The Shattered City: Chapter Two

[lostboy]

After a quick frisk through the mans pockets Nicholas comes up for air, putting his hand to his mouth and giving a dry retch as he steps back with the fruits of his search.

Shaking his head to clear the scent of death from his nostrils he holds up the booty for the others "Money, a well worn knife, and a ring of keys... keys I would presume are for his quarters on the Archeron." He looks carefully at the body for moment then adds "Beyond that nothing of real import, and no lingering arcane essence. But I am almost certain he died in the same manner as the attempt on Cedolin, someone converted the substance of the drink into broken glass."

"I would suggest we hang onto certainly the keys and at least one of the Hazlani coins, I care not for the rest. I may be have been called many things but I would deeply detest the label of graverobber."

[Kaitou Kage]

Cyrus snorted at his brother.

"March 11 was the night of Mytteri," he retorted, "The night the rest of us went to the Gallery and you decided to run off on your own."

He snatched the book back from his brother and looked at the last entry again. His tattooed brow furrowed sharply. "if my memory is correct," he frowned, "7:45 PM is roughly when we found Chastel's body. The lack of further entries is likely because she didn't write them, not because people haven't died. But this...If this is her book then either someone else wrote the entry or she knew her own death was coming."

The dommer's shaded gaze snapped up to Petrik. "Atropos means death in what language?" he asked. "Does it have any other symbolic significance?"

Is there a check thta could be done to see if the handwriting is all the same?

[Nathan of the FoS]

"Oh, that's right, the night of Mytteri...well, that was momentous, anyway..."

Darius takes the book back and flips through it again. "Obviously she didn't write all of this herself...if the book belonged to her at all. It must have been somehow ensorcelled to record each death in...Port-a-Lucine? Dementlieu?..."

Passing it back to Cyrus, he continues, "That's a powerful bit of necromancy and divination. If the last entry refers to Mme. Chastel, it would seem the book drew to a close with her death; if it refers to the mystical blow made against Dementlieu at that time...perhaps the enchantments which enabled it to detect the deaths of individuals were disrupted by the attack on Dementlieu?"

It is just a little too crazy to suggest that the museum curator might have been the lady with the shears herself, so Darius resolutely doesn't bring that up.

[Kaitou Kage]

Cyrus plucked the book disdainfully from his brother's hands. He'd been looking around again while Darius had the book and once he got the book back he turned to the last page again.

"All of the handwriting in this book is the same," the dommer observed, "But it is not Chastel's handwriting. Perhaps an observer, someone with keen interest in the deaths of this land."

He scowled again at nothing in particular.

[DocBeard]

"Take one of each denomination of Hazlani coin." Tomas suggests, "No more. It's a bad enough risk of rousing the man's spirit as it is, but perhaps the ghost will believe us when we say we intend to avenge his death..."

As much as Eisenwald enjoys the occasional bit of gallows humor, there was the distinct impression that this was not a joke. "Use a bag or a pair of gloves to handle the money, too. That's probably how our killer established the sympathetic connection."

Tomas then looks towards the two near-priests. "Either of you want to say a few words? The only atheist sailor is a liar."

(OOC: Are there any cheap crematoriums around?)

[Rock of the Fraternity]

"Atropos," Lia muses out loud. "A word of the Sithican language, if I am not mistaken. So Sithicus, Vechor, or one of the other countries where that language is common.

As for the meaning ... Yes, in the concrete sense it means death. But it is also the name of the third of the three Fates. Clotho to spin thread, Lachesis to measure its length, Atropos ... to cut it when Lachesis' measure had been reached. The other names do not appear to be directly familiar. I can check with the books at home, of course.

As for this tome being magical, I can have a look ..."

While the Mage gazes at the booklet, she continues to speak in that musing tone: "Interesting. Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos. And a letter from a 'C'. A triumvirate, perhaps?"

(OOC: Arcana check: 23.)

[lostboy]

Nicholas nods to Tomas, "an emminently sensible precaution." He rummages in his coat for a moment and pulls forth a pair of thin leather gloves, sliping them on he does as requested.

"Should we leave the rest of the coins on the body?" He asks looking up as a thought strikes him, "no offence to our friend Cedolin but do we want Gendarmes crawling all over the avenues of enquiry? Heaven knows what the red caps can scry afterall."

[NeoTiamat]

Museum, University of Dementlieu, Port-a-Lucine; Evening of March 24th, 770
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The dommer's shaded gaze snapped up to Petrik. "Atropos means death in what language?" he asked. "Does it have any other symbolic significance?"

"Atropos," Lia muses out loud. "A word of the Sithican language, if I am not mistaken. So Sithicus, Vechor, or one of the other countries where that language is common.

"There are communities of elves in Darkon that still use the language. There are others in Valacan. It is also used on the isle of Liffe," Professor Petrik said primly. She sniffed. "It is commonly spoken in Kartakass as well."

"The word means both death in the literal sense and personified. It has no means to differentiate between the two. The concepts are inseparable," she explained to Cyrus. "All words in Sithican share this trait."

Passing it back to Cyrus, he continues, "That's a powerful bit of necromancy and divination. If the last entry refers to Mme. Chastel, it would seem the book drew to a close with her death; if it refers to the mystical blow made against Dementlieu at that time...perhaps the enchantments which enabled it to detect the deaths of individuals were disrupted by the attack on Dementlieu?"

"Who, whoever made this book, and whoever the last name referred to, I don't, I don't think it could mean death in the literal sense," Richard said, looking slightly apprehensive. "I mean, I, I haven't seen anyone die personally, the attempt on the captain aside- wait! Mr. Castaigne mentioned the, the author, Pelay. It, it said in the paper he, he died yesterday. Whatever happened, it didn't, it didn't disrupt things that badly." Richard gave Darius a bit of a helpess look. "I, I suppose we should be glad? It, it seems like a horrible sentiment."

"Necromancy is, is very heavily restricted here, I think," he added, peering at the book. "But somehow I, I don't think whoever made this filled out the, the paperwork for it."

[Nerit]

Nerit nodded to Tomas and steeled herself by removing her hand from Alice's arm and straightening her back. She took a breath...

...and launched into a string of lilting Darkonese as she looked over the dead sailor. Her babble sounded like a brook, possibly with metal rocks. The language was an old, crotchety thing, very formal and full of "oos" and "et" sounds.

"...-orum... Misericordium....-abat...Domina..." She kissed her pendant and touched a finger to each of the corpse's eyes. Surprisingly, she did not seem finicky about it being a corpse, merely its condition.

She stepped away. "Lady of the Mists guide you now," she finished in Mordentish. It was all she could translate in the time given.

[yalenusveler]

Kerrian looked distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of officiating over a funeral. "May you join the spirits of your ancestors, and reside in peace, to watch over and guard the world" was said with all the gravitas that Kerrian could muster, which was actually quite a bit.

"I'm sorry everyone got so spooked...it was probably my fault." He said, looking down and distinctly away from the body. "I was convinced that whomever was doing this is using reflective surfaces to attack...probably using the Mirror Brilliant to do it." Tone shifting from gravitas to "Yeah, I know that sounds crazy."

[Cronax]

Once the surge of adrenaline involved in getting the body to a safe spot had resided, Mr. Agale succumbed to a mixture of shock and nausea. As a result, while his companions searched and debated the corpse, he was preoccupied with a bout of vomiting. Once his stomach had emptied and the worst subsided, he re-approached his fellows.

"I was convinced that whomever was doing this is using reflective surfaces to attack...probably using the Mirror Brilliant to do it."

"Interesting, we could take care not to imbibe or consume anything in the presence of a reflective surface." he said, stifling another dry heave. "The timing of the attack struck me as particularly convenient for our prey. Either he was being watched, in which case it baffles me why our perpetrators didn't dispose of him well before this, or he was under some sort of geas set off by his loose tongue. As for his burial, an aquatic one may be the most practical at this time of night."

[Nerit]

"No, Monsieur Agale. We are the ones being watched, can't you tell?" The nun, in that moment, was furious.

"We need to return to Devereux, and cover everything. Windows, mirrors..."

[The Whistler]

"One may similarly wonder at the significance of the starting date! June 19th, 693...such an innocuous-sounding day, but just as likely Fraught with Mystery..." Celeste pondered, for about three seconds.

[Nathan of the FoS]

"That was in the middle somewhere," Darius points out, Celeste having (for once) said something brief enough that he didn't lose track of what she was saying half-way through. Frowning slightly, he asks Cyrus, "What is the first date in the book, brother?"

[NeoTiamat]

Rue des Ferrats, Quartier Marchand, Port-a-Lucine; Evening of March 24th, 770
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"As for his burial, an aquatic one may be the most practical at this time of night."

This proved less difficult than expected. A quick shuffle under the cover of darkness, a lonely part of the docks, and the late Etienne Latour was dispatched as befit a seaman.

You watched the night sea for a moment, even as Latour sunk beneath the water. It was fully dark by now, the moon casting silvery light to play across the waves. Dozens of ships were moored along the waterfront, a creaking assembly of ships, the forest of masts looked eerily cadaverous in the night. Trees stripped of bark and leaves, covered with the faint dusting of snow.

As Latour sank, a bit of bird song began from nearby, the little red birds awoken by your actions and perhaps confused as to the time of day. They soon fell silent though, leaving only the howl of the wind. You took this as a sign to head home.

Museum, University of Dementlieu, Port-a-Lucine; Evening of March 24th, 770
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"That was in the middle somewhere," Darius points out, Celeste having (for once) said something brief enough that he didn't lose track of what she was saying half-way through. Frowning slightly, he asks Cyrus, "What is the first date in the book, brother?"

Opening the book back to the first page, one found that the earliest dates recorded within were those of the original settlers of Dementlieu. It was actually interesting what one could infer from the bare roll of dates and names. Lifespans were shorter then, and infant mortality markedly higher. But the deaths were much slower and sparser, reflecting a far smaller population base.

"It, it's a chronicle of human settlement in, in Dementlieu. Or part of Dementlieu, at, at least." Richard said, looking at the book over Cyrus's shoulder. This indeed seemed to be the case. "From the start, to, to the end. Or to earlier this, this month, at least."

Suddenly, a distant bell rung in the museum, and some muffled shouts sounded through the building. Petrik lifted her head from contemplation of the little, black-bound book.

"That is the closing bell." The music professor sniffed. "You had best leave. I shall continue my work."

You took the book with you as you departed. No one was going to miss it, hopefully, and this was a mystery that deserved continued study.

Please don't ask me for exact dates for the start. Suffice to say it's old and stretch's back to Leon's day, but I really don't want to get into the details of Dementlieuse False History if I can help it.


Chateau Malchance, Quartier Marchand, Port-a-Lucine; Late Evening of March 24th, 770
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The more astute among you might have noticed carriage tracks in the street by the chateau, or footprints tracked through the fallen snow. The manor felt unnaturally cold as you entered, the door hanging just slightly ajar, letting the freezing night air inside. It was not unnaturally quiet as well, as narrative would seem to dictate - there was heavy movement coming from upstairs, while the downstairs area seemed to be dominated by a rather loud argument. The latter broke off as the two involved noticed you, the door becoming the focus of attention the moment you opened it.

"He let them in," Katja accused without explanation as she stormed into the entryway, pointing back to the beleaguered looking stage magician that was hot on her heels. Her accent was coarser and her demeanor frigid - it was easy to tell the woman was furious.

"Should I have kept them out?" Thierri demanded back. He was extremely agitated, rapidly turning a deck of cards over and over in his hands, but also looked badly shaken. Katja spotted the blood first, putting her hand to her sword; Thierri noticed a few beats later, quickly moving to see if any of you needed help.

Any questions raised by this exchange were quickly put to rest the moment you stepped into the entryway. The red-capped gendarme were clearly visible from where you stood, cornering Devereux in the dining room. The landlord was defiant, but obviously powerless against the demands of the law, resentfully fingering a ring of keys as if deciding whether he should "accidentally" drop them somewhere. They turned to look at you, as Katja and Thierri underscored your presence with their remarks - Devereux relieved and distressed to see you, the gendarme completely stone-faced.

There was a rustle of cloth and a flutter of black as the last man in the room stood up. He did not have a red cap, he didn't even have a uniform, instead wearing a black Inverness cloak over a double breasted black coat, a white scarf wrapped around his neck. Yet you were somehow sure this was the man in charge. He was tall, taller than Richard, and stretched terribly thin, as if there hadn't been enough flesh to make someone his height. He held an ebony black stick - an umbrella, you realized, wrapped so tightly that it looked like a cane - the head capped with a silver raven's skull. His blond hair was almost white, his skin sallow and bloodless - he could have been twenty five or fourty, it was hard to pick an age out of those ravaged features. This was the face of a dying man.

But it was the man's eyes that were the most striking. If Latour could have been called blind, there would be no words for what was here. His eyes were pale, so pale they were almost white, with tiny, pin-prick pupils. It was only the piercing look he gave each of you in turn, scrutinizing you down to the very bone, that told you he could see perfectly.

"Good evening," one of the red-capped gendarme said. His voice was free of either censure or ridicule, flat and as cold as the snow outside. "We'd like to have a word with you."