards, inching towards the doors with the eyes and the path back home. We followed, Roslyn throwing herself over the creature to shield it.

    I looked at the door - looked 'through' it, and saw a podium, with a quill and a sheet of music. A single chair, turned to view a strange and twisted rendition of some faraway realm, a cacophonous, nightmarish vision. M's 'composing' spot, his inspiration to 'create'...

    My mind was churning, turning, weighing our options. The Far Realm, the warning not to traverse it - the book, the abborational creatures listed within, able to navigate the treacherous terrain. Maybe the Doppelganger could fetch the...

    A flash of steel, a snake-like motion. Rasuil's blade struck deep, and the Doppelganger died before I could even formulate the plan, let alone voice it out loud. Roslyn was upset, threatening to unlock the door to bring down whatever nightmares rested inside on us all in the heat of the moment, while Rasuil was about to stalk out the door.

    My team, falling apart before my eyes. My would be helper, dead and destroyed. And M's gods be damned quill, taunting me in the distance. If I could lay my hands on that.. if we could breach his precious 'veils' and reach that creative sanctum, it would rattle his calm like nothing short of capture would.

    I bid Roslyn open the door, calm and determined. I was 'getting' that quill, and my party could stay and help, or they could leave now. Roslyn stayed. Z would not abandon anyone in need, and Rasuil - he sighed and stalked back, as I walked through the black door.

    Inside... another world. Another 'realm'. The Far Realm? Parts of it seemed familiar, reminiscent of the dreamscape, of the treacherous demiplane of nightmares, but the further inside the room I stepped, the more 'different' it felt. The air felt thick, viscous and hard to breathe, and my companions, surely but a few step backs, began to fade in the distance.

    I heard Roslyn holler, but her voice was muted and faint. Did I have a rope?

    Ah, yes! A nice, long elven rope, thin but sturdy. I tied it around my waist and tossed the rest back, feeling a faint tug. And then I refocused ahead, on the podium, the chair, that damnable quill. It looked near, but as I walked, seemed never 'quite' to come closer.

    A little bit.. a little bit more.. just a liiiittle longer...

    Chaotic bursts of sound, nightmarish wails. Ripples of movement, through the thick air. Tentacles, eyes? The cacophany tore at my composure, my sanity, assailed my senses but I kept walking. I felt Roslyn grow near, took her hand and sang, trying desperately to bring melody and reason with me, as well as laughter and cheer.

    After what seemed an eternity, we were suddenly closer. The podium awaited, just a seemingly short dash away. Z and Rasuil caught up, just as the denizens of this unfriendly place took notice of us and attacked. So many legs, so many eyestalks, tentacles, writhing appendages and gaping maws!

    I sang, until I screamed instead, until I cowered, bleeding, blacking out. Z's gentle hand rousing me, guiding me back onto unsteady feet in a brief lull in the assault. The podium, the 'quill'...

    'Ah feck it, 'm goin' fer it', muttered Roslyn. The brave hin downed a Haste potion and dashed forth at break-neck speed, while I still reeled. She got there, she 'got there' and in a whirl she had snatched the quill and the songsheet, doubling back like a bat out of the Abyss.

    'GO GO GO!', she cried, and we ran, we ran along the length of the rope, the impossibly long rope, until suddenly the door was infront of us. Outside, fast, slamming it shut behind us, everyone panting for air, shaken but alive. Apologies were traded for the Doppelganger spat, and as I exited on wobbly legs, I can't help but feel that we may have tempted fate, may have risked our lives unwisely - but I'll be damned if that's not exactly what it took to bring us back together.

    In dividing our spoils, I had reasonably argued that since there were things we all desired - the lockbox and the quill - we would let lady Luck decide. But when Z won the roll and claimed the Night Parade box to Roslyn's doe-eyed remorse, I couldn't stand firm and choose the quill for myself. She'd made that final dash, when I was shaky-legged like a newborn lamb. She'd gotten us through traps that would otherwise have brought the plan to ruin.

    But damnit, I wanted that quill. I wanted to rub his nose in it, and write my notes in public with a taunting flourish, hoping for once he'd lose his cool. I wanted to stick it in my hair - the sort of hair he'd taken from others, to shout without words: this is mine. You 'lose'!

    Oh well.

    It probably smells like old man anyway.

    Speaking of old men, Garric Hemway proved a valuable source of information to tap on the Night Parade, even though I had no intention of discussing the current investigation. He had summoned me, presumably to lecture me about Tristyn, shortly after we returned from the Kildarn estate.

    'You look pale', he noted suddenly. Grouchily adding: 'what sort of fool things have you done now?' I was moved, despite myself. Is it possible he actually cares about me? More likely I was still shaken and wishing for support, heh. But in confiding some of the details, I recieved a fair few things of note on the families tangled into the Night Parade, as well as this tidbit, striking me as highly relevant:

    Certain summoning rituals involve certain sacrifices, some of which come with stringent requirements. In particular, some of them require victims that all share certain traits, hobbies, physical features and so forth. In fact, Garric had mused over this possibility from following the papers, noting the victims characteristics. He's no fool, whatever else he is.

    And he's surprisingly petulant at times. Tristyn's stomach bug was 'no' accident, and Garric had the nerve to look smug and borderline boyish in glee of his explosive revenge.


  • Marcel Finhund

    Louis Auldreyyus has payed off his debt to the medusas, approaching me to offer the following information: the Whitedunes, one of the families involved in the Night Parade, are not all dead. The core family dangled from the noose, but apparantly they have cousins in Calimport, on their way here now to lay claim to their inheritance. The same might presumably be true of the Finhund family.

    Addendum: Garric Hemway later verified this - relatives of both families are inbound from Calimport. Whether they have any links to the Night Parade, he could not say.

    In exchange for an unnamed favour (hopefully I won't end up regretting this one), Louis and his 'little birds' will keep a sharp eye out for a certain gondola and notify us when and if it is spotted.

    In speaking to the recently released Tristyn, we learned a great deal more about the Night Parade's inner workings, and not least 'M' himself, identified through the sketch as Marcel Finhund, one of the old school members of the cult, predating Tristyn's leadership.

    But Marcel Finhund should be dead - Tristyn ordered it on Ravelzilch's insistance and Marcel's disgruntled son Maxwell carried the deed out. Or so it seemed.

    The Kildarns were also part of the Night Parade, the old traditionalist garde, like Marcel. They didn't approve of the new direction and were seeking new dreamjade to plug Beeble's prison up. Ravelzilch called for their deaths and Tristyn gave the order. The strangled Kildarn woman was supposedly Maxwell Finhund's work. But it reeks of 'M'.

    The original cell came from Calimport, Tristyn said, though the Finhund name does not exist in Calimport records. Rumour has it that Marcel, who according to some worked for Lord Sixx directly, changed it on arrival. Of Marcel himself, Tristyn had the following to say:

    Marcel Finhund was (or is) an old, shrewd man, over 100 years of age. Elderly, practically frail, but to his son Maxwell's disappointment, would seemingly never die. Much more cautious and calculating than Maxwell, who was quite brash in Tristyn's assessment. His skillset was described as that of an assassin - stealth, poison, traps, all of which fitting very well into M's profile.

    I'm certain this is our man. But how he managed to dupe both Tristyn and Ravelzilch, I haven't quite got figured out. My initial guess is that he murdered Maxwell and assumed his son's identity. But Maxwell was then executed with the rest of the surviving Finhunds, surely?


  • A Close Encounter

    A few days have passed now, time enough to have fought down the cold clenching of my gut, the churning nausea of having had M quite literally breathing down my neck, spilling his venomous flood of words out at me under the guise of a plain, mousy blonde woman.

    He chose his moment well. I stood in line to petition the King, in a last ditch effort to save Tristyn from the hangman's noose. I was rehearsing it in my head: redemption, mercy, a second chance to a man who posed no threat to himself or others now. Nothing could be more pleasing in the eyes of the good gods than this, I thought, nor a better example to set for a brighter future. And if that card wouldn't fly, Tristyn is quite simply an asset, a man who could serve the Crown. With these thoughts swirling in my head, I waited in line, paying only passing attention to the other petitioners.

    A halfling commoner, cap in hand, two men who broke out fighting and were escorted out, their chance of appealing to King George lost for the temper displayed. And a woman, dressed in nondescript commoner brown, sidling up behind me. She watched me for a moment, before speaking.

    'You're Isolde Garibaldi, aren't you? You're the one investigating that string of murders, mmh?'

    I brushed the question off, not in the mood for the topic, making a breezy, noncommittal response, but the woman persisted.

    'Oh, but you're in the papers… Have you considered that you may simply be 'wrong' about it all? That whoever it is you're chasing doesn't... exist?'

    Yeah, no offence lady, but I think I can safely say that I didn't 'imagine' our near death by cacophany. I felt uneasy now, but kept my tone light and airy to again try to divert the woman's fixation on the murders onto the petitioner line itself. She scoffed, her tone dry and disdainful:

    'The petitioners line is always chaotic. It consists of commoners and the poor and the downtrodden who wish the King's clemency. Nobles, the affluent and the prestigeous have no need for it.'

    The arrogant tone seemed ill matched with the woman's humble appearance, and a cold stir of suspicion coiled in my gut as she eyed me critically, as though sizing me up.

    'Quite a bold set of claims you made in the papers... '

    I interrupted her with a cheerful and smiling enquiry for her name, determined to keep my ignorant facade up. But every word she spoke, every cold, dry, obviously well educated word from this would-be commoner's mouth belied the guise.

    '...my name? Oh... You wouldn't know me if I told you my name. Doesn't really matter. Wanda W. Wallomworth, if you insist. But that's neither here nor there.'

    Wanda W. Wallomworth my ass - this is M, in a woman's body for once, but no more womanly for it, nor biting any of the flattery I tried to lather on about every girl being the star of her own life's tale. 'Wanda' would not be swayed off course for even a second. Something tells me M loves hearing the sound of his own voice.

    'You do realize no one really believes what they read in the papers anyway? Especially not the claims of a fantasy writer and novelist, with a penchant for imaginative storytelling...'

    If he's not biting, nor am I. I shrugged and proceeded to paint my lips with carefully applied pretty-girl vanity and a nonchalant air. But 'Wanda' was watching me intently.

    'Hard to do, isn't it? Present ourselves without wearing some sort of veil. They say that the killer in the paper never shows his face. I say everyone veils themselves in one way or another. Peeling back one veil only reveals another. How well can you really know someone, anyway?'

    Oh for the love of... suddenly, I had enough. If M is 'so' desperate to talk about himself, fine - let's talk about M. Let's talk about what a small, pathetic, ugly man he is, not to mention so lacking in manly equipment that you need a microscope to spot the sad, limp dangle.

    'You think so, do you?'

    'Wanda' shook her head, incredulous, tone dripping with disbelief and disappointment.

    'You don't get it, Isolde Garibaldi. I wonder if you ever will. Do you even realize what 'veils' are? Do you seriously think that the physicality of a person has anything to do with their actions or motives?

    You think you know this ... 'Red Killer'..' A wrinkled nose here, apparantly finding the nominer distasteful. 'You think you know him, but you've only created a veil of your own.'

    M was in full preacher mode now, ignoring my retort to press inexorably on.

    'A veil that stands in for him. Represents him, in your eyes. A small-hung man with an ugly face and a story about what he does and why he does it.'

    No, actually - I made 'that' part up to get under your skin, you petty little twerp, I thought to myself. But ugly stands. Ugly for the harm, the deceit, the 'use' of other people, as though their lives had no value. That is ugly, it's 'wrong' and I won't stand for it. M wasn't interested in listening to anything I said, though - he pressed on with his creepy sermon, lathered in venomous insult and self-righteous conviction.

    'You're not peeling back that veil. You're not piercing or lifting a thing... you're just weaving in more and more veils, over your own eyes and the eyes of others. You didn't understand then, and you don't understand now.

    There are certain... 'flows' and 'rhythms', miss Garibaldi, that are difficult to see precisely because they are veiled. And yet they could not exist without the veil. Sometimes, miss Garibaldi, one needs to don the veil, the mask, the visage - in order to see what cannot be seen.

    I thought you, more than anyone, would comprehend something like that. But you... didn't. And you... still refuse to see anything but your own little phantasm and stories, your own little... 'flows'... 'rhythms'... and 'structures'...'

    M was deliberately stressing, repeating my own words back to me, my long ago critique of his 'music' as though each and every syllable had burnt into his mind. His tone was venomous, taunting - he 'wanted' me to know and now I had to try - I snapped my hand out to grab his wrist, but 'Wanda' recoiled swiftly, eyes flashing. With a voice dropped to a whisper, M hissed his warning out while 'Wanda' protested loud enough to cause a stir.

    'Think very carefully over your next step, miss Garibaldi. Your friend is to be hung very soon.'

    I couldn't act further - I could not speak out without causing a scene and losing my place in the line, and with it Tristyn's chance of life. We locked eyes, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

    'Oh, but you could 'try'.. but that would involve a choice. Abandon your friend and try, or try to save him and be 'civilized' for a change.'

    'No trouble here, I was just admiring the lady's nails!', I chirped to Herald Fisher, adding that the 'natural' look was all the rage this season. Fisher looked instantly bored and lost interest, while M:s voice grew intense, whispering on in triumphant scorn and burning zealous conviction.

    'You're impulsive. Brash. Naive. You can't even begin to see a true masterpiece even when it's thrust before your very eyes, even when it's insisted and defended to you.

    They all were. Each and every one of them the same. Too naive to see it. Too lost in the clouds of their own veils and stories and fictions and structures and flows and 'rythms' - just like you were, Isolde Garibaldi.'

    I'd tried so hard to keep from thinking it, from saying it out loud - that each and every girl killed looked like me, had my artistic inclinations, but now, with every fevered word, every obsessive repetition of my evaluation of his 'art', the horrible truth sank in - they were all me. Representations of 'me', each death some sort of twisted attempt at making me see his 'genious', this masterpiece insisted upon an unwilling, agonized audience of redheads.

    'Ours is an art of perception, of the senses, of what we can feel', continued M, while I felt sick to my stomach, wanting to scream out loud. What 'we'!? There's absolutely no 'we' between you and I, you sick, degenerate, twisted man!

    'Accuse me of pushing the limits of that feeling, of those senses? Guilty as charged. But I will not stand idly by while we walk around in circles designed by those before us - trapping us, enslaving our minds. Enslaving the realm of the 'possible' and the 'impossible', determining what we can or cannot do, how to act, how to think, how to 'feel'. Oh Garibaldi, you are as sightless as you are senseless.'

    Stop! Stop saying 'us', stop using my words, the beautiful notions of freedom and the impossible being possible as somehow justifying 'murdering' other people, inflicting your ideas and ambitions upon them, 'using' them as tools in this so called masterpiece!

    'I wish to pierce the veil of the 'real', Garibaldi. I wish not just to see it - to see the 'real', but to break it, to break through it, past it, to pierce the veil and see what lingers beyond the senses. From this realm to the next. Is it ever a wonder why the most famous artists were dubbed mad? Don't you ever question why it's only after their death that we begin to value their works?'

    I wanted to scream, wanted to tear 'his' veil to shreds, but managed to hiss out a quiet response - the only thing you break is 'people' and what sort of 'artist' has to strap his audience down just to make them listen!?

    M scoffed, his voice a venomous, mocking whisper.

    'People are weak. Stupid. Naive. You're only beginning to see past the real, and even you, little lamb, remain blind to its true structures. 'Rythm', 'flow' and 'structure'...

    Of course you'd use a river, the visual cliché to describe it. So limited as you are in your senses, so dull and dim that you'd resort to imagery of all things.

    Every good artwork comes with sacrifice. The easier the artwork, the more naturally it flows, the duller it is, and the less it accomplishes. I seek to achieve something greater, Garibaldi. I wish to achieve the unachievable. I thought you might begin to see it. I thought you might learn to appreciate it. I even left you those bits and pieces of parchment. A little crumb for the rat in the maze.

    But even now, you deny it. Even now, you oppose it and rail and whine and cry foul. 'Oh, they're dead!' So what if they're dead! Each and every one is one step closer to something far 'realer' than their pathetic little lives could ever dream of sensing.

    You disappoint me. This world is nothing but a dream, Garibaldi. A dream veiled over our senses. Yours is a mind enslaved by it. So much so that you embrace it with all the will and fervour of a fanatic. So much so that you resort to little predetermined insults about genitals and ugliness and 'morality'!

    I am so... very... disappointed in you.'

    Herald Fisher's voice breaking through suddenly, a loud and jarring reminder of the reality outside this bubble, this fateful and still moment in time: 'Next petitioner: Isolde Garibaldi'

    I turned around but M followed, so near I could feel his breath down the back of my neck, feel every little hair rising, prickling my skin.

    'Go ahead... go save him. Go pull the veil back over his senses. Tut... tut... tut...

    It's time you 'wake up', miss Garibaldi. It's time you 'wake up' and smell the ashes. They burn for the 'real'.'

    I swivelled around, only to catch the briefest glimpse of a cold and mocking smile as M walked out of the throne room and out of my grasp, leaving me shaken, my thoughts disjointed and scattered as my steps echoed on the marble floor on the long walk up to the King's throne.

    I've little recollection of what I said, or how it went. Only that I couldn't stop myself from hugging Fisher afterwards, when he noted my plea sounded convincing to him.


  • 'M' Unveiled

    Debbie Jonsburg described the man who attacked her as appearing older, plainer underneath the guise - borderline elderly. While I hope a sketch exercize can give additional detail, she did just get a brief glimpse, and this at a moment when the toxins were starting to blur her vision.

    But his clothes remained the same. She recalled these distinctly and without hesitation, giving me faith in her good memory and attention to detail:

    A purple shirt with gold buttons and a white trim, black pants and brown shoes, the overall effect quite fancy. He also wore a cap, tilted to the right, and a blue bracelet on his left wrist.

    The man on the wall with Louis wore a cap, tilted down to cover the majority of his face. This, along with Debbie's instantaneous and certain identification of the piece of cloth from the sewer convinces me her witness statement is solid.

    A charcoal sketch is added here, depicting an elderly man with pale eyes and thin, pale hair reaching down to his ears. The man's face is lined and furrowed, his expression set into a sour, arrogant scowl, the eyes cold and hard under a frowning brow, thin lips faintly twisted with distaste.

    M: pale blue eyes, white hair, skin tone pale, but not sickly so. The finished sketch strikes me as faintly similar to the appearance used when trying to sell his 'music' to the College - possibly his favoured look is reminiscent of himself at a younger age (a touch of vanity despite him protesting the irrelevance of the physical?).

    Debbie paled and grew quiet while I worked, and as the sketch neared completion a chill ran down my spine as well. This man seemed 'familiar'. The facial structure, the eyes, that sour, disdainful expression… while the match is not an exact one, I can't help but feel an undeniable tingle of recognition: M reminds me of House Finhund's patriarch, the man who dragged his house into the Night Parade's employ for power and spite for a rivalling house. A brother, a cousin? Someone, I strongly suspect, that we failed to flush out in our first attempt to rid the city of the nightmare cult.

    I would ask Tristyn, but for fear of bringing harm to my friend - Halbrook's situation and his reluctance to speak freely has me concerned over the Gaol's security. And it can't be coincidence that M chose his moment to approach me, just before my plea for Tristyn's life.


  • The Unmournful Demise of Percival Dundersnuzzle

    Percival Dundersnuzzle - the loud, abusive and previously entirely uncooperative of Debbie Jonsburg's two agents - came barging into the Bardic College, demanding to see me. When we were trying to find Debbie, still in the hopes that she might be alive, Dundersnazzle had all but tried to kick us out the door, crying foul and threatening law suits when we persisted. Quaff, the agreeable of the two, was 'letting him handle things', Dundersnazzle claimed, while he was away in Waterdeep on business.

    The morgue continued to refuse to release Debbie Jonsburg's body, and now Dundersnazzle demanded that I do something about it, or he'd 'sue the College'. What a load of bull's droppings!

    I made my way to the morgue regardless, hoping to clarify the reasons for denying the request - beyond pure spite for Dundersnazzle's 'charming' personality that is. As I suspected, it was Halbrook's orders that remained in place, but when I pointed out the guard captain's current status, Igor was suddenly hesitant whether that order remained valid.

    I couldn't talk to Halbrook now, but I know he always has his reasons. Still, if it was true that his orders had been rendered void, Debbie may not be as safely locked up as Halbrook wished anyway. I was certain that M had been sloppy with the ballerina - that she had put up a fight he hadn't expected, that the job itself had been rushed on account of the desire to trap us. Perhaps he had made a mistake, something Debbie could yet reveal to us?

    Convincing Igor to release Debbie's remains to me was easy - so easy that in retrospect, it's rather chilling to think M might have pulled it off himself, with Halbrook out of the way. I expect he tried to work in a more circumspect manner, though.

    Hefting the dancer's body, I turned myself invisible before exiting the morgue. The less attention the better, ideally M would be kept entirely in the dark, I thought. As I trudged towards the Lighthouse Temple, I saw Percival Dundersnazzle standing there, impatient and frazzled. Looking around, as though waiting for someone. I approached - he did mean to pay for his clients raise after all - opened my mouth to speak, and then changed my mind.

    Whatever Debbie had to say, if she answered the call, I wanted very much to hear it without Dundersnazzle shouting and tugging her away. Who was he waiting for, anyway? He seemed uncomfortable and anxious in the rain, eventually stomping off towards the morgue while I slipped inside to seek out Lady Tabatha of Mystra.

    I knew a girl like Debbie Jonsburg, with that much fight in her, was not done living. She drew a shuddering breath, eyes wide, confused and frightened.

    'Where am I? What happened to me? …that 'man', he took my 'hair'!'

    While somewhat traumatized and fatigued, Debbie remembered most of what had occurred quite clearly, from the attack and to the painful end, blasted by that jarring assault you can only tentatively call music.

    He had used the same set-up as he did with us, but the toxic vapours did not knock Debbie out instantly. She realized something was wrong and put up a fight, tearing at his clothes (which she described in great detail), clawing at his face - and this is where it gets interesting. When she struck at his face, it 'changed', blurred. And underneath, a different face appeared. M's true face - Debbie could be the only one who truly recognizes that!

    I'm going to try to sketch it with her guidance, not sure how accurate it would be but it might at least be something of a guideline when using true seeing. Older, she said. A plain face, bordering on elderly, but by that time she was getting groggy and soon blacked out. M himself must be immune to the poisons used, due to something he wears or some natural resistance.

    Debbie also identified with absolute certainty the piece of cloth we retrieved from the sewers. This verifies it nicely as evidence, and also suggests M's disguises are both magical and mundane - whatever glamour he used, the clothes themselves had remained the same - Harkwell described his ragged state when spotted in the gondola, confirmed as Debbie's fierce handiwork.

    The dancer was eager to see her agents, but I managed to persuade her to seek rest and shelter in the safety of the College, sending her off under invisibility's cloak. She's more than willing to testify against M, but we will have to actually catch the slippery bastard first. Until then, we'll have to try and keep her safe. Easier said than done - I soon realized Halbrook might have preferred a nice immobile corpse, for practical reasons.

    Debbie pranced off to Vanity Plates, then into the Commons, just after a crotchety Percival Dundersnazzle had left us with angry instructions to have Debbie meet with him in the usual room. I was becoming increasingly concerned over Percival, neither being certain he was who he claimed (after all, Klim had been 'sure' he had spoken to Oscar Halbrook), nor that his ability to protect his dancer was up to scratch.

    With that in mind, I invited myself and an entourage consisting of Ysberyl, Roslyn and Frances Darkhaven along. Frances had a potion of True Seeing, which she promised to use to check whether Dundersnazzle stayed true to form. But when we entered the room, he was nowhere to be found. Which was strange, since Roslyn had definitely seen him entering the inn.

    What's more, there was an alarm spell on the door, alerting the user to anyone entering. M's definitely used similar devices, and my unease grew. Still, we waited, until finally Percival appeared. Frances confirmed he looked the same after a discreet sip of her potion and Dundersnazzle said the alarm device was his, but something felt 'wrong'. I could feel it - I had to make sure Debbie stayed safe, even though I couldn't exactly force her to do anything.

    After much arguing (and a failed attempt to scratch Percival's cheek - who knows, what if the disguise is sometimes wholly mundane in nature?) the group split, with Debbie sent off to the College and an irate Dundersnazzle departing for the Residential district, having suddenly broken off the debate for a meeting of some sort.

    That anxious lump in my gut, the insistance that something was 'wrong' only grew as we stood at the Commons debating what to do next. Ysberyl's sharp eyes had noticed another man upstairs in the Mermaid, possibly having met with Percival while he kept us waiting downstairs. Should we try to find that man, or tail Percival himself?

    First thing's first, though - now I felt sure Debbie was in no way safe. Telling the others to go ahead and move, I dashed back to the College to instruct a somewhat bewildered Christina to see our visitor housed in the Masters Quarters, and for her to recieve no visitors, particularily male ones. Then I rushed back, filling an equally confused Rasuil in on what was happening while Roslyn and Ysberyl stalked off after Dundersnazzle.

    Had we acted more decisively, more swiftly, perhaps we might've had him.

    As things stood however, one very dead Percival Dundersnazzle was found on the open street, but a stone's throw from the bath house. There was no obvious cause of death visible on the body, and guards soon flocked to the site. Fortesque must be warming to us however, for grudgingly allowing investigation under his supervision.

    Rasuil noted the presence of poisons, in strong concentration this time. Ruby Blushrose and Sunset Rose, plus a third, far rarer toxin. Void Lilac, I believe he called it, an unusual and very expensive substance with a strong affect on memory, able to wipe so much as a whole month's recollection from one's mind. Lingering traces of teleportation glittered on the strands of the Weave, suggesting yet another quick get-away by our culprit, who seems to have brought Dundersnazzle to his knees, choking him while the poison rendered him incapable of resistance. Sheserai confirmed this, while also offering to bring the recently dead back to life.

    I was less sure of the merits of that move. To my mind, there was only one reasonable explanation to what had occurred - Percival Dundersnazzle had been M's accomplice, but had outlasted his usefulness and knew too much to be allowed to live. Why else use such a highly expensive toxin to wipe out any memory of their dealings, even if he were to get raised?

    More people flocked to the scene. One of them Alvaniel, who offered us a strange mushroom called 'Deathstalk', said to have the effect of recalling the recently deceased last thought when ground and ingested. With Sheserai's ok, Fortesque allowed it.

    Dundersnazzle's words were the following, gasped out in a ghoulish garbled wheeze: 'We... had.. a.. deal..!'

    I knew it! That Mystra, in Sheserai's appeal to return Dundersnazzle to the living, cautioned about his dark soul came as no big surprise, and to my relief Fortesque saw fit to put the man behind bars, despite all his shouts and protests of remembering nothing. I'm sure that's true, he does not remember. But the answers I got were still telling.

    In our questioning of sorts, Dundersnazzle willingly admitted that Debbie Jonsburg was a difficult client, and not his only one. If she ended up dead (he had no recollection of this ever having been the case), he would be neither heartbroken nor broke - he would in fact collect a severance fee and be rid the hassles of this willful client. He would certainly 'not' raise all hells to have her raised.

    It was clear his memory loss was all too real, but Debbie herself had said Dundersnazzle was the one who set her appointment up with 'Maestro Maximillian'. He vehemently denied it and blamed it on the suspiciously absent Quaff (look into whereabouts - dead or does the travel story pan out?). After much prodding and poking about past deals, however, Percival got a strange look on his face - a look much like Klim's, that of a man trying to pick at an elusive memory, something which does not quite make sense.

    A meeting, in Waterdeep he said. Debbie was present (ask her about this), Quaff, Dundersnazzle and...? He could not remember, and brushed it off with another raging rant, screaming he'd sue the city. Heh.

    Rasuil might be able to follow the poison trail, but I have been sniffing up a different proverbial avenue. I think I found something worth checking out, but I need a few select experts with me when I do. And a strategy to prevent yet another teleportation crystal exit, if we're in so much luck as to flush M out.


  • Always look a gift horse in the mouth

    The free 'sample' lipstick, supposedly a promotional gift from Lacey, immediately sent warning bells ringing inside me. The fact that the Sunite priestess herself was out of town made the matter even more suspicious, and a close inspection of the stuff (a shade of red 'to die for') revealed a peculiar scent I couldn't quite place.

    My instincts cried foul, so despite part of me feeling unduly paranoid, I sent for the only expert in poisons I know: Rasuil.

    If this truly was M:s venomous 'gift', I thought I might possibly use it against him - wear the lipstick in public, with my encircling scales hidden under my shirt to protect me from the poison, feigning its effect. But to do that, I had to know what those effects were.

    Rasuil's findings confirmed it, with enough detail to persue such a plan, but by that time Lacey had already returned from her trip. I've yet to make any enquiries with her, but I suspect the very fact that I 'can' makes the intended ruse less likely to work. Perhaps it is just one of his red herrings, a lead to chase to throw me off track for a day or two, or even just an attempt to scare me? I sense no magic attached to it, so unless he has me under 'constant' watch (perish the thought), it's unlikely he would even know I had tried it on.

    Rasuil's report:

    The lipstick is indeed poisonous, containing a mix of two separate working ingredients. The overall effect would not in itself be lethal, but certainly incapacitating and swift to kick in. Barring immunities, even with some resistance to the toxins, they can have a significant effect on the senses, particularily vision.

    Specifications:

    Ruby Blushrose: the effects of this substance, you'd feel within a few breaths - it causes a slight numbing effect which will slowly cascade through the system, followed by a feeling of light headedness and exhaustion which will diminish ones senses, blurring vision and reducing muscle control.

    Sunset Rose: this substance is potentially lethal, but only in high doses. The amount contained in the lipstick is far from a lethal dose, but its primary effects will still be felt swiftly. The toxins of this plant cause near immediate paralyzation of the extremities and can knock out subjects entirely once it's set in, if they're not resistant. The paralyzing effects will last about an hour before it begins to wear off.

    These same two substances, plus a third, was noticably used in M:s next murder, that of Percival Dundersnazzle.


  • The following pages are thin and yellow, like a simulated 'to do' list stuck inbetween chapters.

    List of possible evidence:

    Paper trail: crumpled note (Ofilia's room), Bardic College ledger (signature), notes (chest in apt 8, note in 'murder room'), music sheets (murder room, plus the Norwick muddy note, restored by Helena). Compare to forged document ordering Putre's release. Letters of 'reader submitted poetry' from Peltarch Times (originals)?

    Scrap of cloth (Norwick sewers) - positive match to Debbie Jonsburg's assailant's shirt. Debbie was certain, specified outfit in admirable detail.

    Forensic evidence: M-marks to bodies of Nunev, Christholme and Jonsburg (scalp). Additionally, abrasion marks hint to being tied at wrists and ankles. Christholme's neck injuries suggest a knife - simulating fangs. Jonsburgs body, like Norwick victims, brutalized after death in a different sort of cover-up. Flesh found (and collected) from Jonsburg's fingernails, suggesting a fight (see Harkwell's testimony).

    Bodies of Ofilia's aunt and Robert Lambert display a similar style of disposal and a more practical motive. Same culprit, but these are not his 'artful' murders. Strangle marks also noted on Percival Dundersnazzle's body, alongside a blend of poisonous substances.

    Music boxes with poison blend, apt 8. Mirrors, gongs and amplifiers, murder room. Not sure we need to display these - but if their proven existance will bolster credibility and murder method, then yes.

    Lipstick might also be added to the list, similarity of poisons used.

    List of possible witnesses:

    Bardic College: Christina, Julian. Possibly Phizzon? (interview pending)
    Mermaid: barmaid
    Docks: Louis Auldreyuus, Tarrask Harkwell (Janice Putre unavailable, but witness statements from adventurers might count for something)
    Jonu Klim (guard)
    South: ferryman Gaspar, old biddy in Norwick (bribe with pears), Ilmateri who tended to bodies in Norwick
    Jonsburg's agents (preferably Quaff)
    Ser David of Ilmater (ask him to describe Ofilia's 'uncle' = M?)
    Might be a good idea to get a neutral 'expert' witness in spellcraft, unless the Magistrate is well versed already.
    And finally Debbie Jonsburg

    To-do-list and assignments:

    See Herald Fischer for list of abandoned properties (Isolde)

    Speak to Quaff and morgue about Jonsburg's raise (Isolde)

    Scrying M:s note (Helena)

    Surveilling Peltarch Times mail-box and staking out potentially interesting abandoned properties on list from Fischer (Ysberyl, Roslyn)

    Poison assessment on lipstick (Rasuil)

    Keeping watch over Marie Anderson (Z)

    Bardic College security (Horgrim, Roslyn)


  • Snake Eyes

    Three Medusas with flailing snakes for hair adorn the first page of this chapter, the middle one reminiscent of the author herself despite the monsterous guise.

    I saw him. The man conversing quietly with Louis Auldreyuus in a secluded part of the walls in the docks district looked nothing like the man attempting to sell music sheets, nor the man Putre described or even my 'die-hard' fan, but that changes nothing. It was M, I'd stake my reputation on it.

    Helena, Leena and I had sought to hide, due to an unexpected magical occurance playing havoc with our natural forms. We looked rather… monsterous. So much so, in fact, that anyone catching a glimpse of us turned to stone. We came to a darkened, abandoned part of the walls and that's when we heard them.

    Louis' distinctive accent, that coy croon. 'Zecret for a zecret, zat is how thiz works', the colourful man noted to the other, a shadowy figure standing a bit further back. An unfamiliar voice on the other, but the 'tone'... that sour, disgruntled, arrogant tone. Chills down my spine in listening, realizing he was asking about 'us'. The 'heroes' behind Talbot Anderson's defeat.

    'A secret for a secret, you say? Very well.' The shadowy figure's clipped voice held a touch of pride, it seemed to my ears, as he offered Louis a secret on the Red Killer. Nothing we don't already know, but more than is known to the public - and enough that Louis had to give something in return. Was I just imagining it, or was the information broker actually being elusive on purpose? It's always hard to know, with Auldreyuus.

    'Look, it iz az I zaid - I don't know much more about them than anyone elze. But a little bird tellz me, Talbot, he haz a zister, now in Norwick. Zome of them zeem to look after her.'

    Oh gosh... first Christina's under threat, now possibly Marie?

    It struck me that unconvenient though our magical affliction was, it might, by sheer good fortune, be just the thing to stop M in his tracks. For good.

    Shouting to Louis to cover his eyes, I stepped into full view of the wall and turned my most intense gaze upon the figure behind Auldreyuus. The man standing there was robed, of avarage size and build, with a black beard and thin moustache, hair combed all to the left underneath a cap shielding most of his face.

    'HEY COMB-OVER!', I yelled. For a single, most satisfying moment, M seemed to stiffen. But with a snarl, the man resisted the petrification.

    'An ambush!? You'll regret this, Auldreyuus!', he spat, crushing a crystal in his hand as we rushed up the stairs. He was gone before we stood on the wall, the lingering taste of teleportation in the air. But before us, eyes squinted tightly shut, was a trembling Louis Auldreyuus.

    Louis claimed no knowledge about the person he'd met - this was their first encounter, after a discreet enquiry about a business meeting had been requested, M the initiator. We encouraged an unsuspecting information broker to seek out and cooperate with Isolde & Co, for his own good.

    M gave us the slip, but we might've gained a source we can tap for information in future. I suppose it would have been too easy to catch M that way. Rubbing it in his face would be less satisfying if his face was turned to stone.


  • With Sheserai's help, I got in to see Halbrook and could continue to probe for answers, as her assistant of sort. Fortesque didn't like it, but I was on my best behavior and agreed to any and all demands of security.

    There was no 'Lt Loof Todii' - Halbrook immediately jumping to the same conclusion I had with regards to the name. But there 'is' a guardsman matching Putre's description closely - the same man who had indeed released her, supposedly under Halbrook's orders, and then reported the incident to his closest superior officer. His real name is Jonu Klim, and he was currently stationed in the docks.

    After some insistance, Fortesque allowed us to interview Klim and search for traces of any lingering magic. But in parting from Halbrook in his rather comfortable and spacious cell, I asked him what it was he had tried to tell me before Fortesque and his men stormed in. Halbrook got a wary look in his eyes, and claimed no knowledge of it. He was deliberately misleading, and I can't help but think there must be a leak, a mole in the ranks or, even more disturbingly, the possibility that M himself is a guard. Are suspicions like these the real reason why Halbrook chose to turn to outsiders in the first place?

    There's something he's not telling us, and there's obviously a reason why.

    Klim then, guarding the sewer entrance when we arrived, Fortesque in tow. He seemed an ordinary and honest fellow, dutiful but perhaps not the most intellectually keen. Still, any percieved slowness on his part could well be to do with the fogs planted in his mind. He often seemed confused, a little surprised even, in seeking the answers to our questions, pausing to frown to himself.

    Klim's story is the following:

    While patrolling his beat in the Residential district at night, he had been approached by a man he identified as Halbrook. 'Halbrook' instructed him to release Janice Putre from her cell right away, and gave him a signed document to that effect. He also told Klim he had been promoted, pinning a badge of honour with the rank of Lieutenant on his chest, clapped him on the shoulder and told him he was doing a good job.

    Klim was instructed to meet with 'Halbrook' immediately after the deed was done. He took us to the rendez-vous spot, noticably right by the waterfront in the docks. There, he was meant to help 'Halbrook' with 'some…. thing'. Klim could not remember what. He was then demoted, stripped of his badge and sent home for the night. A few hours later, Klim called on his closest superior officer, turning in the document and revealing what had happened.

    Noticably though, he had not reported anything to do with meeting up with 'Halbrook' afterwards. Fortesque questioned that, and Klim frowned in genuine confusion, mumbling that he must have forgotten. I asked him whether he reported Halbrook for being angry at the demotion, but Klim just seemed confused. He stated he handed the documents in for finding the incident strange in retrospect.

    He was scanned for magic in the morning, after an all hands on deck manhunt for Putre. Fortesque claims that Klim came up clean, but Sheserai noted lingering magic, faint and undefinable now. Taken in conjuncture with his story, his memory gaps and Putre's description of his strange behavior, I believe Klim was dominated through magic. I asked him where 'Halbrook' went afterwards. Klim furrowed his brow, looked to the water, but could not remember. I'm betting on a gondola though.

    Fortesque remained unconvinced, but perhaps Klim's new additions to his testimony set a seed of doubt. He allowed us to review the evidence, the document ordering Putre's release. We compared this to an older official document by Halbrook's hand, as well as to the letter he sent me after Duskhaven.

    At first glance, they seemed identical. But a closer study revealed a number of small but undeniable discrepancies:

    The curve of the 'M' is slightly different, and the way the 'H' is pressed appears lighter. The lines are a bit less evenly spaced, the line beneath the signature more flourished and the period marks are dotted forcefully, almost puncturing the paper. It reminds me of M's style, that marked curviture and pressure, and I'd very much like to compare it to his notes. I made an effort not to work that in though, but rather the possibility of vampire manipulation, which proved a more fruitful angle with Fortesque. After all, for the time being it's less important to prove who manipulated the evidence, rather than proving that there 'is' tampering.

    While Fortesque showed no signs of thawing to my charms, he admitted there was now grounds for doubt and actually thanked us for our diligence. The hearing is in two days, with Magistrate Borodin presiding. This leaves very little time to collect more hard evidence, but we'll have to try. We'll also need to get our stories straight, as there is supposedly evidence of of our breaking and entering a home, as well as a suspected 'Speak with Dead' spell at the morgue.

    It would help to know 'which' home we're to answer for...

    Finally, a note on M's possible method: disguises, mundane in nature, certainly exist, and Klim's encounter with the supposed Halbrook was at night. Still, he got close enough to pin the badge on and would wish for there to be no doubt of being identified as Halbrook. Magic must have been utilized too - perhaps something like disguise or alter self. Also, if my red-bearded fan was M, he must have used something similar to change not just his facial appearance, but his body type. The fan was stockier in build. M could have manipulated someone wholly innocent, alternatively. Certain phrases in the conversation strike me as odd and chilling, in retrospect. The 'die-hard' fan bit in particular.

    Note to self: True Seeing ought to cut through illusions and glamours. Have a potion ready, or fit it into that last crystal of yours.


  • Hunter and Hunted

    After an anonymous entry in the Peltarch Times was noted by Ysberyl to spell out "C-H-R-I-S-T-I-N-A", measures were taken to secure our receptionist's welfare. M might well be in possession of Ofilia's College key, and with that in mind, search lights were set into effect and Christina alerted to the danger. She's also wearing my poison-proof belt, to prevent a quiet snatch and grab tactics.

    While M might in theory have had access to my keys aswell, during our abduction, I'm fairly certain that with the five of us, he didn't have time for much else than to set up his murder room - and he was so sure it would kill us that our respective belongings could wait 'til after the fact, stashed under the carpet in a jumble.

    It is my belief that the Masters Quarters remain safe, and should M be so foolish as to try, he'll not find it deserted or without defences.

    Clearly, he's watching the Bardic College closely, though keeping a very low profile after our escape. A second "poem" in the Peltarch Times spelled out "R-E-D H-E-R-R-I-N-G-S", as if in taunt. I responded by agreeing to an interview with the reporter covering the murders in the Times, ensuring a great many insults and demeaning comments were included. We'll see how he reacts - I'm counting on a man with that type of ego to respond in one way or the other.

    We too, have our feelers out now - in particular on the Peltarch Times letterbox and office.

    Meanwhile, investigations continue. The 'M' mark was verified for victims 2 and 6. Additionally, Debbie Jonsberg appears to have put up a fight with her killer, leaving flesh under her fingernails (this might be added to evidence, if we can prove a match to M. Usable for scrying even?). Fits with Harkwell's description of M's appearance as 'ragged'.

    Body found at Geogox Road confirmed to be Robert Lambert - at least several months dead (get an expert's opinion). Likely killed for his gondola's sake, being a type of boat one can maneuvre alone, but with room enough for a body (or five).

    So far, no sign of the gondola. Is M hiding in the sewers, and still has use of it to get about under the city's streets?

    Pliskin's on the case with regards to scrying. The piece of cloth gave no results, likely for being severed and apart from what and who it belonged to. The note seems more promising, awaiting results.

    While scrying could reveal what M's current location looks like, identifying it might still take some time, time during which he may relocate - in particular if he notices the scrying. To narrow down the search, make a list of abandoned properties, ideally with waterfront or sewer access.

    Halbrook's been arrested, accused of having released Janice Putre. It's preposterous but Fortesque was only too eager to believe the set-up, giving him the Commerce district as well as the docks to run. Fortesque, who still believes the vampire ruse. Fortesque, who is distinctly unwilling to allow outsiders in on investigations (no matter how poor the guards own progress). This is much too convenient from M's perspective. I'm convinced he engineered it, and again in taunt, the Peltarch Times reader submitted 'poems' spelled out W-i-n-n-i-n-g-y-e-t, right underneath the headlines of Halbrook's arrest.

    Bastard.

    Through Helena's canny scrying, we tracked Putre to the misty caves at the Icelace cliffs. It took a great deal of persuasion, coercion and threat, but the story eventually wrung out of her was believable to my mind. Putre claims to have been released by a man wearing a guards uniform and badge, one 'Lt Loof Todii' (Fool Idiot, really?), brown of hair and blue of eyes, roughly the same in height as Rasuil. She says the man acted strangely, but that she wasn't about to question such an unexpected stroke of luck. Described him as something of a 'zombie'. Domination magic?

    Once outside, another man met her in a dark alley. It was night, and she claimed not to get a good look, but noted him to be wearing a red beard - fake, she added. The man told her he had seen to her release, but there were conditions. She had to pack up and leave immediately, something she was fully intending to do anyway.

    I'm 'sure' it was M. Worse, a chill down my spine has me wondering if the red-bearded, gushing 'fan' I met earlier that day was him aswell. He asked for my autograph, insisting I kiss the paper as I often do. Does he intend to set me up as well (Fortesque insists his 'evidence' against Halbrook is unambiguous, whereas I am certain any paperwork to that effect must be forged), or does he mean to scry to keep a step ahead at all times?

    I've asked Sheserai to help - either to find and detect magic on the guard in question, or conduct a sweep of all the guards working in and around the Gaol, to that same effect. Vampires love their mind meddling - if nothing else flies with Fortesque, that must be a valid reason, especially since Sheserai does work on the vampire case. Ideally, Halbrook can be included in such a sweep. He had something important to tell us, but ran out of time to do so before being locked up.


  • A sketch of a man with dark hair and a goatee heads this chapter, in a 'Wanted' poster style.

    'M'

    First encounter: Bardic College, front desk. Isolde, Christina and Kaitlyn present. The man now known as 'M' attempted to sell his music for a substantial amount of gold, affronted at being rejected. Touching agreement from all three bards of the poor quality of the music, lacking in rythm, harmony and overall coherence. 'M' remained adamant that each sheet was worth thousands, arrogant, offended and sour in taking his leave.

    Physical description: brown hair and goatee, middle-aged, avarage to lanky in build. Professor type, fancy clothing though recently described as tattered, as if roughed up. Human.

    Method of operating suggests 'M' is very cautious, despite an arrogant and prideful nature. Appears to have befriended or gained a position of trust with at least three victims, and taking great care to dispose of the bodies in such a way as to throw off investigators. Obviously keeping a close watch on anyone asking questions - though it is possible he might watch the College for other reasons as well.

    Has used the name "Maestro Maximillian", of which there is no record in City Hall. Sounds like a stage name, or a "magician"? Alarm spells suggest a certain magical aptitude, though the majority of his means have been mechanical, traps and gadgetry. Knowledge in mixing poisons.

    Murders initially taking place in the victims own homes. He appears to have started using apt. 8 later on, creating a makeshift trap door in the floor, leading through to the sewers below. From here, he used a gondola to traverse the waterways into the Commerce district and from there via an outlet leading to an exit just outside the Residential district, near the outhouse.

    Both apt. 8 and the outhouse were opportune locations, their owners having perished during the demonic siege. It's possible 'M' helped fate along, but no proof of that as of yet.

    The gondola, a rare type of craft in the city, was registered to a fisherman by the name of Robert Lambert four years ago. At Lambert's home, 67 Geogox Road, the dust lay thick. A picture of a plain-looking, smiling man holding a salmon was found upstairs, with the gondolla next to him. And stuffed into a crate in the storage room was the withered and desiccated body of presumably the same man, Robert Lambert. The body appeared to be several years old, and could be the first - at least in Peltarch. Perhaps 'M' moved here around that time?

    Witnesses that have seen the gondola in use: ferryman Gaspar, Long Road. T. Harkwell, Peltarch sewers.

    Physical evidence along the waterway in the sewers: a small piece of tattered, but once fancy cloth.

    The gondola, along with 'M' himself, remain unaccounted for.


  • The following pages resemble case files, both in style and appearance, with little 'crime scene' sketches added here and there in black and white, but for each female victim's exact hue of hair, ranging from strawberry blond to orange, crimson and auburn.

    Murder (1)

    Subject: Neena Bravcheck

    Subject found tied to bed. Slight signs of physical struggle at wrists and ankles. Found breathless and slightly decayed. Neighbours complained of smell.

    Subject details: female, described as petite, red-haired and cheery. Co-worker confirms she was young and quite pretty. Waitress at the Dancing Mermaid Inn. Body already buried at the request of her family.

    In speaking to a black-haired waitress at the Mermaid about the most recent girl gone missing (see no 6), she spoke of Neena as similar in appearance. Pretty, but not the type to flaunt it, Neena did not have a long list of admirers, but the waitress had noticed one man who would take special care to be served by Neena. The man, described as "fancy" and the "professor type", sported a goatee. He never turned up again, after Neena's death.

    Murder (2)

    Subject: Ofilia Nunav. Secondary victim: ON:s elderly aunt

    Subject details: female, pale red / orange hair, medium build. Young. Pretty. Student at Bardic College - pianist. Also skilled at locksmithing. Described as a loner, prone to bouts of sickness.

    Subject initially missing. Not been home for several days, absence reported by Bardic College secretary, who recieved letter detailing sickness excuse.

    Step one: The Bardic College

    The sick note: "Dear Bardic College. Ofilia is sick. The flu. Beyond my divine prowess - cannot afford better treatment. Needs bedrest. Ser David Yechtach of Ilmater" Delivered by Ser David personally to front desk. Christina's sketch matches the man encountered and identified as D at the docks.

    A search of the subject's room (A2), past a very intricate lock of her own design. Room in a state of organized chaos - sheets of parchment, potions, jewellry and clothes scattered on floor. Mostly musical sheets for piano, written in elegant, feminine style. Scribbled comment reveals a dislike for Phizzon, gnomish piano teacher. More music sheets under bed, likely her own work. Less polished, a few notes off here and there.

    Room was left in current condition, nothing taken except the following note:

    "–-M---" (or W) - single white sheet, crumpled at the bottom of the stack of parchments. Different type of parchment, definitely different hand - wild, long, stretched and curved at edges, pressing the red ink hard into the parchment. Something familiar about it - unsure what or why.

    Step 2: Peltarch Docks, Pumpkin Alley

    Ser David of Ilmater - encountered administering ointment to ferryman. Confirmed Ofilia's illness, that she lives with her aunt, but that he hasn't been to see them in some time (after prescribing bedrest). "You look like her - some features and the hair". Followed us to Pumpkin Alley and pointed the apartment out (part of dingy docks complex). Mentioned concern from girl's uncle.

    The apartment: locked door, mundane - no reply to knocking, no sounds of movement inside. Past front door, a small kitchen and living room, cramped, poorly lit. Musty and dank air, smelling sweetly of rot. Rotten fruit and vegetables on the table. A few notes from ON found in shelf nearby - one with an offer to replace the lock on the front door, the other more interesting:

    "Auntie, going to be away for a few days. Practicing piano! New lessons - I'm getting way better, though the techniques are kind of tough."

    Music sheets found nearby suggests improvement - smoother, better flow.

    Upstairs: past a locked door, an even smaller bedroom, crammed with two beds, two bookshelves, bedside tables and drawers. Both beds empty, the bigger one with brighter bedlinen and music sheets fixed to walls nearby.

    Underneath the bed, a sealed and unused box of herbs, labelled "For Ofilia"

    The nearby bookshelf, upon closer inspection, functioned as a hidden doorway to a storage room, filled with barrels and sacks of produce. The smell is worse here, sickening sweet.

    One of the barrels holds a horrific find - the remains of an elderly, white-haired, pale and bug-eyed woman with fingermarks on her neck (presumably strangled). Decay has sat in, greenish tinge to her skin.

    Cellar: past a flight of stairs, more storage for grain and dried meats. Smell is not as bad here, but I sense a familiar tug of magic - reminding me of when I checked for magic at the front door, sheepishly realizing I might have detected the amplifier rod I had just used to listen in with. But here was that same magical signature.

    One last door - this one unlocked, untrapped. A soft creaking sound beyond it.

    Inside, ON is found, ankles and wrists tied firmly to a rocking chair set in the center of the small room. A vague draft from a crack in the wall sees the chair gently rock back and forth, though the subject is long dead, a frozen expression of confusion and desperation on her pale face.

    Infront of subject, placed in a semi-circle, three large, mundane mirrors, with three small pedestals inbetween them. Haphazardly placed on the floor near one of the latter, an amplifier of Vanoogle's design, of the type I commissioned personally. Amplifier tentatively placed on pedestal nearby, but magic remains inactive.

    Decay has set in here also, moreso than the body in the barrel. Strong stench of rot, but no signs of struggle and no obvious cause of death. Strong possibility that subject was bound and left to die, with nothing else to see but constant reminders of her entrapment. Amplifier there to cover sounds of screaming? (no gag or clear signs of abrasion near mouth)

    A quick conversation revealed that Vanoogle has sold about ten amplifiers - though not to anyone not affiliated with the College. However, Ofilia herself had ordered several.

    Could she have a new piano teacher? Julian (librarian) recalled a strange man with Ofilia, shortly before she went missing. While fairly nondescript, he remembers the man well for being of such sour appearance and ignoring his greeting entirely. Described as middle-aged, human, with brown hair and a goatee.

    Christina (receptionist) found the letter 'M' signed into guest ledger at about the corresponding time. In speaking to her, we noticed a figure in a nearby alley, eavesdropping using a device (likely an amplifier of Vanoogle's make). When spotted, the figure took off running at full speed and we were unable to catch up.

    Murder (3)

    Subject: Bara Christholme

    Subject found in Icelace River, frozen. Signs of struggle, wounds at neck. Vampiric attack suggested - uncertain.

    Subject details: female, unemployed, few contacts. Family? Neighbours? Physical appearance - body at morgue awaiting study.

    In inspecting the body, the subject was found to be redheaded and youthful of appearance. Clothing plain, brown and ragged. Noticably pale and blue-tinged of skin, with incisions to the neck, her death had been assigned to vampires. However, the blue tint is more likely due to cold damage from her body's submersion in icy water, since the neck wounds, on closer inspection, were made with a knife - attempting to simulate the fanged teeth marks of a vampire.

    Faint markings to wrists and ankles suggest some form of shackles or bindings, akin to subject 1 and 2.

    Careful study revealed a third distinctive mark, a tattoo or brand, hidden at the back of her head. The killer had removed a small portion of hair to press the letter 'M' into the victim's scalp, a tiny, black-inked brand in a slightly curved hand corresponding in style to the one in the College's ledger and Ofilia's room.

    Speak to the Dead:

    -Who killed you?

    "Someone I trusted."

    -Describe the person who did this to you?

    "He with beady eyes, goat's hair."

    -What were you doing when attacked?

    "What I loved."

    -What did you love?

    "Art for the ears."

    -Where were you, when killed?

    "Below, below, where the water flows. We drifted first, swaying to and fro - and then below, below.. below we go."

    Murder (4-5)

    Subject: identities unknown, sharing case folder.

    Subjects found in the same secluded location, the Nars just north of Norwick, along a narrow outlet of the Icelace river. One in the water, the other nearby, with a few days between them. Both buried at Norwick cemetary near the mausoleum, in unmarked graves (Ilmateri at Lathandrite temple tended to them).

    Both bodies bruised, cut and savaged, leading guards on scene to attribute deaths to barbarian bands. A great deal of blood, especially second victim. Ilmateri concluded most, if not the majority of wounds to have occurred after death. Dally, the old woman who found them, also noted the bodies being 'older than the day'.

    Investigating team (Z, Roslyn, Isolde) concluded likelihood of bodies being dumped on site, using the river outlet. Interview with ferryman Gaspar revealed that a small boat, travelling from the north at the dead of night, had veered into outlet twice in the past few days. Described as an odd looking gondola with paddles, or small longboat, room enough for two or max three.

    Clues: victims possessions aside, a muddied sheet of parchment was found at dump site. Though soggy and hard to make out, concluded to be musical notes. Closer inspection revealed them to be of poor quality, lacking in rythm and structure.

    Subject details: female, both young, fairly attractive, with crimson and auburn hair respectively. Described as similar in appearance, could be mistaken for sisters. Silky clothing of relative good quality, one wore a gold bracelet, the other had a lute.

    Murder (6)

    Subject: Debbie Jonsburg

    Subject details: ballerina starlet visiting from Suzail, crimson-haired, pretty. Found dead in western fields after going missing, sword blows everywhere. Body at morgue, awaiting examination and raise.

    One of Jonsburg's agents, Quaff, told the investigators of a scheduled meeting with an instructor they had contracted with, in a "luxory" apartment in the docks, apartment 8, Bottleneck complex. The instructor, "Maestro Maximillian", was said to be a "big-wig composer" travelling through the city temporarily. Jonsburg was four days missing when the search began.

    Attempted murder

    Subjects: Isolde Garibaldi, Rasuil Delagim, Z, Silhouette, Ysberyl

    In attempting to find Debbie Jonsburg, the investigators above were drawn into a trap designed to end their lives. At apt. 8 in the Bottleneck complex, a knock-out gas was released from four music boxes set into the corners of the first of two small rooms. The gas was set to be released through the opening of a chest in the back room, thin wires connecting it to the music boxes and to the front door's locking mechanism. Caution on the team's part saw the killer forced to take an alternate route, setting the gas off from outside. Note: check with elves across the hall, potential witnesses.

    Evidence collected in the room, aside from the mentioned: a note inside the chest, reading "See you soon. - M" and several music sheets, disharmonic, out of synch, haphazard, lacking in structure and flow. Familiar to myself, confirming a theory I had mentioned to the others while speaking to Christina at the front desk when the killer was eavesdropping: Kaitlyn Feebleheart, Christina and myself have met 'M' before - he attempted to sell sheets of similar music to the College for thousands of gold but was rejected.

    The gas knocked the whole party out, and we awoke tied hand and foot to chairs, bolted to the floor. The room around us was dark, but faintly illuminated with candle light, revealing a circular shape, gongs and mirrors behind the chairs. A candle placed in the middle of the circle lit up a note from 'M', gloating that we'd gotten close, but that he wins.

    The nature of his trap revealed the likely cause of death for the previous victims - much like Ofilia, we found ourselves tied up and facing our own reflections in the mirrors around the room. And on pedistals behind each of our chairs sat a familiar looking device - Vanoogle's amplifiers, repurposed to weapons.

    'M', in his cruelty, exposed us to his "music", blasted its jarring disharmonic notes through the amplifiers so loudly that my ears rang and my head pounded, my vision swimming red. The sound was more than loud, it was abrasive, disturbing, painful to the senses and to fight it, to attempt to block it out and give us something to focus on instead, I sang. I sang as loudly as I could, but the sounds assailed our senses and when the gongs set off too, it felt as though I was being torn apart.

    I could not free myself, but my companions managed better. Ysberyl was the first to snake a hand out of her bindings, and seeing it was possible gave me heart. One by one, while the sound blasted and rattled through us, we freed ourselves, but it was slow going. Silhouette had fallen unconscious by the time the amplifiers and gongs were taken out of commission, and the rest of us were but a hair's breath away.

    Finally, 'finally' the room fell quiet, but for the constant ringing echoing in my ears. We were still trapped within the circle, walls all around, but found our things hidden under the mat, a trap door set into the floor. And behind one of the mirrors, a concealed door. It was unlocked - that's how certain he had been that we would not escape.

    Winding stairs lead up, up into a small outhouse near the water, just outside the Residential district's walls. From here, we limped off to report our findings.


  • The room was small and dimly lit, heavy with smoke from the cigar held loosely between two sinewy fingers. "I've a proposition for you", said Oscar Halbrook, dark moustache quirking as he took a long pull, the cigar's tip glowing a dull red. I sat across from the guard captain, reflecting on my first, far uneasier visit to this same office, waking from unconsciousness with a splitting headache and an acute sense of exposure. Halbrook's reputation was that of a callous yet brilliant investigator, with little to no regard for what the squares call 'due process'. I'd been wary of him then, but this time I found myself nothing but intrigued.

    "I suspect there's a killer on the loose. A very careful, very dangerous killer, methodically covering their tracks. The bodies were found in different locations, even outside city limits, but I think you'll soon agree they're connected. You'll have to be both careful and discreet, and needless to say you've no official authority. In fact if you get into trouble, you're on your own. Fortesque's convinced it's the work of vampires and I don't intend to butt heads with him."

    You left the word 'openly' out there at the end, I thought to myself. Oscar Halbrook smiled knowingly back, a mixture of mirth and calculation dancing in his shrewd eyes, half obscured by an exhale of smoke. He tapped his cigar in the overflowing ashtray, then steepled fingers and asked:

    "Interested?"