A Case of Catacombs and Cadavers

[Tyrant]

Saun 13, 718

The dead city of Quacia was alive with activity.


Even as the sun shone downwards upon the unfortunate spires of a city which had once rose with majesty over its peers, the assorted denizens began to creep free from their residencies and go about their usual business. Merchants and shopkeepers from The Gleam began to set up their assorted stands or flip over the door-signs of their stores to “Open”. Elsewhere, Heaps began to file out of Shanty in massive droves, each one going to their assorted places of work or to blow whatever currency they had managed to collect with their dismal efforts on the few pleasures remaining in the city. Even the Dragoons were pre-occupied this morning with yet another case of assault having broken out between a pair of irritating shopkeepers over whether one’s stand had the right to be setup in so extravagant a manner in comparison to the other.


In the midst of all of the chaotic order which made up the city and its daily activities, an older gentleman by the name of Oliver Eire began to make his way to a particularly gruesome structure. The Ossuary of Remembrance was a structure renowned for its rather grim appearance; the entirety of its walls and ceiling had been constructed using bones, whether animal or human, but it was nevertheless a reasonably important facet of society, and the Scarlet Believers seemed to find the reminder of their mortality to be fitting, even if at times somewhat uncomfortable to be near.


A simple motion, a turning of his key within the opened jaw of a human skull was enough to unlock the doorway to the grand Ossuary, and, casting a final glance at the detritus of the streets, Oliver began to make his way into the building. Candlelight lit up the structure, displaying the out-stretched stone staircases which led to each level of the multi-story crypt, each level housing hundreds if not thousands of skeleton remains. Yet, Eire spent little time in dallying with those remains he already knew the fate of, instead choosing to descend several levels as quickly as possible.


Even as he grew steadily closer to the bottom of the Ossuary, the basement-like crypt where the freshly slain were taken so that they could rot naturally before being used in the structure, his irritation began to rise. When finally he reached the bottom-most floor of the Ossuary of Remembrance, cast his eyes about the absolutely destitute crypt, taking notice of the fact that nearly half of the corpses had gone missing from their perches, and that the few blockades and devices he had setup to catch whomever had been intruding had been disabled, he let loose a howling shriek of anger that very well might have matched the foulest abomination.


It was a fairly rapid walk down to the Office of Residency, the location of the city’s primary job-board, and a short and blatantly angry jab at a strip of paper soon elicited the creation of a new offer upon the board.

The Notice

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The Ossuary of Remembrance requires assistance in investigating and detaining the person or persons responsible for stealing corpses from our care. Those who choose to assist in this manner will be rewarded extensively by the Ossuary for their services. Applications are unnecessary, simply arrive at the Ossuary, and you will be briefed on the situation.

OOC

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Hello and welcome to Quacia’s first public Open Event! Everyone is invited to join the event at their own convenience, and may join at any time throughout the event’s length. There will be no posting order, but I ask that you do only a single post between my posts. I’ll post again approximately seven days after the first person chooses to respond to this.

[Bartholomew]

A dying city was ripe for opportunity for men both alive and not. A plethora gripped tightly in lukewarm fists.

Bartholomew grinned to himself, proud of the imagery he conjured as he shuffled about the small, cramped room. Between the furniture and the bodies--again, both alive and not-- it made for slow going about their makeshift mortuary, especially when their client's beneficiaries were visiting. The man was old, wrinkled and shrunken. In a lot of ways, he resembled his wife or, at least, the vessel that had once been his wife. No, his wife's soul had departed some trials back to serve in the heavenly house of The Wounded God, freed from its fleshy cage in the escape of its last breath. Had it been Bartholomew's wife--had he ever had his own, of course--he probably would've burned her as one final offering on her behalf to their patron saint. Alas, some here in Quacia were too sentimental towards their other halves and requested a more solid homage. He hadn't even wanted to look into his wife's eyes one last time, despite our ability to animate them.

Both alive and dead!

Bartholomew grinned again, pleased with his repetition. He was, at all times, a poet as he moved about the space. Thankfully Ignacious didn't notice, too invested in his negotiation over funerary fees to try and read his elder protege's unspoken thoughts. The necromancer was not often interested in what went on behind Strife's eyes, but he was rarely pleased to find anything was happening at all. Little better than a thrall, that was Bartholomew's purpose, and the older man usually did it well. Usually. His fault lie in the fact that he was more alive than dead instead of the latter.

This time, Bartholomew had to bite back a snicker. He was mostly successful.

Ignacious glanced Strife's way from where he stood alongside the eldest man and his deceased wife but did not address the minute outburst. It seems the conversation had shifted while Bartholomew had been lost in his internal monologue. ". . . I'm just glad I brought my sweet Beatrice to you, kind sir, instead of the Ossuary. I just wouldn't be able to live with the thought of her body being stolen and violated."

Ignacious replied, patting the old man on the back, "Well have a relative come find us again on your behalf if those thoughts ever do seize you."

Bartholomew snickered again, holding a mouth against his lips. That was clever, Mister Flounder, very clever.

"Their looking for help to find the stolen bodies," the old man continued as Ignacious, grip still on the man's shoulder, expertly guided him to the second room of two in their small building."

"Sadly the Ossuary and I haven't had the best of business these trials," Ignacious said, opening the door with his free hand as he pushed the old man through. "I'd imagine I'd sooner become a cadaver myself to help replenish their stores." The necromancer spared Bartholomew one final glance, a stony look in his eyes. "You're not needed any longer, Strife."

Bartholomew bowed, grin returning to his face, as the door slammed shut. It was always nice when Mister Flounder called him by his last name; it was a healthy reminder that he hadn't forgotten it. The man looked around, thoughtful for a moment. To-trial was one of those trials where he had no plans lined up. Shrugging, he exited the room via the back-alley door and headed in the direction of The Ossuary. His uncontrolled giggling hadn't overwhelmed the severity of the conversation he had just heard. Bodies were missing and they needed help finding them and, unlike his mentor, Strife had no outstanding animosities with The Ossuary. At least none that he was aware of.

A short time later, Bartholomew arrived. He brought with him little more than his unabated enthusiasm and willingness to serve. And his spiked mace, Unabated Enthusiasm, tucked firmly against his right hip; that too was willing. "I'm here to help find the bodies!" he shouted to no one in particular. Still fresh from the presence of Ignacious, Strife avoided the usual niceties of introductory conversation. His master liked it when he got straight to the point.

[Tyrant]

Bartholomew would find that the door to the Ossuary had been left propped open, the faint waft of burning wax assaulting the nose if one were to stay within the confines of the doorway for more than a trill or two. A far sturdier scent would further reveal itself when the precipice dividing the outdoors and the inside of the structure had been crossed, although this particular smell was one well-known to the elder Strife who spent so great a deal of his time locked away in funerary proceedings; the smell of death, and the rot of corpses.

Anyone who worked in the business of preparing or dealing with the dead was well-aware that if a body had begun to rot and fester, then clearly whomever had been in charge of dealing with it had already failed in their most vital obligation. Soon, that same destructive festering would spread across the visible flesh, marring it with the pock-marks and entropic loss that naturally accompanied the loss of life as the miasmatic influences of the world began to tear into the flesh of what had already been shunted from the burden of existence.

The interior of the Ossuary was rather dim, but the faint crimson-light of Bloodlights kept the structure from being an absolute darkness. Bartholomew would be able to rather rapidly detect an area where far more lights were present, and the sudden shout of his presence was enough to alert whomever was within the office room, stirring them into rapid movement. The rustle of shuffling footsteps and the whispered cries of “Thank goodness!” would greet the ears of the elder Strife as Oliver Eire stole time from the busy work of sitting around and waiting for bodies to rot.

Eire’s mood would slump ever-so-slightly when he caught the appearance of Strife, though the faint flicker of a smile could be seen as he caught sight of the mace at his side. Perhaps he could sense the enthusiasm which radiated off of the man, or perhaps he was merely far too eager himself to have the criminal brought to bloody justice. He raised a hand in greeting, and beckoned excitedly for Bartholomew to follow him. “Come, come!”

Rows upon rows of skeletal remains would greet the pair as they maneuvered through the labyrinthine innards of the structure, each of the skeletons bearing a very peculiar series of markings upon them. Upon the skull was carved the name of whomever had borne the physical form before their demise, and upon their arms were carved the words of their work. Upon the ribs were carved their relatives, their bloodline and kindred. Perhaps the most revealing glimmer of information was their cause of death, caringly carved into the soles of their feet, a stark reminder that they would no longer trod upon the world.

Gradually, as the two went further into the darkness, they would come upon corpses which had not yet fully rotted away into mere bones, and the stench was nigh unbearable. Even Eire, who must certainly have dealt with the bodies on the regular, had to clutch a cloth to his mouth in order to prevent bile from spewing forth onto the ground at the odor. Any leakage of fluids from the corpses had fallen onto the ground and into a set of grates which were present within each section of memorial slabs. Then, as quickly as the rotting bodies had been present, they came upon a large chunk of empty aisle.

“Look! Nothing! I have put two dozen bodies into this very segment, and each morning I come and they have vanished!” Eire frantically directed his arms towards the empty segment. “My business is suffering! People come here to have their loved ones memorized, not stolen away by some scum!” He shrieked to no one in particular, as though his sudden burst of outrage would summon forth the offender. He directed his index finger towards a trio of hunting traps, the large steel jaws having snapped shut. “I set traps to try to catch whomever is doing this, but they just triggered them and went on.” The only thing remaining in any of the traps was a singular strand of red cloth, not altogether dissimilar from that which might be located in the gloves of those who worked in Plenty.

“Solve this problem, and you’ll have your reward in full.” Eire stated with a tone of finality as he skulked off back towards his office.

[Mads]

"No, no, it's four then two and back to three." Exasperation filled the girls voice as she stared up at her unlikely playmate with all the displeasure of a elder sister and her bumbling brother. "If it's a two or four or six or eight, you slap the other silly."

"Even numbers?"

"What? I just- if it's a two or four or six or eight. I said." The clarification was ill received, and the girl pressed onward. "If you're gonna be like that, Mads then I-"

"My apologies."

"Your- Mads, I said you hafta talk like a normal person if you're gonna- never mind. Anyway. You got it?" Dark green eyes started with a fair amount of concern for what could only be the young man's intelligence. "You think you can do it right this time?"

"I can certainly attempt it." His cheeky grin was met with an exasperated sigh from the shorter, mousy haired girl who's thin arms hung crossed unimpressed over her chest. "Now then..." Mads stared down at the backs of the tattered playing cards that had been carefully arranged in a cell of four rows and five columns, spread out on the ground for lack of a more appropriate playing field. "This one... that one and-"

A shout filled the street, drawing several pairs of eyes, the girl and her companion included. "The fek was that?"

"Bodies?' Interest immediately piqued, Mads' inquisitive perusal of the scene caught the tail end of a set of retreating robes just before the disappeared into the Ossuary's macabre embrace. The cards in his hand, their backs still facing him, shifted back and forth in his grip, a tick of thought. "Are they missing bodies, Telma? The Ossuary, that is?"

This time the sigh was large enough that even Mads' intense focus on his new fount point of interest was drawn back to Telma's grubby, frowning face haloed in the bushy mess of hair. "You said you were gonna play with me today, Mads."

"And I did!" He quickly picked up the last card from the third column, flipped all three over, glanced at the numbers for a trill before throwing them down onto the ground and slamming the open palm of his hand right into the side of girl's astonished head. Her hair helped soften the blow, but it was strong enough to send her careening to the side with a yelp of surprise and pain. "Three and seven is ten, take away six is four. I slap you, I win. Fun game, Telma!"

In the time it took for the girl to begin her frustrated crying but before she might seek revenge, Mads had already closed the distance between himself and the ivory doors of the celebrated - and equally feared - crypt. As he slipped inside, intentionally pushing the door closed behind him with the heel of his foot to deter any mousey haired miscreants from pursuing him out of a lack of better judgement, he was struck by the distinct smell of rot.

He was used to the sweet, sticky, coppery scent of blood. That was the aroma of life - the thick liquid vitae that served both man and God - but decay was that of death, of chaos and disorder and fetid emptiness. Immediately, he brought a hand up to his nose, using the meat of his thumb avoid from inhaling more of the tainted air he needed too. It was such a waste, leaving all that perfectly good meat to fester. It would have been much more efficient to strip the bones and-

A voice sounded out from somewhere within the the recesses of the stone halls. Though muffled by distance, the stones and their blank-faced residents helped to carry it in tact enough. Rather than pursue, Mads began to peruse. The first hallway was filled with all manner of milky remains, and he stopped there, still covering his nose but eyes lighting up with interest as he picked up the various pieces and examined them. It wasn't the first time he'd seen such things in so close a proximity, but the delicate and careful carvings were certainly a curious novelty. Raised literate, he had no issue with reading the delicate scrawls, finding that the feet were, by far, the most interesting bits that those stored there had left behind. Enthralled as he was with the bones, Mads collected several off the feet to read them in quick succession, finding the names of both the deceased and those who succeeded them hardly as captivating.

"Death by fall."

"Death by drowning."

"Death by life."

"Death by violent assault."

"Death by sleeping."

For so short a phrase and so little content, the tidbits offered a world of possibilities, a multifaceted window into the past both distant and near.

All the while, he listened to the stymied recount. A fresh body - one who's heart was very nearly still beating - was one thing. It was useful in so many ways. Too long after, however, and the meat would spoil and much of the things utility would be completely ruined. Whatever the thief's reasons, Mads was able to quickly rule out the most obvious of reasons to ferret away the bodies of the deceased. That left... several things, he supposed.

At the finality of the man's declaration of a reward, he realized it was best not to be caught fingering the carefully cleaned and etched bones. Having only a short time as the footsteps approached, he set each of the feet back - though as he would have struggled to pair a foot to a face when it was clothed in flesh in skin, he blindly guessed with the otherwise indistinguishable bones. By the time the steps grew close enough he could hear the swish of fabric pair with them, Mads took a deliberately loud step and called out, voice a bit garbled by the hand that still served to keep his sensitive nose from undue discomfort. "Hello? I am here to join the-"

Had the robed man already given his name?

"Assist my companion? I was running late." There wasn't much of an indication of a lie in Mads' voice. So rarely he told the truth - and so rarely either mattered to him to begin with - that nearly every pleasantly polite word out of his mouth was as equally suspicious as not. "I did manage to gather the gist of the problem. You know nothing more than that this individual - or individuals - are setting off your traps and stealing your bodies? No speculations as to who the perpetrator - or perpetrators - might be?"

The reward didn't interest him in the slightest. Mystery? Intrigue? Bodies? It was almost as if the thief - or thieves - had committed the crime just for him. He was no detective, but discovery had always been one of his favorite past times - much preferred over slapping girls.

[Bartholomew]

Bartholomew's nose was stuffed.

He wasn't quite certain it got like this every arc, but given that it typically was at its worst during the Saun season, he could only conclude that it had something to do with the second sun in the sky. Damn that sun and its ruination of his nasal cavities! Though one positive consequence of his congestion was it blocked out all but the strongest of odors and, even then, it was pretty faint. It made dealing with more decomposed bodies easier, he knew, but it also made it harder to smell the sweet perfumes Ignacious had him sew into the bodies were hard to distinguish. Strife liked the perfumes. Thankfully, there wasn't a whole lot of the latter here in the Ossuary and a lot of the former, so he didn't feel like he was missing out on much.

A man appeared out of the crimson haze of the bloodlights--the sweetest metaphor for mankind's birth, if Bartholomew ever could fathom one--and beckoned him to follow him. Great! It seems the mortician shared in Master Flounder's passion for haste which made the Ossuary feel like he back at the old lab more than ever. Save for the hall of bones, of course, with their meticulous system of cataloging. It was, Strife thought, a beautiful and efficient system. Even the placement of the information--name for head, professions for hands, and so forth--corresponded so well to the division of body, mind, and soul in the mortal vessel. Philosophers, Bartholomew thought as he passed by the bodies, would have a real field day with the symbolism of the space he now walked. Perhaps there were already a few in the space already, come to think of it. Strife figured he could find them by looking for the hands unmarred by the scars of labor and experience.

Oh, he chuckled to himself at that one, as he followed the yet-unnamed mortician further into the Ossuary.

At some point the man put a rag to his lips to mask the growing scent of fresh bodies ahead. Bartholomew scratched at an itch that had been nagging at him before returning them both to the mace at his side. The smell of rot was noticeable, yes, but not overwhelming to him at this point. They passed cadavers in various states of decay until, in a shock to Strife, they came across a slab with a specimen so desiccated that it had disappeared completely!

Bartholomew realized a moment later that, instead, this was the site of the thievery that the Ossuary were seeking help for. The mortician frantically explained the situation, gesturing wildly to the stone slab and then to the various traps scattered about the vicinity. Strife scratched his chin for a moment before nodding to himself. "I think I see the issue, sir," he said, gesturing with a wave of his hands towards the scene. "You were setting snares for a bear, but obviously it was a human that stole the bodies. That's why you couldn't catch them with these."

It was obvious, wasn't it? There was a strip of cloth ensnared in one of the steel mouths at Bartholomew's feet, and everyone knew that bears didn't normally wear clothing, so it was unlikely that the thief was of the ursine variety. In fact, Strife was about to present his reasoning to the mortician when, suddenly, he realized that the man had left him already alone in the room. Shrugging, he kept that tidbit of wisdom to himself as he alone was the worthy participant of it. Let the man continue his asinine hunt for a fashionable beast; Bartholomew Strife would find the real culprit with his now-patchy clothing. Reaching down, he ripped the rag free of the mouth, tearing it a bit in the process, and stuffed it in his pocket. And, best of all, he had a good idea of where to start asking about it.

No one knew about the fashion of a city quite like a prostitute.

[Tyrant]

Perhaps it was evident by the relative lack of security preventing Mads from venturing into the crypt, or perhaps it was merely the fact that a high number of corpses had recently begun to vanish from the mausoleum of bones, but it was suddenly evident to the newcomer that the Ossuary would benefit greatly from a greater number of staff. Even as he perused the rows upon rows of decayed corpses, there would be no members of the local faculty to attempt to prevent him from his examinations, and, in fact, there would not even be any additional members of the Ossuary’s ownership present whatsoever until he had finally stumbled upon the conversing of Bartholomew and Eire.

It seemed that the Ossuary’s primary operator was… admittedly less than pleased by the quality of the contractor’s investigation thus far, and he made such known with a grumble, and a series of barely uttered words that revealed themselves as little more than whispers to the world. The idea that the entire reason that a trap would fail in capturing a person was that it didn’t possess the same honorific epithet was entirely implausible in the realm of legitimate reason, and he quickly began to assume, as any sane person might, that he was dealing with the unbalanced ramblings of an irrational individual… always a misfortune for the sake of critical thinking, especially in the case of criminal investigation.

Were it not for the sudden blatant revelation of Mads presence, there was a fair chance that Eire may have reacted in a far less pleasant manner to his apparent skulking. As it was, he merely started for the briefest flicker of a moment, his hand clutching at some unseen sheathe at his side before it drooped further, attempting to conceal the fact that he had very nearly took hold of a weapon. Instead of such a drastic and immediately hostile act, he instead listened carefully to the excuses that Mads brought up, hinting that he had come to assist his companion in his investigation. Whether or not Eire was deceived, or whether he simply didn’t care enough to interrogate the man was uncertain, but he gave a curt nod, directing a frail finger towards Bartholomew. “He’s over there. He can fill you in, I’m certain.”

He had already begun to make his timely exodus from the investigation when the snaring societal blemish of leaving a requested question unanswered reared its hideous head, and he paused with an exasperated sigh. “I can’t imagine who would want to steal bodies. Maybe… Pl-“ He bit upon his elder tongue with a hiss of sound, reiterating a grunt of negativity as he reaffirmed with nonverbally that he had no suspicions, or at the least that he would not utter anything blatant for fear of those who operated there. After all, such honest accusations could lead to rather devastating consequences depending upon whom was implicated in them, and the life of the living was worth far more than the resting place of the dead.

As Eire departed, the pair of investigators stood alone in the midst of the crypt and the decadence of death that it embodied. The Ossuary itself was constructed primarily from human remains, and yet, it seemed that none of those which allowed for structural integrity had at all been misaligned nor re-purposed by any potential intruders. The steely jaws of the trap released the fragment of cloth with little struggle, though there was still the soft ripple of cloth as it was removed, shredding it into two nearly equal strips. Ironically, that would provide an almost perfect amount for either investigator to peruse without the unfortunate side-effect of hindering one another in the process. Perhaps more boon than malediction, despite its accidental cause.

In any other city throughout the world, it may have been something of a struggle in order to locate the next piece of Bartholomew’s investigation. The act of soliciting the services of a prostitute, after all, was at least somewhat less than acceptable in a great deal of localities, especially those which proclaimed themselves to be moral bastions of righteousness, and… for the most part the same was true of Quacia. Yet, Quacia had long-since decided upon an alternative method of dealing with the degenerate detritus which oft littered the uncomfortable and confined alleyways and pock-marked roads of a civic center; simply stuff all of it into an easily accessed space, and keep it locked away into that portion of the city. If Bartholomew intended to follow up upon his mental exercise in pursuit of a prostitute, he would have very little difficulty in locating an available one, or two, or many in the borders of Lair. Of course, that wasn’t to say that they wouldn’t attempt to charge him for their services… even if they weren’t being requested for their usual fare.

Mads was left with the apparent choice of whether or not he would remain at the Ossuary site, or perhaps pursue the investigation of his fellow curiosity-seeker wherever he seemed intent on going, certainly either option could appeal to a different methodology of solving the problem at hand.

[Mads]

For a moment or two after the blundering stumble of speech, Mads merely stared at the other man, his too-sharp gaze and suddenly emotionless features giving him much the same appearance as a porcleain doll. In the next, it seemed to pass, as lips once more curved in a polite smile. He lingered just a few more to wave the man off with a soft, "Thank you and good day." before he turned to head down the way the man had come, deeper into the rotting recessess of the Ossuary's stomach.

The man - the other one he'd seen before, the first man - had just ferreted something away in his pocket as Mads peered around the corner, hand still glued to his nose. Curiously, he studied him, from afar, choosing to stand just shy of the middle of the narrow hallway, though his manners were not forgotten. "Mathias Moreno, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. Might I have the luxury of your name as well?"

Mousy- no, no. Ratty. The man was decidedly rat-like from the slight pallor that fogged the dull orange glow of the ambient lighting that caught in his unremarkable eyes to the wideset nostrils that tapered into a dull dagger's edge. Teeth, yellowed and thick, immediately were brought to the forefront of his mind, but the relative murk of the room made it difficult to discern if the man's smile - or grimace? - was one befitting the dirty rodent he took after or something a bit more human. He was not attractive - not by any means - but there was an air about him that Mads couldn't quite place.

And that was interesting.

He'd caught the man at what seemed to be the start of his departure, something he couldn't help but imagine was due in no small part to the frayed, ruddy fragment of cloth that seemed to have been caught in the metal vice of the sprung trap's jaw. Having decided the other man to be no real threat - neither to his person or his own investigation - he glided over the floor, footsteps soft enough to sound without excessive echo. Though the rotting stench was held at bay by pinker, fresher flesh than what produced the heady miasma, his eyes were still as exposed as ever; they had already begun to water along the edge of his eyelids.

Through a somewhat bleary line of sight, he carefully crouched down beside the trap, pulling free what he could of the fabric, and stared at it with a thoughtful, casual frown. It wasn't unfamiliar, but in his short lifetime, he'd seem the Madam wear at least a dozen more types of fabric than most Quacians even knew existed. In such a case, recognizing the fabric as something not uncommon proved less useful than if he'd never seen it before. A small sigh slipped through his lips as he rose to stand, his eyes now focused keenly on the other. "Did you steal the bodies, maybe?"

If it was an accusation, it was by far one of the more conversational recriminations uttered within earshot of so many lifeless shelves of bones. He didn't seem to be particularly invested in the charge - or perhaps "flight of fancy" was a better term for it - and, as he absently rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, he let out another passing thought. "Or better, do you happen to know anyone with a name like... Pl-?" The imitation went as far as to copy the manner in which Eire had both hissed and grunted, making the entire thing sound far less like a name and much more as though he'd caught something in his throat.

A scrap of fabric and the stutter of a name were hardly damning evidence against anyone - but something was better than nothing.

[Bartholomew]

Bartholomew's mind still wandered the nether regions of Lair when a set of footfalls caught his attention in the hallway behind him, jarring him back a far more serious reality. Though, he thought with a immature giggle, it was one with no fewer bones than his earlier fantasy. Strife expected that the mortician was marching back to the room to defend his slighted honor. Its what Ignacious would have done if his traps had been deemed a failure; Masters did not like their assistants to over-reach their station, and this situation in the Ossuary was not different than that one. Though, of course, Ignacious never would have to step traps in the first place since his bodies didn't leave the table unless he wanted them to. Thus, the comparison was not an accurate one in the slightest.

Strife was in the middle of coming up with a better example when a different, younger man walked through the door into the morgue. He was a handsome man save for those ears of his--Bartholomew thought for a brief trill whether he could use them for sails, until deciding in the next trill that the man didn't look like the maritime sort--and that knowing look in his eyes. Not that that was a defining trait in a person, of course. Most men knew something, and some even knew more. Bartholomew wondered if the stranger was one such individual, though his lack of protest at the initial sight of the bear traps did not bode well.

After a second observation of the fabric scrap that remained in the metal jaws of the bear trap, which seemed like wasted effort given that it was clearly visible that Bartholomew already held one of the scraps, the stranger turned his investigation of the elder Strife? Him, a thief?! "I'll have you know, sir , that every body serviced at Flounder Ampersand Strife is procured legally and with the full cooperation with all paying relatives and client." Strife wanted to say more to the subject, but figured he'd better stop there before he was any more misleading with his claims. The bit about legal procurement was totally accurate, of course; it was the part regarding a joint name in the mortuary business that the Necromancer might have exaggerated.

The stranger followed his accusation with a inquiry about any potential acquaintance with the name 'Pl-', to which Bartholomew scoffed at with a dismissive wave of his hand (and the red scrap within it). "A person with a single syllable name? In Quacia? Their mother would've been mad to have named their child so." Strife shook his head, dismissing the notion before it took root. His mindscape was a pristine garden and it did not need any frivolous weeds cluttering it up. Whatever lead the stranger thought he might have was not worth the consideration, nor anything else in this room.

"Anyway, I'm off to Lair to follow up on a hunch of mine," Bartholomew added, turning to the exit that had once been an entrance. "You're welcome to tag along if you've given up on this absurd notion that I am the culprit. And, of course, as long as the those hands on the side of your head keep to themselves while we're there. The handlers don't like any wild groping of their employees by window shoppers."

With that, Bartholomew made his exit, headed in the direction of Quacia's seedier district. Either the stranger would follow, or he wouldn't. Despite his earlier offenses, the elder man was not unwelcome to the company and assistance.

[Tyrant]

In pursuit of further evidence as to the true conspirator behind the disappearance of corpses in the Ossuary of Remembrance, the pair set out for the seediest and most morally inept district of Quacia. Lair, of course, was highly-regulated in many of its applications, and the many Vicemen who plied their trades had all received appropriate licensing and permissions to practice whatever foul and carnal temptations they could set their hands upon. The market for drugs, alcohol, and bedmates was so prevalent, and the desire for such vices so great in the otherwise drab city that at times it was difficult even to maneuver properly throughout Lair.

They were able to make a few stops hither and thither, inquiring as to whether differing businesses happened to serve more fleshly services, or whether they were in the business of more intoxicating products. Vicemen, quick to offer their goods would occasionally follow the gentlemen even after they had left their actual business, ensuring them that just one try of whatever chemical concoction they had mastered would change their mind about the entire affair, and that they would even provide the first hit of the substances for free.

Regardless of the marketing strategies of the state-mandated sinners, however, the two eventually managed to settle upon a few businesses which operated primarily in the selling of flesh. While it was true that many of the prostitutes wore the marks and signs of desperation and poverty; that ancient societal sickness which can be seen even in the physical features of a person, many of them were also well-groomed and well-mannered, desirable to the eyes in their many variant ways. The legality of their business, and the absence of any great stigma in regards to it outside of the watchful eyes of the Theocratum had allowed for a great many more persons to chase after a trade that they would enjoy, and it was now uncommon to find particularly lively and youthful sorts occupying the positions.

Many of these younger sorts were simply in it for pleasure and money, and paid little attention to such trifling features as fabrics which would be removed in the act anyways. Others, while older and capable of more wise assertions were carefully locked away by their handlers and madams who put inexplicably high prices on their services, knowing full and well that the two were clearly not here for the usual activities, and quite satisfied with the idea of holding them to a higher price-range than normal.

One particular establishment, its name half-way marred by the etchings of time and assorted detritus seemed to possess a great deal of these more experienced sorts, including some whose eyes seemed to focus rather intently upon the fabric of cloth whenever it had been made visible, whispering among themselves about its presence, but making no notion of conversing with the pair. Elsewhere in the dimly lit confines of the lobby room, their handler skulked about, ensuring that everything was operating with a good level of decency, causing an utter ruckus after one patron kept attempting to grope at one of the workers without paying their share, his breath clearly stinking of some chemical concoction. He would slip away from the issue a few moments later, greeting the pair with a short and bestial grunt, not dissimilar from a domestic animal. "Help ya somethin'?

Perhaps he would be distracted enough that the two could attempt to converse with one of the prostitutes, or perhaps they could simply follow the usual route of getting private time alone with them, and merely use that as an excuse to gather useful information. Alternatively, they could continue to scour Lair in search of someone who would more openly speak of the information, though in such a large district, it may have taken far more time than was necessarily reasonable, and it was not always entirely safe to lurk around such a morally inept locality.

[Mads]

Lair itself wasn’t unfamiliar to him. He’d spent many nights casually strolling through the twisting, winding streets, searching for those darker, seedier alleys where the bloodlight’s glow didn’t reach. Though the vicemen were liscensed, so too were they watched – perhaps the most visible Heaps within Quacia. Those who visited them, however, were a different story. People went missing all the time, especially in Lair.

But Mads hadn’t trailed quietly behind Flounder – or perhaps it was Strife, the man hadn’t clarified which of the names belonged to him if either – in search of what he usually sought. In fact, the various brothels and other such establishments were entirely foreign to him. The thought of trading coin for a sensual misadventure with a stranger, while certainly intriguing, hardly appealed.

Flounder… Strife… The Old Uncle… He seemed a versant visitor to the district, and, while he had an odd habit of chuckling to himself and making the strangest of observations, Mads didn’t have any other leads to follow on his own. He only realized exactly why the Old Uncle had so singularly sought the houses of pleasure after their first – the manner in which he flashed the fabric, searching for a reaction. Afterward, Mads had done much the same, his bright eyes piercing through the varied smiles of the men and women they came across, more often than not cutting through their veneers to reveal a mix of discomfort and dismissal.

Allowing the Old Uncle to handle the handler with a polite smile and shake of his head that he was quite alright, Mads made his way over to a small group of courtesans. They were each, at least, half his age elder – if not more so -, but they wore their tight-fitting dresses well and their painted faces hid what blemishes time had thought to bestow upon them. His purse made apparent, strapped to the front of his belt, he offered them a friendly smile, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes.

They were women wise and wily, and each knew better than to trust a man with eyes like his.

“Might I buy some of your time?” He’d learned early on in their excursion that money was far more effective a tool in loosening tongues in Lair than any other tactic. “I assure, I will not take much of it.” He received several smirking grins, to which he offered a vague smile – the slight going unnoticed. “You will do… anything, will you not?”