Etched In Blood, ...but really, what's one more crime?

[Myuu]

It was raining.
He couldn't recall how long he'd been there, how long he'd wandered the streets, how long he'd gone without sleep.
But he could recall the last time it rained, and he felt the sting of cold droplets with a measure of amusement. It had been the same sort of situation, the last time it had rained. A cold sort of night, heavy fog that was slowly beaten into the earth, path slippery underfoot.

It was not the first time he had been soaked to the bone, and it was not going to be the last. He counted himself fortunate that there was no lightning to light the midnight sky, no thunder to rouse those that were sleeping. The click of his booted heels on the road was drowned in the rhythm of the rainfall, the few souls that passed him too miserable to pay him any mind.

This would be fast.
This would be painless.
But it wouldn't be the last.

It was never over. He didn't need the money, any more. He didn't need anything. He could hunt for food, he could work an honest day for clothes, for weapons, for shelter. But the contracts kept coming. Missions he couldn't recall accepting, scrolls he didn't remember reading, and the feathers - Simple, plain white feathers, plucked from the wing of a fowl that hopefully suffered a kinder end than the many whose blood had now stained those snowy plumes.

No one was there to see the shadow that moved in the alleyway, scaling the side of a building as though it were little more than a hill in its path. No moon backlit his form from the sky, when he perched on the outer sill of the window. A gentle nudge showed the window was locked. Without any effort, without any sound, a paper-thin knife loosed the latch that kept the rain and the outside world at bay.

No one heard the faint noises that had filled the numberless room of a simple inn, no one saw the shadow leave.
No one felt the approach of death, but none would mistake the mark of it that stained the floor, or the open window with water pooled beneath.
At the very edge of the pool of blood that had formed beneath the body, a delicate sweep of a feather left a trail, like a brushstroke, across the floor.

It had been fast, it had been painless.
But there never was a last.

[Striker]

There were few people moving about in the dim, early light of dawn. The driving rain had settled to an annoying drizzle, more noticeable by the tiny ripples it set off in the puddles of still water which had pooled from the storm the night before than by the striking of the tiny drops against clothing and skin. It was a heavy, dreary sort of day that refused to be lightened, even by the soft sound of bells. Each time she set down a foot, the soft clink of hooves on cobbled stones was offset by the high pitched chime of a bell. Unbothered by the rain or the chill of the air, she strode through the streets of Freeport as they awakened to the day, breathing in the smell of fresh air after rain and smiling to herself. While everyone else would curse the grey day fraught with rain, she would embrace it, for this was the beauty of nature come to visit her very door step.

She felt light today, young... unbound. That was why she had chosen her lithe, young aspect with which to grace the city today. Many were used to her wise old face poking around here and there when she deigned to venture out of Freeports magic shop or the strange home which she made above it. Though it was not unknown for her lovely young form to be seen, it was rare and unusual. Something about the day had drawn out her young, mischievous side. Something about the day had drawn her out here into the cool air of morning before the crowds had formed. She knew not what governed her feet, only that they moved of their own accord and she was content to let them carry her.

She paused before the entrance to an inn, the wind stirring her long, golden brown locks. The faun's goat like ears twitched and for a moment the strings of bells rung through her antlers fell silent as she contemplated something only she could hear. After a moment, a thoughtful look crossed her face and she turned, deviating from her original course, though she knew not where it would have taken her, and pushed open the door that would allow her to enter the inn.

Her hooves clopping against the hard floors of the inn were louder than they had been outside, confined to such a closed in space it was enough to hide the chiming of the bells that adorned her horns. The sound of hooves striking the floor, however, was enough to grab the attention of the two young tavern attendants who were preparing the inn's bar room for breakfast. Few usually ventured out so early, but surely there would be patrons of the inn who would rouse themselves for the inn's breakfast fare.

As soon as the eyes of the two young women fell on the faun who had just entered, however, a look akin to despair crossed over their faces and they immediately fell to a whispered argument over who should have to attend to the woman, whom they recognized all too well. For her part, the faun ignored them, not bothering to give any indication that she had taken notice of their bickering in the first place. She dismissed their behavior as that of the very young, who couldn't possibly be expected to understand her motivations for coming here. When the bickering young ladies had finished drawing lots, the looser made her way slowly across the room, a miserable sort of look on her face as she approached the faun. "Uh... Miss Elsyria... is there something I can get you this fine morn?"

Elsyria gave her a tolerant sort of smile and shook her head causing the bells in her antlers to jangle lightly. "No dear child, breakfast isn't what I've come after, but thank you for your generosity."

There was a slightly dismayed look on the young girl's face at the faun's answer. Somehow she felt she should have known this wouldn't be a simple and easy matter. "Then what can I-"

Before the young lady could finish asking what she could do to help the faun, however, Elsyria had swept past her and began to make her way up the stairs, murmuring almost to herself, "From the dark and from the depths... a merciless hand that dabbles in death..."

"No! Wait!" The young woman called, sighing with exasperation when that wasn't enough to stop the woman from ascending the stairway. "You can't go up there! Miss Elsyria... that's only for patrons!"

But the faun wasn't listening, still muttering to herself. "Through the wind and through the rain... Death has stalked to this very window pane..." And as she said those words she came to a stop right outside the door of one of the occupied rooms.

The very room outside of which a small train of crimson had begun to stain the inn's pristine floors.

Elsyria reached out and put her hand on the door, an intense, distant look on her face. "The only thing left to speak of the poor one's plight," She said softly, "Blood, tears and the feather of a bird purest white."

"What are you doing?!" The bar maiden demanded in a quiet hiss as she came to rest beside the faun. Then her eyes fell to the base of the door and she shrunk back against the wall. Terror wrapping it's icy hand around her heart. "Is that blood?" She asked in a high pitched squeal, her voice wavering.

Whether or not old Elsyria was crazy... or just acting very very oddly (which was actually just normal for her), it was clear that something was wrong here. Somehow, the crazy old faun had known. The bar maiden was too frightened to wonder at the reason. With a small squeal of fear, she turned and darted down the stairs, desperately running in the direction of the inn keeper's rooms. She was going to have to inform the owner that something untoward appeared to have happened in his inn sometime in the middle of the night.

[Frosty]

It didn't take long for word of the murder to reach the Freeport militia, and frustratingly enough for Quentin Sygarius, even less time for it to make its way down the gossip vine. By the time he'd managed to get an investigation team organized and made his way down to the inn where the body had been found, it was flooded with so many curious onlookers hoping to catch a glimpse of the grisly scene that the throng spilled out of the front door and onto the street in front of the building. Muttering under his breath, the militia's stand-in Master Captain made a vague gesture to his men, and the team strode into the crowd, jostling and shouldering their way through the press of bodies toward the inn.

Here he had thought taking on Gen's responsibilities while the militia's official leader was spelunking for a lost family in the Underhall was going to be an easy job. Resolving a few business disputes, taking in drunkards, calming down said drunkards' violently furious wives - to Quentin, Gen Wolfbane had seemed bored ever since taking his post with the militia. How was he to guess filling his place for a few days would entail so much of the wrong kind of excitement? Once he had managed to force his way inside, he turned back to face his men and scowled. "Get these people out of here so we can get to work. You," he gestured toward one of the barmaids cowering near the back of the room. "Once everyone is out, lock the doors. I want all of you to stay put, though. We'll have questions for you. Now, someone show me where the body is."

While the rest of his team and the inn's employees saw to the unenviable task of herding the gawkers outside, one of the barmaids led Quentin upstairs to the room where the man's remains had been found that morning. "Some crazy woman discovered the body earlier today," she explained as they both came to stand over the grisly sight, cradling her arms under her chest as if the air around them had grown suddenly chill.

"Hmm. Is she still in the building?" Quentin asked while he crouched down and began his examination of the body. This wasn't exactly his field of expertise, but he did his best with his own common sense and intuition, keeping his hands away from either the body or the pool of dried blood surrounding it, except to lift an arm here or a leg there for a better look. After a moment, he looked up to see the barmaid nod mutely, then returned his attention to the corpse and muttered under his breath, "We'll want to speak to her as well. Please make sure she doesn't go anywhere. Huh... now this is interesting."

The young woman was clearly frightened and even more ill at ease simply from being in the same room as the victim's remains, but curiosity had enough of a hold on her for her to take a step closer and venture a tentative question, "Wh-what is...?"

The deputy militia commander pointed a gloved forefinger at a series of nearly-imperceptible lines traced in the blood near the body, as if something had been run through it before it had dried. "I've heard it's a common practice among some assassin guilds from the lands beyond the Mists to brush a feather through the blood of their victims as evidence." Quentin caught a glimpse of the girl's already pale features becoming even more pallid at his mention of the exotic 'mainland'. "No contract killing organization here or in the Empire does this. I think we may be in over our head here..."

[Myuu]

The mid-day meal was approaching, and already, he could hear the whispers of the horrible deed that had happened inside a quiet inn, elsewhere in Freeport. But no one spared any looks for him, and why should they? With the drizzle that persisted after the previous night's rain, he was far from the only person walking about in a hood. He'd traded black for a soft grey, changing into an outfit that was guaranteed to be unmarked by blood. The contract and the dried feather were tucked away neatly in his cloak, wrapped in leather to keep them both secure and dry.

The temperature here was cooler than what he was used to. He wasn't certain how he knew, but he did. It was something about the way the salty air stung his lungs, the way the chill of the rain drove an ache into his bones. After a night with no sleep, it was harder to ignore it. He'd kept a vigil into dawn, ensuring no one had seen or followed him, returning to his latest roost to change and at least rest for a time, before going to turn the contract in.

He didn't have to look at the address and directions more than once, but now and then, he still glanced at the parchment, now wet and faded in his gloved hand. It was no surprise that his contact was in a nicer area of the city. Wasn't that always the way? The rich and the powerful were often the ones who drew contracts, though Htd. could no longer recall the last job he'd accepted by free will.
He disliked the idea of being a pawn. He was nobody's plaything, nobody's tool. And yet he followed each order with such meticulous care that he surprised himself. And why? He didn't understand.

He could have stopped. He could have waited for someone, anyone, from that organization to seek him out. Perhaps then he could have learned something about himself.
But when the shadows of his past appeared as countless feathers on his window, was that past really something he was all that eager to learn about?
Despite the number of times he'd looked at his directions, he still felt lost, standing on the doorstep, waiting for an answer. People still moved on the streets as if he didn't exist, carrying on with their fragile lives, a-twitter with the news of the day.

Htd. glanced up quickly when the door opened, a finely-dressed man quickly gesturing for him to step inside.
"You're later than expected," the man stated quietly, casting a curious look back out to the street, before securely latching the door behind them. He cleared his throat, then, extending one arm. "Your cloak, sir?"
Htd.'s brow furrowed. He didn't move, his peculiar eyes roving the rather showy foyer. "No," he replied simply, the single word muffled by the high collar of the coat he wore beneath his cloak.
"Very well." The stranger agreed, gesturing lightly, before turning to lead the way.

It was a short walk to the lavish library. Htd. felt no remorse for the wet trail he left behind, or the darkened marks on the carpeting that laid below his feet. He was ushered in with a graceful bow from the stranger, who he now assumed was some sort of hired butler or guard, after they were left in peace - Htd., and the small, aging man with a mustache and spectacles, that sat in a high-backed chair in the middle of the room.
A tray for tea sat on the low table before him, another chair opposing his, inviting for any guests.
Htd. saw no need for such luxuries.

"I have to say," the older fellow spoke with a cheerful note in his voice. A book was on his lap. Htd. didn't envy his ability to read.
"You're not quite what I was expecting I'd be waiting for." The gentleman finished, half smiling. "Would you like some tea? It's quite fresh, I assure you. Only the best, newly imported."
"All I want is to make my delivery and finish my contract." Htd. replied bluntly, wasting no time in removing the carefully wrapped scroll from its protective covering. He opened it with little flourish, holding the bloodstained feather up between two gloved fingers, for examination.
"Excellent, excellent." The gentleman crooned, clapping modestly, indicating with a sweep of his hand that the scroll and feather both were to be left on the table.
Htd. gladly obliged.

"I suppose you'll be looking forward to your next contract, then. Good show." The elder man smiled behind his mustache, reaching to take a cup of tea into hand.
"Perhaps." Htd. replied, simply. His silvery eyes flickered with the hues of the room, as he took it in. Every piece of knowledge was an asset, every memory he gained now could prove helpful, in the future. "Who was he?"
The gentleman tilted his head curiously, blowing on his tea. "Who was he?" he echoed, chuckling quietly. "I don't know. And neither do you. We're both strangers, as is whoever befalls the ill fall of your hand. I am but a contact, and you are but a contract killer. We belong to the same organization. And that is all we know."
Htd. agreed, though he said nothing. He gave a slight incline of his head, turning to excuse himself from the contact's library.

"Does it bother you, to kill a stranger?" The gentleman inquired, his tone so remarkably level that it made Htd.'s skin crawl.
"Should it?" The assassin replied, adjusting the collar of his coat and the hood of his cloak, two more aides to his anonymity. "They are only strangers. Their crimes are not mine to know."
"Or their grudges." The contact agreed with a wry smile, pushing his spectacles farther up his nose. "But it's still blood that stains your hands."
Htd. cast the elder man a blank sort of look, shrugging to settle his cloak. "Our lives are made by the deaths of others."
The contact lifted a brow, hesitating to reply. "Very well," he murmured finally, easing back into his chair. "Your next contract will find you in several days' time. After the noise of this quite untimely death settles. In the meantime, perhaps you ought to enjoy your time with us, here in Freeport."
"I shall," Htd. murmured softly, giving a stiff nod before he took his leave from the gentleman's library.

After the chilling silence of the large house, the muffled noises of the street were an almost welcome respite.
It wasn't hard for him to blend into the people on the streets again, though this time, his path was uncertain. There was a lot to see, though it was hindered by the fog, and he had nowhere to go.
Several days to kill, before another contract arrived? It probably would be best to move from where he'd been staying. It was never safe to stay in one place too long, but neither was it wise to move every night. Perhaps one move now, and one in a few days, and then he'd stay put once he received the next order - It was far more suspicious to leave after it arrived, than to make himself comfortable in one place.

Htd. tugged his hood forward, his pace picking up a bit, as he retraced the steps that had led him through the city, before. There'd been several places he thought looked interesting, not just the clock tower that overlooked the city. A little tour, stop somewhere for a bite to eat, and perhaps he'd find a new inn to stay at...
He slowed mid-step at the sight of a large cluster of people, down one of the wider roads. They streamed from a building, some of them looking frightened, others angered. Some lingered around the doorway, but others dispersed from the group in small clusters, many muttering amongst themselves.

"...and the nerve of them, herding us out of there like animals! Why, if push comes to shove and they keep reacting like that, this place will be no better than the Imperial City!"
Metallic eyes tilted in the direction of the complaint, and slowly, Htd. turned to move in the direction of the gradually diminishing crowd.
What was all this, now? One dark brow raised, a strange sort of amusement dancing in his eyes.
The place looked completely different, in the daylight.
And clearly, the people of the city enjoyed his handiwork.
With a smile that was hidden behind the collar of his coat, Htd. pushed forward into the tight grouping of people, huddled outside the inn's front door.
Well. He was looking for a new place to stay. Chances are, he'd find good rates, as well.
After all, who wanted to stay in an inn that was renowned for the murder of its visitors?

[Striker]

It was not just any crazy lady which had discovered the murder, as Quentin Sygarius was about to discover. As he glanced up to make his explanation about the feather trail in the victim's blood, the soft sound of bells chiming could be heard from the doorway. If the sound of bells was not enough to draw his eyes, the familiar clip-clop of the faun's hooves were likely to draw his attention away from his investigation. Knowing better than to intrude on a murder investigation, Elsyria paused in the doorway.

Her features had shifted since her first arrival at the inn that morning. She was no longer the cheerful young woman she had been, but rather appeared much older. Though her skin did not bear the wrinkles human crones did, her age was made evident in other ways. The color had gone out of her skin and hair, leaving her skin pale and her hair a flowing mass of silver. Her fur, which glistened silver in her youthful beauty had grown tawny, now showing dimly golden brown in the sunlight. Her horns, which had been like the antlers of a deer in the early morning, were now thick and curled like the horns of a ram, though they still bore the bells which announced her presence.

Though her features were greatly different, there was no mistaking this woman. Whatever form she wore, people knew her. It was something about her eyes. They never changed, even when she shifted from her maiden form to that of the crone people knew so well. There was a sage sort of wisdom in her eyes. She tilted her head almost as if she knew something and was waiting to be asked to give the answer. It may have appeared that she had drastically aged throughout the course of the day, but the truth was she felt her crone form simply fit the situation far better than her maiden form, as was most often the case when she was plying her talents.

"Aaah, Quentin Sygarius," she murmured from the door, a sense of fondness in her tone, a soft smile on her face. "How diligently you tend to Gen's duties in his absence. He will be most pleased when he returns, I do believe.

"This humble faun is quite honoured that you wish to speak with her," She went on, practically purring. Everyone who knew her - and that was almost everyone who lived in Freeport - knew that she was anything but humble. She had a great deal of pride in her second sight, though most of the rest of the city still seemed to be trying to figure out if it was real or imagined. "It is about time that those among the Freeport Militia begin to recognize the value of my Sight."

[Azrael]

Rain. Rain again.

In one way or another, ever since he sailed into the city on a ship from the mainland - which was not an easy thing to do, book passage across a cursed sea to a port that 'didn't exist' - it had rained. The day he first stepped off the dock in the hidden cove at the base of the cliffs upon which Freeport was perched, it had been an icy, driving rain that cut straight to the bone like needles of chilled steel. Then just yesterday, a fine drizzle that was barely distinguishable from the fog that permeated every inch of this strange land blew over the town, lending a shimmering sheen to everything it touched. Today, the weather seemed to be somewhere between the two extremes. Though it wasn't cold or oppressive, it was wet enough that he could feel the inside of the old brown cloak gathered about his lean frame becoming damp, and the soles of his boots squished and splashed on the water-soaked cobbles as he navigated the streets of Freeport.

Azrael Drakmoor didn't mind the rain most times. In fact, he tended to find it quite refreshing. With his arm strapped to a brace and confined to a shoulder sling, though, the airborne moisture that always came with such weather was wreaking havoc on his tender bones and joints. He hadn't even planned on setting foot outside today, fully intent on spending the day in the room he'd rented at the Crescent Inn as his temporary base of operations, with his nose buried deeply in his work. That was until one of the Innkeeper's assistants came to him with a message that the acting commander of the Freeport Militia had requested his help with something at another inn across town. The adventurer found it puzzling that the local lawman would need him for anything, but keeping in mind that he might need a favour from the militia at one point or another over the course of his sometimes legally 'questionable' work, he was eager to respond.

This was what brought him out to the streets this day, walking swiftly through the rain with his old brown cloak gathered about his shoulders and its hood drawn up over his head. Finding his destination wasn't hard, despite being quite new in town: nearly everyone in the city seemed to have gravitated toward it, the rumbling murmur of voices drawing him in through the rain as well. Azrael was shocked to see the true volume of the crowd when he rounded the final corner, a massive clot in the arteries of the urban community, lodged firmly in front of an old wooden building. Two local militiamen were stationed just off the front stoop to secure the front entrance, looking anything but pleased at being given crowd control duty in the rain. The adventurer flashed a sympathetic smile, though he knew they wouldn't see the expression to appreciate it, then eased his way into the crowd. The throng was packed tight, but Azrael somehow managed to shoulder his way through to the small, semi-circular space where the crushing press of human bodies ended. Another figure emerged from the crowd at the same time, a man dressed in an odd, high-collared outfit whom Azrael inadvertently collided with. "Whoop!" Azrael stumbled slightly, then tossed a sheepish grin toward the other man. "Sorry, friend. I didn't see you there."

After tipping his head in apology to Htd. one more time, he turned and continued toward the guards, who met him with wary, quizzical expressions. "I'm Azrael Drakmoor. The acting master captain sent for me?" he declared in answer to the unspoken question.

Recognition dawned in the eyes of the militiamen, not of him but of their standing orders. "Right, Drakmoor. Head right in, he's investigating the crime scene upstairs." The sentry who spoke jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the front door and stepped aside to allow Azrael to pass.

Upon ascending the steps and passing through the front door, Azrael pulled his hood down, shook out his coal-black locks, and blinked a few times to adjust to the dim light within. However brief it would take for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dusky interior, it would be some time before his ears got used to the oppressive silence. Places like these, in his experience, were vibrant and lively, even at the slowest time of day in their own way, but the mood in here was sullen, fearful, almost heavy with death. Azrael spared a brief glance for the fatigued, timid looking employees huddled about the bar as he immediately made his way across the common room toward the stairs that led up to the guest accommodations. Before he even reached the top of the staircase, he could hear voices drifting out from one of the rooms. Guessing that the sound would lead him to Sygarius, he followed it down a narrow corridor to the only room whose door wasn't locked shut, and came to a stop in the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt. A Quentin Sygarius with the Freeport Militia asked for me?"

[Frosty]

The acting militia commander glanced up to the open door when he heard his name spoken, and held the old woman who stood within in a steady gaze. He tended to share Gen's wariness toward people like the faun. Freeport was a truly wondrous place, where peoples and races of all kinds could live side by side as they wished, but this sort of permissive culture inevitably came with a host of suspicious characters like this... woman. Unlike his young commander, however, Quentin played the role of diplomat almost as well as that of a soldier. If she had been dealing with Gen Wolfbane instead of his lieutenant, the faun would have likely faced narrow glares and heated, suspicious questions. For his part, the older mercenary simply stood up and dusted his hands off before he addressed her in a professionally neutral tone, "I'm told you were the first to discover the body, and that you knew about the murder even before that." Ever the conversationalist. "What information can you give me?"

Before she could answer the question, another person appeared in the doorway behind the faun's right shoulder and addressed him as well, this time a dark-haired human in his mid- to late-twenties. "Mr. Drakmoor, thank you for coming on such short notice. Step inside - both of you." Quentin waved the two people in the doorway into the room, and took a step back from the grisly mess of dried blood on the floor. Here was another person neither he nor Master Captain Wolfbane entirely trusted. As far as they could tell, the new arrival in Freeport wasn't much more than another tomb robber who dressed himself up as an academic. He seemed to know quite a lot about certain things, however. Hopefully enough to make him useful to the investigation. "Give it a look and see what you can find out. I noticed some marks in the blood, some kind of brush or feather run through it before it dried. No assassin's guild or criminal organization in these parts has such a practice, but I've heard rumours that some on the mainland do."

[Striker]

Elsyria stepped out of the doorway and into the room accompanied by the soft clip-clop of her hooves and the light jingling of the bells intertwined in her horns. She seemed completely unbothered by the grisly sight which littered the middle of the room. She stepped daintily around the dried blood until she stood on the opposite side of the limp, lifeless form from the acting Freeport militia commander and only then did she take notice of the man who had entered behind her, turning to offer him a serene sort of smile. The fact that this was a murder investigation didn't seem to have affected her at all. Though her manner was much subdued, she didn't seem nearly as somber as the rest of the people in the room. Her greeting to the newcomer neatly illustrated that.

"How clever of you Quentin," she purred softly to the acting militia commander without taking her eyes off Azrael as he crossed into the room behind her. "To summon a mainlander to assist you in your investigation. I'm surprised that you have one in your keeping, it's so rare they travel this way." By the way Elsyria was looking at Azrael with her sparkling silver tinged blue eyes, it was clear that she was almost as intrigued by him as he was with the strange island he had come to research.

Her notice passed over the mainlander relatively quickly, however, and whether she had inferred where he had come from based on Quentin's summons and inquiry or some deeper form of magic was left a mystery for the time being. Elsyria turned her serene visage in the investigator's direction and tilted her head ever so slightly to one side, once again causing the bells to jangle lightly, their music far too bright for the grim situation. "As for what I can tell you, my dear Quentin, the answer is much; but is it what you will want to hear? That is the question you should ask yourself."

Those who were familiar with the faun were used to her mannerisms. While many would (and did) roll their eyes at her apparent posturing, this was simply how the woman was. Many learned to grit their teeth and bear it, others simply learned to avoid the woman at all costs, but anyone seeking a serious (or as serious as she ever got anyway) answer from the faun, had to deal with everything that came along with that answer. It seemed that Elsyria was finally ready to get down to business, however, and she fell silent, instead kneeling down beside the dead form on the floor and lightly reaching out to brush the cold, rigid form with the tips of her fingers. Her hand came to rest somewhere near where the killing wound had been struck and her eyes grew vague and distant as if she were looking at something far away.

After several moments of silence, the faun began to speak again, in much the same disjointed, lyrical way she had when she had discovered the room with the dead body inside. "The knife strikes without malice," she breathed, her eyes still focused on some faraway vision visible only to her. "Duty, precision, pride... Eyes like a cat in the dark of night..." Her lips parted as if she was about to say more, but she stopped short of saying anything more, her very breath frozen on her lips. Her distant eyes widened.

A moment passed where the faun seemed frozen in time. Then she inhaled sharply, the sound of the sharp intake of breath seeming to break the spell over her and she looked up at Quentin Sygarius, her eyes once more focused on him properly. "This killer will strike again." She announced, her silver tinged blue eyes practically burning a hole in the acting militia commander's head, daring him to challenge her chilling prophecy.

[Azrael]

It likely would have been hard for Azrael to believe that the faun was as intrigued with him as he was with these islands, especially with such a magnificent, weird creature standing right before his eyes to stoke his curiosity even higher. He didn't really notice her when he first arrived at the room, being too busy shaking the rainwater off the shoulders and hood of his cloak to discern that she wasn't just a normal old woman. When she stepped fully into the room and the whole of her strange, half-bestial form came into his view, however, he suddenly found his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he believed what he was looking at was a satyr, or one of the mountain-dwelling goat men, both of which he'd encountered in great numbers in his travels before now, and he was mildly curious as to how one not only ended up here, but was apparently indigenous. It only took a cursory second glance for the adventurer to realise that this woman was neither of those creatures, but something new and different entirely.

As Elsyria knelt over the lifeless body of the victim and began to speak her chilling prophecy, Azrael, who rather seemed to enjoy it all, fished his tattered old notebook out of his pocket and began to scribble a few notes. When the faun's voice fell away, a dark, sombre silence fell over the room for several moments, where the only sound to be heard was the scritch-scratch of the dark-haired mainlander writing in his journal. The heavy stillness was finally lifted when Azrael looked up again and his azure gaze focused on Elsyria. "Ma'am, if you're available later, I would love to speak with you at length. I've never encountered a species quite like yours, and I'd like to learn more about you and your kind - homeland, culture, diet, mating and reproductive practices, anatomy, social structure..."

A rather impatient-sounding grunt from Quentin brought the adventurer up short. Ah, right. Business first. Azrael quickly marked a few pages in his book to dedicate to further inquiry into the faun, then stuffed it back into his pocket and approached the gruesome cadaver with an apologetic look for the acting militia commander. It was far from his first time being near a dead body, though his boyish features did blanch slightly when he crouched down and the potent smell of dried blood permeating the corpse hit him. "Er, sorry about that. Well, I would have to say the lady is right: this is most likely a paid hit rather than a murder exactly. Someone definitely ran what looks like a feather through the blood when it was fairly fresh, either the killer or a cleaner who might have rearranged the scene of the crime - while leaving the body as a message perhaps - to throw off investigation.

"I know of a few guilds, orders, brotherhoods and the like from across the Sea who keep practices like this. The main purpose of it is usually for evidence that the killer successfully carried out their assignment, but it is a clue being left behind, and the perpetrators have to be mindful of that. What that usually means is that the organization has reason to believe it's powerful, well-connected, or secretive enough that local authorities and rivals won't be able to touch them. Smaller, more vulnerable organizations wouldn't likely take the risk."

[Striker]

Elsyria seemed to recover quickly from her own chilling prophecy. For a brief moment while her eyes were still wide and the breath still caught in her throat she seemed a pale thing, a fragile thing, a figure made of porcelain that might shatter if it was allowed to fall. Even in her aged, crone form, Elsyria was lovely. Age did not show on her kind the way it did in humans. It was the faded colors of her skin, fur and hair that showed her advanced age, along with a sort of crease at the corners of her eyes and mouth. There were not the deep wrinkles of aged humans, she did not haunch over or move with the sort of pains that often accompanied human aging. She seemed instead an ancient thing, a wise thing.

But she recovered from her fragility quickly. She sucked in a deep breath. Her face calmed and once more she seemed serene, unbothered by the sinister warning she had just spoken. There even seemed the briefest hint of a smile on her serene lips. It was always a pleasure for her, after all, to ply her trade, even if the words she spoke struck cold fear into the hearts of those that heard them. There was always a price for seeking to know that which could only be seen with the second site. She often cautioned those who sought her knowledge that they may not like the answer that they found - just as she had cautioned the acting militia commander before she had bent to touch the body.

Now that she had plied her trade and given him what he'd asked for, she was content to turn her attention elsewhere. Likely she would have just wandered from the room and gone off to whatever other strange things it was she did with her spare time, except that as she turned away from the body she took notice of the notebook the mainlander had pulled forth. Her eyes glittered with curiosity as he began his barrage of questions. While many would have been quite taken aback or even offended by many of the highly personal - and rather rude - questions which he asked, Elsyria instead seemed highly amused.

Her answer to his queries was to cross the room in that subtly graceful way that only a faun could, her long animal-like legs crossing in front of each other as she moved in a way that could quite clearly be characterized as suggestive. She kept moving until she was standing very close to Azrael and then without pausing she sidled up close to him, twisting and pressing her shoulder against his chest. When she turned her head up to him, her silver laced blue eyes shining, she was no longer the aged looking sage she had been a moment before, but she was once again young and lovely. Her skin was a bright shade of blue, her fur shining silver, her hair golden brown, the creases at her eyes and lips gone. Her horns too were gone and in their place was a set of antlers, the same string of bells strung across them lightly and singing their light, high song with every movement she made. She blinked up at him innocently, though that innocence was betrayed by the mischievous smile which danced upon her lips.

"So you are interested in our mating rituals, hmm?" She practically purred. "I would be more than happy to show them to you -"

Quentin's impatient grunt brought Elsyria's attention back to the investigator and the matter at hand as surely and as swiftly as it brought Azreal to task, and as quickly as her attention was taken from the mainlander, so too did her form revert back to the wise old sage it had been before she had taken on that lovely form and flirtatious tone. She seemed quite impressed with Azrael's sharp observations. After all, he had gotten all of that after what had appeared to be nothing more than a cursory glance. Obviously he not only had a strong grasp of the situation, but a very detailed knowledge about a great many things... as was evidenced by his extreme curiosity the moment he took notice of her.

Her attention was no longer on the mainlander, however, it was once again focused on the acting Freeport militia commander, though she waited for Azrael to finish before she added her own impressions to the conversation. "If you ask me, my dear Quentin Sygarius," she said, "I don't think the question you should be asking is who killed this man? I think instead you should be asking; who wanted this man killed and perhaps even why."

[Myuu]

Htd. stumbled forward a step when Azrael collided with him, blinking in surprise. His shoulders tensed, his fingers twitched, ready to seek one of his hidden weapons, more out of instinct than anything.
But when the other gentleman offered a personable apology, Htd. straightened quickly, giving a half-bow from the waist, tipping an imaginary hat. "Quite alright, good sir." He replied amicably, turning to watch as Azrael made his way into the inn.
Well, then!

He stepped forward, feigning confusion when one of the soldiers that had responded to the incident barred his way with an arm and brandished weapon.
"The inn is closed," the soldier almost snapped, and Htd. couldn't blame him. After all, who wanted to be standing watch over a building holding a dead body, on such a gloriously rainy day?
"I beg your pardon?" Htd. blinked his peculiarly silver eyes, stepping back and adjusting the high collar of his coat.
"You can beg all you like, but you'll have to move along. You heard me, the inn is closed. Get on, now!"

Htd. paused. His silvery eyes swept upward to the clock that overlooked the city, and he glanced down, checking the position of his shadow upon the ground. "I'm... Terribly sorry, but it seems that I'm still quite within this fine establishment's hours of operation, and I would very much like to speak to the innkeeper."
"There's no business happening here today!" The soldier barked back, patience clearly having been worn. "Move on, now, before I have to move you myself."
"That sounded peculiarly like a threat, sir." The assassin replied coolly, stepping forward again, the weight of the air around him growing heavy, as the air before a storm often did. "Your business is yours, and mine, too, is my own. I no longer wish to speak to you. I want a room, I want breakfast, and I want sleep, after the travels that have brought me here."
The soldier eyed him with a bridled sort of fury, his jaw working for a moment before he managed words. "You want to see the innkeep?" He paused, spat at the ground. "Fine! I'll take you to him and you can let it steal sleep from your nights from now on!"
A harsh gesture and sharp word brought a fellow soldier to the door, to replace the one with whom Htd. spoke.
Behind the collar of his coat, Htd. smirked.

The first floor of the inn had become a refuge for crying maids and the excess soldiers who didn't seem to know what to do with themselves. The man that Htd. had spoken with wasted no time in crossing to the stairs, and the chipper assassin followed, with a spring in his step.
The hallway of the second floor was clogged with workers who were more bold, daring to peek into the scene of the crime, pushed away by the men trying to investigate. A man who must have been the innkeeper stood beside the open doorway, speaking in low tones to an older woman, whom Htd. would assume to be the man's wife.

"Here!" The soldier that led the way almost spat the single word, turning to give Htd. a most pointed glare. "Do your business and then be on your way, I have no more time to deal with your petty insistence!"
"But of course." Htd. agreed pleasantly, tugging at his collar once again, striding forward at an easy pace. He stopped mid-stride past the door, leaning back to peer in at the bloody scene he'd left behind. One dark brow lifted, and he shifted backward, turning to step into the room with the rest of the investigators.

"Oh, dear." He frowned, clasping his hands behind his back, slipping past both Azrael and the faun, and past the man he'd heard referred to as Quentin Sygarius. He'd been just in time to catch the last of Elsyria's cryptic method of speech, and he found himself smiling vaguely, beneath the cloth that hid the lower half of his face.
"It seems to be a rather messy kill. It must have looked so different, in the moonlight... If there was any moonlight at all."

He spoke to himself, rather than to anyone else, his eyes darting around the room, soaking it all in. Normally, the blood pooled differently. The sweep of the feather would have been nigh unnoticeable, in all the mess. What had been different, this time? He tilted his head, striding past the body to stand by the window. It was still wet, where the rain had poured in. Slowly, he sank into a half-crouch, looking between the body and the window behind him, moving forward to retrace steps that only he remembered.

The man hadn't been killed upon the floor, such would have made too much noise. He'd been asleep at the time, as any man should have been, at that hour. Htd. slipped closer to the bed, straightening slowly, giving a small sigh. "No, that can't be right. How did he end up there?"
He retreated, oblivious to the others in the room, retracing his steps from the window once again. One hand wielded an imaginary knife. His movements were slower, more precise, and yet he added clumsiness. He paused at the bedside, moving his arm in a slow, sweeping way, aiming his imaginary weapon. Three inches below the ribs. Hard, fast. The knife had bitten deep, the internal bleeding heavy. The knife had been tilted to puncture one lung. The man been sleeping face down - The pillow had muffled any noise he might have made. Htd. nodded slightly, drawing the blankets back from the bed, exposing the blood that stained the sheets. Whether or not they'd investigated that part, he didn't know.

"Yes, that's right. And then pulled to the floor to bleed out, lest the fabric stifle the wound." He mused, straightening up, tilting his head to look down at the body on the floor. "And who would want such a man dead? What does a lonely stranger in a lonely inn have that makes them worth killing? Money? Fame?" His eyes narrowed, and he stepped back. Any words spoken to him were ignored - His mind was fully occupied by the puzzle that had now laid itself out before him.
Something beneath the bed caught his eye, and he leaned over - Sideways, from the waist, until his view was quite upside-down.

"Knowledge," he breathed. A small book was just beneath the edge of the bed. He drew it out carefully, crouching on the floor. His peculiarities were enough to perhaps rival Elsyria's, on a good day. "That's what you had. Isn't it." Htd. murmured, unfastening the string that held the book closed, letting it fall open to the first page it may.

A single name, scrawled in the middle of the page. And a plain white feather, flattened and smooth, from being pinched between the pages.
Htd.'s eyes widened, and he sat down on the floor.
The man was an assassin.
He'd been sent to kill one of their own.
Why?
The word echoed in his head.
Why would this happen? Who could take out a contract on one of us? How could this be allowed? To kill one of our own - It's against the tenets of the guild!
He swallowed thickly, turning his gaze down to the one name on the page, the target that feather had been meant for.
"Kw.... Kwuh..."

Htd. paused, clearing his throat. "Excuse me," his voice lifted, somewhat shakily, acknowledging the people in the room with him for the first time... Finally.
"One of you will... Will have to help me, I'm afraid I... don't really know how to read."
He held the book up awkwardly, gesturing it as if to offer it to the faun, the adventurer, or the milita's acting commander.
Of course, had Htd. known what was scrawled upon the page, he might not have been so hasty to offer it up.
After all, it was Quentin Sygarius's own name, that the pristine white feather was meant for.

[Frosty]

Compared to his commander, the mercenary officer Quentin Sygarius was an unshakable tower of calm and patience, but with the entrance of yet another person onto the scene of a murder investigation, even he was beginning to grow impatient. What is this, a traveling circus? he wondered silently as his sharp eyes followed every move the man in the high-collared coat made. Htd.'s hypothetical re-enactment of the incident that led to the victim's gruesome death, not to mention his apparently intimate knowledge of how and why these sorts of things were carried out, impressed the militia soldier, and at the same time aroused his suspicion. As consummate a professional as the mercenary was, however, he allowed neither of these inward feelings to bleed through to his stern expression.

His features remained unmoved even when the newcomer found the book under the victim's bed, and deduced that the man laying cold and dead on the floor beside them was himself an assassin who had been sent to kill someone. When he accepted the book from Htd.'s hands and read the name scribed onto the open page, however, his composure finally slipped as a flash of naked shock passed across his features. "This is my name," he all but growled. "This man was supposed to kill me. What is this, some kind of internal feud?"

[Striker]

Elsyria really was disappointed when someone else swept into the room, neatly interrupting the investigation before they could settle things and she could turn her attention back to flirting with the cute little mainlander who had asked her all of those questions about her mating rituals. It really was a shame, since he had seemed quite interested in her despite the matter at hand, but she hid her disappointment well and, after a few moments of watching Htd. cross the room muttering about how the murder might have happened, it was forgotten about completely. The old faun was used to flitting about from thing to thing as the wind changed directions, and her fascination with Azrael and his questions was replaced with a fascination of this new stranger.

Though to the others, Htd. must have seemed quite mad, his actions all seemed perfectly normal and reasonable to Elsyria. Perhaps it was true that like minds called to like minds, and perhaps since she would be prone to doing such a thing herself, she didn't find it at all unusual to watch someone else re-enact what must have played out the night before. In fact, as the man crossed from the window to the bed, Elsyria could almost see the night before... the rain pooling inside the open window, the strike in the darkness, the attempts to muffle the noise and hide the deed which had been done here. For a moment she almost thought she was watching it play out before her very eyes... but then the moment passed and she was jolted back to reality just as Htd. pulled the book from under the bed and breathed the word knowledge. Her eyes fixed on the snowy white feather that lay inside the book and her hooves clicked on the floor as she crossed to stand beside him, leaning down to pull the feather free of the binding.

"The only thing left to speak of the poor one's plight, Blood, tears and the feather of a bird purest white." She chanted her own words, the very same words she had spoken outside of the door that morning when the murder had first been discovered. It was hard to tell if she was just now realizing the meaning of her own words, or if she had known all along what the cryptic prophecy might mean. She bent at the waist and lifted the snowy white feather, brushing it gently against the lower part of her face, resting it briefly in front of her lips as if would somehow draw forth another strange premonition from whatever place they came to her.

Sure enough, as the feather fell lightly against her aged skin, her silver-laced blue eyes clouded over as if she were looking at some far distant place and her voice came low softly just as it had when she had bent to touch the dead body. "A blade of dominion or a blade of preservation, a choice to be made, when the play for power is under taken..." Her voice was so low and soft it was hard to tell if anyone other than Htd. would be able to hear it at all. For the briefest of moments, it almost seemed as if she was talking to him, though a single glance at her eyes would be enough to reassure any one of them that she was not looking at him, but rather seemed to be looking right through him.

She moved almost as if in a trance, slowly rolling back up to a standing position. As she moved the feather was lowered from her face and her hand lightly brushed against Htd.'s shoulder. Just as it seemed she was about to say more, she blinked, and the mist seemed to clear from her eyes. This time she seemed to come back to herself more slowly, as if something had pulled her back from the brink of whatever strange place she went to when she spoke in this manner and she had not yet anchored herself to the proper reality once more. "He was one of them..." She mused aloud, as if she had not said anything previously, her tone once again normal, her voice once again loud enough that the others in the room could hear her.

But she seemed to loose interest in the feather rather quickly, holding it out for Htd. to take instead as her eyes locked on him. Now it did seem that she was looking into him, as if that brief contact had showed her something no one else but him could know. After a moment, however, the intensity seemed to fade and she left the precious evidence back in his care, the serene expression once more taking over her face. "Another scholar? How lucky of us that you stumbled upon our plight. You seem to have extensive knowledge in this area. Have you ever worked as a criminal investigator?" Her voice lowered ever so slightly, and this time it was clear she meant to share something just between the two of them. "I can see how knowledge would be precious for one who has lost a part of himself."

No sooner had she spoken the words, however, than did Quentin come forward to read from the page and the faun fell away, allowing him to pass. She circled the foot of the bed and lightly sat down on the edge of it, apparently unbothered by the fact that a man had just been murdered there a few hours before. Once again she seemed to take the news that someone had been hired to kill Quentin Sygarius, right hand to the Militia Commander of Freeport, in stride, as if this were not at all surprising. Certainly it seemed as normal to her as Htd.'s sudden entrance into the room and his discovery of this important bit of information.

"But it's odd isn't it?" She said before anyone else could offer an answer to his question. "Why you? Why not Gen. It's Gen who's got all of the real power. And he's not going to be gone for very long, everyone knows that.

"Unless..." She went on before anyone could answer her question, "Killing you now would leave the management of Freeport's law affairs rather unmanned. Someone could take advantage of the chaos to seize momentary power until Gen came back to clean up the mess while everyone scrambled over who was in charge, and by the time Gen managed to get everything back in order, someone could slip quite a few things by the eyes of the Militia.

"But perhaps, whoever had this man killed didn't just want temporary power. If you were killed, it would make it too difficult to take on the person they really want out of the way." When she had finished following her own thoughts through to conclusion, her expression was just as serene as it had been when she started, as if she was completely unaware of the implications she had just made about the danger the Freeport Militia commander might be in upon his return from the impromptu rescue mission.

[Azrael]

Unlike the militia's second-in-command, Azrael viewed the strange newcomer's arrival and re-enactment with interest more than suspicion. He also didn't bother to hide that fact as his cerulean gaze followed him around the small inn room, hand sweeping an invisible knife or some other weapon this way and that. The person seemed quite knowledgeable in matters like this; certainly more so than he was. He could probably be very useful in the investigation, the adventurer reasoned silently. Based on initial impressions, it looked to Azrael like the stranger had a background of some kind in the sort of work that went on in this room mere hours ago. In itself, of course, that was somewhat suspicious, but he doubted the perpetrator of last night's murder would be brazen or foolish enough to stroll right back into the scene of the crime while the militia's deputy commander was performing an investigation.

Intrigue turned into outright astonishment when it was not only revealed that the victim laying cold and pale at their feet was an assassin himself, but that his target had been none other than Quentin Sygarius. This just got interesting. The adventurer's raven brows furrowed thoughtfully, casting a shadow over his now-unfocused eyes. "It could be a split within the organization - and indeed, we now know for sure that there is an organization at work here. But it could just as easily be two rival groups. Professional assassination is an industry just like brewing or carpentry, and there are certain industry standards at least tacitly agreed upon by various guilds. The feather is a commonly accepted form of evidence for completion of a contract, and many groups use it. One may want to create chaos in the militia's ranks as a step to seizing some kind of power for themselves or a benefactor, as the good lady said, while another's interest is in maintaining the status quo."

Azrael shook his head, and raked his fingers through his dark, rain-dampened hair. There were no answers to find here. Only more questions. The feather, at least, was an invaluable clue to uncovering the true identity of the group or groups behind this. "If we can work out which species of bird this feather came from," he reasoned aloud, "we'll likely discover where his orders originated. There may be an expert at the university who could help us. I've got to pay a visit to the town archives housed there anyhow.

"It's been said that this dark work is an art, but in reality it's more of a language. The act itself doesn't bring about results, but rather the message conveyed by the act. What's being played out here is a difference of opinion. Between whom and over what - that's the key."

[Myuu]

Htd. glanced up when Elsyria joined him. What little could be seen of his face seemed to be glowing, and when she reached for the feather, he held the book a little higher so she could reach it with ease. When those cryptic words escaped her lips, however, barely above a whisper, his strange silvery eyes narrowed. "You are a very wise woman indeed..." he breathed the words behind the collar that hid his face.
He watched her expression, almost cautiously, as he reached to take the feather back from her grasp, his eyes settling on it again. There were not many that used white. That alone narrowed down the options of where the order had originated.

When the faun spoke again, though, his expression brightened again. "Why, yes, I am a scholar. Thank you for noticing! It's the coat, right? The tailcoat gives the 'educated and sophisticated' feeling. Right?" He patted the breast of his coat cheerfully, before giving a slight nod. "Ah, yes, as a matter of fact, I have worked in forms of criminal investigation, though I have not often had the privilege of seeing such a sight as this. If you can call it a privilege, that is." His tone was slightly rueful, if still chipper. But when Elsyria's voice dropped to words that were meant only for him, his eyes slowly slipped out of focus.

She knew.
She knew about him, his thoughts, the chaos in his mind. What else did she know? His blood cooled, his heart quickened. Perhaps coming back had been a mistake. Perhaps the moment's entertainment had been a terrible idea after all. And yet, this - Seeing another asssassin as his target? With the same white feather. What did it mean?
And how much did she know?

And that was when Quentin Sygarius spoke. Htd. was infinitely grateful for the sudden interruption to his thoughts.
"Is it your name?" Htd. sounded surprised at Quentin's remark, lifting a brow. "I suppose I wouldn't know, since I don't believe we've been introduced!" He left the book and the feather in Quentin's hands, rising quickly and giving a smooth mock-bow. "My name is written H-T-D-period, but how you pronounce it is entirely up to you. Alternatively, I welcome nicknames, as long as they are tasteful in nature."

He paused then, listening to the theories that both the elegant faun and the apparent investigator put forth. He shook his head vigorously, after a moment, looking down to the bloodstains on the floor. "It is most certainly not rival guilds. Both jobs were issued the same feather, the order came from the same group."
And I already turned my feather in. The realization was a moment late, and Htd. cleared his throat, turning back to the acting commander of the militia, plucking the feather from the book once again.
"That is- As you can see," he demonstrated, kneeling beside the dried blood on the floor, sweeping the feather as if to draw it through the blood, though he did not allow it to touch. "The marks on the floor are the exact same width as this feather is. The mark from the quill is in the same place, as well. Among the guilds that use feathers for the sealing of a contract, said feathers also symbolize something."

Htd. paused then, twirling the feather against the collar of his coat, pressing it to his lips through the fabric. "It depends on the guild, but these two orders obviously originated from the same. That makes a divide within the guild more likely, and yet..." His eyes narrowed. "The feather given is representative of someone. Either the assassin sent to make the kill, or the one who issued the order. This fellow," he nodded toward his fallen brethren, solemnly, "does not really strike me as the sleek white feather type."
And so the man was not. Slightly chubby, slowly balding. More of a merchant in appearance, than an assassin. But the guild did take all sorts.

Htd. stood then, offering the feather to Azrael, before he continued. "Since the feathers provided seem to match, I'd say the former is more likely, but why would the issuer send an assassin to strike down an assassin that had been given the same token...?" Hesitation gave way to frustration. He sighed deply, giving his head a slight shake.

"Quite peculiar, in any case." He finished finally, seeming more introspective and thoughtful, once again. "Determining what sort of fowl it was taken from may indeed be a good step to take. It may also indicate the rank of whoever it was that was issuing these contracts. I must admit, I'm quite curious, myself. In all of the investigations I've worked in, I've never seen such intrigue as this. I'm quite interested in knowing what would cause such a divide, or a drastic change in orders. Why kill a fellow assassin, rather than simply sending a comrade in arms to discuss the matter?"

His silver eyes shifted with the light, before they seemed to take on a sparkle of their own. "I don't suppose I would be allowed to accompany you to this university? Aside from my inability to read, my ability to retain the spoken word may prove quite helpful. If not, of course, I would only seek to satiate my own curiosity for this matter. But most importantly," he stopped there, turning to look out into the hallway. "Where did the innkeeper go? Now that this is properly underway, could I please get a room to stay in?!"

[Frosty]

More than anything, and certainly more than being afraid for his life, Quentin was irritated by the revelation that he was the target of the apparent assassin now laying dead at his feet. With nearly forty years of life in this world tucked under his belt, he was wise enough by now to realise that such a plot was a calculated attack on the Freeport Militia, perhaps on Freeport itself; he was consequential to the scheme as simply a means to achieve the desired end. Being condescended to in such a way wasn't what got to him, though. What skinned his nerves raw was the idea of someone using him as an instrument for disrupting order in the city. While he might have been neither as idealistic nor passionate in his affection for Freeport as his young commander was, he was no less loyal to it. This city was his home, and if there was one thing he could not stand, it was people coming into his home to stir up trouble.

Quentin's expression became no less grim when Elsyria fell back into her distressingly prophetic ramblings, and the shadow cast over his eyes by his furrowed brows grew even darker when she moved on to her analysis of the situation. "You're right," he answered the faun's speculation in a grudging tone. "After Master Captain Wolfbane and myself, responsibility for command of the militia next falls to the various company lieutenants and ship captains. Every one of them able and intelligent leaders who ought to be able to eventually organize themselves in the face of a crisis without us, but there would still be an initial moment of confusion. Someone could do a lot of damage in that moment, if they knew it was coming."

The Freeport Militia's second-in-command rose from his crouch with a low grunt and dusted off his hands. "I'll leave it to you three how you wish to proceed with this. Meanwhile, the militia will continue its own investigation," he declared, passing his cool, steady gaze over each of the room's other occupants one by one. "Remember - I want you to gather information and pass it along to us, only. This is all still a great mystery to all of us, so don't rush blindly into trouble."

[Myuu]

"Excellent!" Htd. exclaimed cheerfully, giving Quentin a quite friendly slap on the back. "I'm glad we've got all that settled, then."
Never mind that they'd settled nothing at all. Neither Azrael nor the faun Elsyria had gotten a word in edgewise, before he was speaking again.
"I suppose we'd best get out of the way, then, so that the scene of the crime can be cleaned up! It seems I won't be getting anything to eat here, with how ruffled the feathers of the staff seem to be, so it'll be off to the city with me. At least I know there'll be an empty room here tonight," he added the last, quite humorlessly.

"Since we're all in agreement, I'll meet you, and of course the lovely lady, tomorrow." he paused to nod to Azrael and Elsyria respectively. "Noon sharp beneath that remarkable clock-tower, would you say?" He paused a half-second, as if to let a response, but then nodded and continued regardless.
"If anyone is in need of me, I'll be scouting out some proper food, and perhaps drop in to say hello to a friend or two in town while I'm out. Good day." Htd. gestured as if to tip a hat, and then stepped out of the room as briskly as though his boots were afire.
He hop-skipped his way down the stairs and back out into the street, breathing deeply of the fresh air. It was nice to get a good lungful after the dull, heavy iron scent of blood that he'd been breathing inside.
And with his chest cleared, all that left to clear was his head.

Whatever cheerfulness he'd had was quick to evaporate, though, as soon as he started down the street. The new knowledge he had weighed on his shoulders as a heavy burden, a dark cloud that dampened his mind and spirits, and seemed to ward away the people in Freeport's busy streets.
Why?
The single question kept echoing in his mind. Try as he might to run through everything he did know, he kept circling back to having nothing at all.
Why would it be risked?
And why was I chosen for it?
More than anything, it made him angry. It was important information about the job, about his target, which should have been disclosed. What if the target hadn't been asleep when he entered? What if the sound of the storm hadn't masked the sound of his entry? He could have been the one lying dead in that room, instead of the poor fool who was.

Perhaps they meant for it to be me.
The thought came so suddenly that it made him uncomfortable. He barely realized he'd still been walking until that idea caused him to stop.
Blindly, he'd found his way back to the house of his contact. Now he found himself staring up at the building bitterly, trying to remember the path he'd taken.
Had it been too obvious? Too easy to follow? Frankly, he didn't care. Htd. gritted his teeth, pounding on the door with enough force to make it shudder.

The instant that the butler opened the door, Htd. shoved his way inside.
"Take me to your master. Now." He demanded. The gleam in his strange silver eyes cut short any sound the man would have made.
"R-right away, sir," the butler stammered out finally, closing the door and locking it soundly before he turned to lead the way to the library.
Htd. hardly waited for the door to the library to open, before he slipped inside, tramping mud carelessly across the fine carpet.

"You knew about this! Who was he? Why wasn't this disclosed in the contract?" He demanded, almost surprised at the strength of his own voice.
"Patience." The single word that came from the old gentleman, still in his wing-backed chair, was calm and precise. The resolve in that one word was almost enough to make Htd. falter.
Slowly, he closed the book that laid before him, lifting his bespectacled eyes. "You're never supposed to return to a contact after the corresponding contract has been fulfilled."
"And you're never supposed to accept a contract on the head of a brother, either!" Htd. spat back, feeling heat rising in his collar. "Why wasn't I told?! He could have killed me before I had a chance to strike!"
"And yet he did not, whitefeather." The gentleman chuckled softly, steepling his fingers before himself.

Htd. paused, almost at a loss for words. "It's against the tenets of the guild to strike down another assassin of our clan. His feather was white as well. For accepting this contract, which you had delivered to me, I now face the possibility of execution."
"And for accepting any contract, you risk execution as well. You're only safe as long as nobody finds out." The contact smiled grimly, the gleam in his eyes enough to push the young assassin before him to silence.
Stunned, Htd. swallowed, slowly sinking into the chair that opposed the contact before him.

"That's right, sit down. And you're wrong, at least partially - Your target was not a whitefeather, the command was issued from one of your peers. There was little risk that he could have struck you down, your ability seems to be far superior. He was but a fledgling in our little group." The gentleman grinned toothily, leaning back in his chair with a wave of his hand. "Regardless, this information was kept private for a reason."
"And because your superior made you the contact for this mission, they were fully aware that the man I was to kill was one of our own." Htd. protested.
The older man's expression looked briefly strained, but he forced it to relax. "I answer to the eagles alone." He replied, dryly.
Htd. opened his mouth as if to speak, though it was hidden by the collar of his white jacket. He hesitated, and then thought better, letting his gaze fall to the floor. "I've fallen into this, master. I must know the extent of it, or I would rather face separation from the guild."
The contact lifted a brow, gazing across the small table between them for a long time, before he gave a slight nod. "Very well," he agreed, quietly.

He raised a hand, calling in the butler that waited at the door.
"Bring food, and tea, and plan dinner for myself and our guest." The gentleman called out, a dark sort of smile creeping across his face. "You will be staying for dinner, of course." He told Htd., matter-of-factly.
"You and I have much now to discuss."

[Azrael]

As he watched the strange man in the high-collar coat suddenly sweep out of the room, puzzling at his odd behaviour and quirky demeanour, Azrael couldn't help but wonder in the back of his mind if he hadn't thrown himself into a situation beyond his depth. It was a simple enough matter when the militia had asked him to help investigate a suspicious murder scene, but with the revelation of a second feather and the name of the Master Captain's aide-de-camp written in a journal found under the victim's bed, this strange but otherwise un-noteworthy murder was starting to look like it was only one part of a much larger and deadlier game being played out in the shadows of Freeport.

The adventurer preferred to avoid this kind of political intrigue whenever possible, but it looked like he was out of luck this time. He badly needed to build a foundation of trust between himself and the militia if he was going to be able to do his work in this city, and backing out when he'd agreed to help Quentin Sygarius with this problem wasn't the best way to do that. Regardless of the trouble this investigation was likely to cause for him, there wasn't much choice but for Azrael to move forward. "Well," he broke the silence that had fallen upon the room with Htd.'s departure once the man had passed out of sight, "As good as a decent meal sounds to me, it looks like I've got some business to take care of at the university."

Azrael collected the feather and the book, carefully placing both in his satchel to protect them from the wind and rain outside, then turned his attention to Elsyria. "I could use an extra set of hands, if you care to come along," he asked of the faun, then chuckled. "Though it'd mean choosing between spending your day in a stuffy room filled with dusty old records, or with a scholar who's likely to ask all sorts of probing questions."