Rue des Ferrats, Quartier Marchand, Port-a-Lucine; Evening of March 24th, 770
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Mr. Agale wrote:"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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Darius wrote:"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."
