The Shiner's Bay Killings

[Vic Alriikerson]

THE CHRONICLES AETERNUM I- THE SHINER'S BAY KILLINGS


Prelude- Stalker


(This story takes place directly after Altiim Journal Pt 2)

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A Note on The Silver Knights of the Altiim Elves:

The Altiim are a small clan of only 900 families, about 4,000 in population, that operate out of a small forest village deep in elven lands. They are ancient and mysterious, and few ever leave the clan to communicate with the outside world. This society is broken into three different castes: The Mages, the highest rank made of powerful magical researchers, Workers, lower level magic users that do more menial work such as tending the fields and construction, and the lowest level caste, The Silver Knights.

Every 10 years a family must give one child to the Silver Knight process. These children are surgically modified before being offered to the sacred lake in the center of town. Only one in ten survive the process. Those who come out grow to be powerful warriors, with command of the elements and great strength. However, they are easily controlled by the mages due to years of indoctrination and their inability to function without a specific paired weapon with which they share an intense emotional bond. They become stronger when near death due to their unstable nature, and when close to death combust, leaving only a skeleton behind. A powerful warrior, easily controlled, that cannot be captured for interrogation or study, and rendered infertile, thus driving out any thoughts of settling down. The Altiim’s greatest weapons. But… were they always like this?


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The thief briskly made his way through the town, darting between groups of vagabonds and leaving pub-goers to reach the edge of Shiner’s Bay. He was being hunted. Hounded by living weapons made from the flesh of children and some eldritch enchantments, he mused on how he had gotten into this predicament. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and there are those who would kill to keep secrets. But oh, the secrets he had learned.

It a began when he came across a sleeping adventurer, and did as he was wont to do: pilfered his belongings. There were few things of worth, including the elf warrior’s coin purse, but you found something much more interesting: his diary. It bore his his hard past, his trauma, and what actually mattered, rare information on an obscure and isolated elven clan. Information he presented as an escapee, information about how to deal with his fellow super soldiers… Or, as the thief liked to think, living weapons.

However, the second time the thief came across him, or more accurately, his things away from him. Once again reading his diary, another of the elf’s kind, one of those super soldiers, spotted the thief mid-browse. The other warrior was there, presumably, to assassinate his former compatriot for leaving. But he saw a thief rifling through his things, learning their secrets. That wouldn’t stand. The thief got lucky, dodging the attack and being able to quickly separate the elf from their weapon and throw it down a storm drain. If he hadn’t been so quick, had the knight gone for a different attack, if he hadn’t noticed him when he did… He would have died. He wasn’t going to stay around, give them another chance.

Cobbled stone turned to soft, wet dirt as he made his way out of town and into a nearby forest, finding shelter between the tree trunks and leaves. As he made his way deeper and deeper, he began to finally relax. He would take some twine from his pack, and begin to tie some low hanging branches and tall weeds to obscure his visage as he rested for the night. His thoughts returned to his attacker, and the situation they must be in. If they didn’t find their way into the storm drain, they must be panicking, perhaps even losing their minds. If they did… They must be covered in sewage and filth. The thief let out a small chuckle… When a smell hit him, from the wind. Sewage.

A twirling blade on a chain tore through the thief’s makeshift camp, missing him by mere centimeters as he clambered away, only to find himself face to face with four others. 2 men, 2 women, tall and muscular, wearing armored crafted from multicolored leather and having bright silver hair. Each carried a brilliant, silver weapon, 2 with halberds, 1 a short sword, 1 a lance. As they began to charge their weapons with fire and lightning, the thief quickly broke to the side and attempted to find cover from their pincer attack.

The next moments were a blur as the thief dodged attack after attack on his mad dash away from his pursuers. It was a whirl of blades and ice and fire and lightning. Death rained down upon him from every angle, the only thing keeping his glancing wounds from being deadly blows being his reactions. He remembered sliding down into a cave, rolling against the hard ground and slamming against a wet stone wall. He remembered the cold, and the wait… The pathetic waiting for death to come.

Yet… It chose not to.

The thief waited. Once an hour had passed, his confusion and curiosity were enough to give him strength to begin to climb back up the moist slope and out of the cave. As he forced himself out into the forest he could find no sign of his pursuers, save for the marks of their pursuit of him. He would spend some time searching the area, before deciding to drag his wounded body up a tree to get a better view. After a few mistakes that only almost caused him to plummet to an even greater injury, he finally glimpsed what he assumed to be the Altiim camp. From a distance… Char. Burnt bodies. The fire must have only just gone out.

After a slow descent back down, the thief made his way towards the camp, passing through heavy brush, he finally got a closer look. The entire area was covered in soot. The first thing he noticed were the 4 bodies in a circle near the center of the clearing the camp was in. Their weapons were scattered about. 2 halberds. A lance. A shortsword. All the skeletons were burnt to the bone, the stink of flesh burnt completely through permeating the air. Their skeletons seemed… As normal as skeletons covered in charred flesh could be. No sign of the chain-blade wielder.

Nearby was the campsite, now left half burned down. Upon getting a closer look, the thief saw the body of an elf in glorious red and gold robes reaching for… Some sort of large vial containing a silver liquid. The thief would slowly turn his body… And see the elf, stuck in rigor mortis, with mouth agape, withered to the bone. As if he were consumed from the inside… But no wounds. No marks… Just a face that looked like semi-translucent film wrapped over a skull. His eyes were dry and sunken.

The thief couldn’t fathom what could have done this, or even how… And after they had gone to such lengths to corner him. What drew them back here? And where was the missing Silver Knight? He didn’t have the skillset to divine what or how this happened… But he knew who did. With a smirk, he’d reach into his satchel… And pull from it a white opera mask, which gleamed with an ominous aura as it reflected a man who was not there. “Time to look at this with a new pair of eyes.”

[Vic Alriikerson]

Chapter 1- Masque Aeternum

The mask gleamed with a menacing light as the thief ran his fingers down it. A pang of nostalgia struck him. The Masque Aeternum, a wonderful relic he had picked up a few years ago from a revolutionary. He had followed the revolutionary’s party for weeks as they adventured forth for the Masque, as he fought bravely and lost compatriots. At the end, only 3 of his party of 7 remained… But the group had it. Their plan finally was in reach.

The revolutionaries were from Barton, a symbol of industry and oppression. An oil baron had moved into town, and through a series of savvy purchases, slowly, but legally, came to own the entire town. The land, the businesses, all of it fell under his control, and soon, the town turned from a small rural area to a bustling center of commerce, a vital part of the surrounding economy. But all of the money made there went one way.

The baron had money, power, and influence, and that gave him a certain untouchability that made it hard to do… Anything against him. But an old tale of a mask that allowed a person to take a person’s face, their thoughts, their abilities… Their role in life, was all revolutionaries needed for a plan. To get the mask, take the face of someone close to him… And then… Replace him. Give power back to the people, peacefully. So little bloodshed would be needed to retake their home.

So the 7 ventured forth, and by the time they had reached the temple and braved it’s dangers to reach the Masque’s altar… Suddenly, questions were asked. Could any of them trust the others with such power? They tried to resolve it through talking, then a vote… And eventually, at sword point. And 3 became 1. But the warrior was wounded. Delirious, he shouted how Barton was saved. That was when the thief came upon him. The baron would not see his rule ended yet.
But the thief had gotten himself a handy little trinket. Place upon the face of someone as they die, then recall their face and put on the mask. Afterwards, the weilder will take on that person's “role”, thinking looking and acting as that person would with all of their capabilities. Such powerful magic was difficult to control, but… The thief was good at changing faces when need be. He stared into the mask. An older man with a cigar and fedora reflected back. He’d smirk, and place the mask upon his face, assuming the role.

---

Detective John William Brookdale wasn’t a good cop when he was alive. Well meaning, but he both had seen and cared too much in his day. Faced too many harsh truths. But he was good. He had an eye for details and a dogged drive to see things through until the truth was revealed, no matter how badly it hurt. He had been the closest the thief ever gotten to being caught. He couldn’t waste such talent.

Looking at the crime scene with the proper training, Brookdale idly wondered how it all fit together. From what that elf’s diary said, the charred skeletons were the soldiers and the husk was the commander. They four died weapons in in hand, trying to… Attack something between them all? Four super soldiers killed at once, from opposite angles, before they could even swing… Observing the area, it became clear that this place was the source of the fire… The bodies. Still warm.
The only other thing of note was the pair of drag marks going opposite directions from the center. One lead to the camp… Where their leader lay. The other went towards the treeline, and out of the clearing. Keep going that way… And you’d end up in Shiner’Bay... What was taken? The… Other Knight? Following the first path, he noticed hand prints in the burnt earth, leading from the epicenter. Following them, the prints get closer and closer together… Before eventually stopping. Must have used his elbows for the final push.

The drained man wasn’t given the quick deaths the others were. This was drawn out… Someone wanted to make this elf suffer. He died reaching for something... But first, the body. Tearing the ornately detailed silk red robe, adorned with golden markings of a water drop from the sickly and stiff corpse, he saw… The man’s ribcage about to tear the skin containing. Dried clumps of meat that were once organs lay semi-visible through the skin. The only time Brookdale had ever seen something like this… The victim was left with no food or water. Starved and dehydrated. The only thing keeping the food in Brookdale's stomach was the idea that the bastard had it coming.

Stepping away, he picked up the vial and observed it. Glass, in a diamond shape, and hollowed, filled with a muddy silver liquid. There was no way to remove the liquid without breaking the glass. Some sort of potion? Prehaps a sort of magical weapon or device… Holding the glass diamond, it was smooth, with no hard edges or scuffs. Well made. Too bad it was just out of reach, whatever it was. May have helped him bring whatever took him to Hell along for the ride.

Pocketing the item, he took a short look around. Any paperwork that could be of help was burnt in the fire. There was nothing left here… So he turned around, and walked the other way, trailing the opposite set of drag marks, leading to a swampier part of the forest. No footprints, but the fire and shifting ground may have hidden them. That was the end of that trail.

With no other avenues, the thief simply let his mind think like Brookdale. There was a single survivor, or at least one missing body. He began to search around the nearby forest for any sign of the missing warrior, or their distinctive chain dagger. His next step would be to go to town, and find anyone with knowledge of the Altiim, prehaps a grudge… And if not, at least someone capable of doing it. Someone this powerful… May not need a reason to do something at all. Maybe they just could. Seen that plenty of times.
No sign of the elf, at all. Removing the mask, the thief silently thanked Mr. J.W. Brookdale for his death. If he didn’t have that man in his collection… This would have been a dead end. Taking a moment to escape the role, the thief breathed deeply, and affirmed himself. He was Joshua Delgado. He was Stalker. J.W. Brookdale was dead, he wasn’t here anymore. He killed Brookdale, and stared into his eyes as he added him to his collection. He wasn’t here anymore.

Stalker. He was Stalker. He’d begin to make his way back to Shiner’s Bay, thinking what he would need for this trip. He’d need the proper gear to use Brookdale to his fullest. The proper outfit was a must. Then, a pad and pen for notes. A gun, for self-defense. Brookdale liked revolvers. Finally… He needed to find where they sell those damned Brown Bear cigars Brookdale smoked. He felt like he was going to die any moment without his nicotine… A quick shopping spree… And then, the hunt was on.

[Vic Alriikerson]

Chapter 2- J.W. Brookdale

As Stalker returned to town, he made sure to keep his presence subtle. He could go around freely as Brookdale, yet… He needed some separation from the role. Silently shifting from crowd to alleys, he slowly made his way to a tailor, his thoughts flashing to where he could possibly find a lead on the matter. The alleyway he was caught in, perhaps our missing person had left something there. Or prehaps… If someone was looking for a Silver Knight… The bar where the elf and his friends got in that dust up?

Meeting the tailor with the best smile he could stomach to manage, he slowly gathered all of the things he would need: long sleeved button down shirt, white. Beige pants and matching duster. Brown vest with black buttons. A Stetson, -NOT- a fedora, beige. Suspenders, black. All for a man half a foot taller and 50 pounds bulkier than him. After paying the tailor well enough to be forgotten about, he continued his errand.

Making his way past a large crowd and barely avoiding being covered in a drunk’s vomit, he made his way to the gunsmith. After pouring over the various wares, weapons in all calibur, make, and levels of customization, assault rifles with reinforced stocks and scopes alongside engraved 9mms with gold finishes and rosewood handles, he found exactly what he was looking for. The Vic and Westman .52 Special High-Powered Revolver Pistol. Simple handle with grooves, gunmetal finish, and just enough moving parts to make sure the black powder rounds go out when you pull the trigger. A simple, crude weapon surrounded by masterpieces of craftsmanship. He bought it and a holster.

Finally, he walked to a small shopping center. General Goods, for his pen and paper. Shopkeeper an elderly lady, sweet. Gave a pittance extra and she acted as if he had given her the world. A clockmaker for a golden chained stopwatch. Shopkeeper was a d!ck. During the demonstration of one he pilfered a much more expensive model, then left. He finally approached his final destination for this excursion: Tall Tom Tillman’s Tremendous Tobacco Trader's. Obviously, Mr. Tillman was a fan of alliteration.

As he opened the door smoke and sound poured out of the building. Thick, aromatic, heavy. Loud men and louder cigars. He sighed, and stepped in. The entire building seemed to be built from mahogany, hand cut and put into place with craftsmanship and care. Pelt rugs and framed heads of various predators lined the walls and floor, no sign of a single herbivore. By the counter, various large, hairy men roared loudly of conquests of both valorous and sexual natures. If it weren’t for the cigar reek, it would be impossible to escape the musky smell of testosterone.

Approaching the counter, the man behind it turned to greet Stalker. He stood at least 6 and a half, maybe seven foot, with broad shoulders and almost as broad of a stomach. All the hair on the top of his head must have migrated to his thick beard and body fur. A heavy arm would raise, and a heavier voice would bellow to him. “WELCOME, MY FRIEND. COME, COME. WELCOME TO MY APOTHECARY, PICK YOUR POISON.” The rest of the men would laugh heartily. This place was deafening to ears as much the nose and eyes. “Ah, ah, just kidding. And no, no talk of the health detriments of cigars or calling them actual poison. That talk will find your rear on the cobblestone outside. ANYWAY, COME-“

As Stalker came closer, Tall Tom would grab a large box with a glass lid, and with a flourish, would show Stalker a series of fine cigars. Bluehorn Mellow, Hawkflight, Brightshroom, White Cub. The lightest cigars he had. Stalker noticed a mark on the bottom of the box, mostly obscured at the bottom. ‘Women’s Choice.’ Stalker would raise his eyes to Mr. Tillerman, who would smile back. It’s as if even his teeth knew how awkward it all was. “It’s, er… No insult, friend. Just… You are man as us, but… Small. Your constitution must be-“

“Black Bears, Gold Rings, A case.” Mr. Tillerson's eyes would widen with concern. “B-Black Bear, friend? You are sure? Black Bears are strong, stronger than most can take. We have lighter alternative. Maybe Brown Otter or Beige Wea-“ Stalker would slam the money on the counter, staring up to Tall Tom with determination. “Black Bears, or I can do my business elsewhere.” Tall Tom would lool upon Stalker as if he had signed his own death warrant, before shuffling to the side and reaching up the counter, pulling out a small case, packed with 20 cigars. “You may be smallest man in room, but truly, you are bigger than the rest of us.”

Stalker took the package and groaned as he stepped away. “Thank you, Mr Tillerson.” “B-But if too much, come back. Will refund what you do not smoke, will trade for other brands. Lighter, if um… Needed. Special deal, just for you, friend.” Stalker would nod and walk out the large door, back into oxygen that was actually breathable. With all of his items in order, he began to make his way to an empty alleyway, and quickly changed into his new clothes.

As he put on the clothes 2 sizes too large for him, his mind couldn’t escape Tall Tom. Mr. Tillerson was one of those men whom you could not keep from a smile or a drink for more than a few hours. A loud, boisterous, annoying man. A happy man. Wouldn’t put him in the mask if he even had reason to. Mr. Tillerson enjoyed life to it’s limit. That kind of thinking was dangerous in the Masque Aeternum. Needed to keep it far away, lest he lose himself to it.

He took a minute to take in how ridiculous he must look, like a child playing officer. He’d pull out the mask, and breathe in deeply. You are Joshua Delgado. You are Stalker. And with that, he’d recall Brookdale’s face and, to keep himself from stopping, shoved the mask onto his face. He felt the clothes shrink around him as he filled them out. The masque shifting to Brookdale’s face, his hair shorten and darken. He felt thoughts of justice and regret fill his head as he once again took on the Detective’s role.

He felt a sense of nostalgia as he took in the clothes he once felt ridiculous. He felt right, the slight pull of his suspenders on his shoulders, the weight of the piece in his holster, the shadows of his hat keeping the sun from his eyes. He took a moment to pull out his revolver, the V&W .52 Special High-Powered. A damn fool weapon made on a lark. Bigger bullets! Black powder! No safety features whatsoever, and only a few moving parts to begin with! Yet the blasted thing has saved him more times than he can count. Will need to get used to the new grip.

He’d idly load the pistol, getting used to it’s weight on his hands again, for the first time. The first time nostalgia from the Masque was dangerous… It makes things feel right. After placing the last bullet in place, he’d uncrack the revolver and place it in his holster, before making his way across town, past busy piers filled with workers, through bustling city streets, to a bar he’d visited only a day before, as he followed the mark that lead him here.

Was another of the Silver Knights, named Alriik. An escapee from the rest of the clan, he was on his way through when Stalker made the fool mistake of being caught reading his journal. Drew the attention of the assassin’s coming for the elf away from him, got them killed. Was probably for the best, that man had enough. Earlier in the night, that elf drew his assassin’s attention by getting into a raucous bar brawl. If anyone was looking for a silver haired elf, if there was anyone else who knew or wanted to know about his search… They would be there. That was his best and only lead.

The MoonShiner’s, a grand establishment filled with the dregs of society. Sailors, Port workers, and vagabonds were it’s lifeblood, the alcohol it’s heart, pumping men with potential through to the trap of booze and familiarity. It's easy for a place like this keep people from the peak of their potential ‘til their last moments. Brookdale looked over the building, and the people pouring in and out. Men, mostly, some elves and bestia, coming in mind heavy with thoughts and leaving brainless and plastered. Brookdale would approach, when a man suddenly draped himself onto Brookdale’s back.

A dog bestia, wearing simple pants and a sleeveless hooded vest. He reeked of urine of and alcohol, not the drinking kind, the disinfectant kind. “'Shay, brudda… Mind shparin’ a friend ‘nuff fer a cuppa too? Shwear I’m dyin’ of thursht….” Brookdale would politely and calmly remove the man’s arms from his neck, and allowed him to meet the ground. “Tha’s… No way ta treat a fren…” He’d force himself back to his feet and stumble back onto Brookdale’s shoulders. “I c’n make it wert yer wile. Shee, I know things. Namesh…. Namesh… Uh… Well, I know udder thingsh. Fer a drink.” Brookdale would sigh as he once again removed himself from the drunk’s grasp, and would kneel by the bestia after his second fall.

“Bunch of dead outside of town. Most burned to death, one dead with symbols of a mystery clan of elves. Tell me one thing about them and I’ll buy you a whole damned bottle.” The drunk would blink and look to the side. Always a tell. Let’s see what nonsense comes out of his mouth. “Um… Dey’re… Um…. Dey’re…” The bestia would look around to the nearby patrons. “… Um… Al? Tim?” Brookdale would groan, and pick up the plastered patron. “… You got lucky.”

Leading his new friend to the bar, he sat him down and looked to the bartender. “Scotch, 2 glasses, straight. And a bottle of something cheap for my friend.” The drunkard would smile widely to the bartender, who would groan. “Y'sure? Think he’s had enough.” The detective would sigh. “He got lucky.” The Bartender would nod, and produce the 2 drinks and bottle, the drunk happily taking his drink and slipping away into the crowd. “Finally… Now…” The detective would pull out a bag of gold, and pay double for the drinks. The bartender would eye the gold warily. “… Anything else, sir?” “Anything on Silver-Haired elves. Not white, silver like metal. Any sightings, rumors, other people looking for ‘em, the works.” The bartender would look at the bag again. “Suddenly this bag feels light. Maybe a little too light.” Brookdale would groan, and pay the price a third time over. “Feels about right… Well…”

“I wasn't here last night, but… To begin with, one of your elves showed up last night and raised hell. Was with a group of mages, a felon, a soldier, a light mage, and a small drunken dragon. Beat the crap out of a bunch of sailors before they left. Since then you’re the second person to go around asking ‘bout the elf.” He would point to a table, where a bruiser of a man and a bookworm looking elven woman sat. “Says it’s for study. Didn’t matter to me. Paid ‘bout the same as you.” He'd go back to cleaning glasses, looking eagerly to a stage that was empty the night before. “Maybe you can talk to her for a bit, maybe buy another drink. Show's about to show. You won’t want to miss it.”

Brookdale downed one of his drinks, and carried the other with him as he walked off, waving off the bartender. Greedy sunnyva'll get what’s coming when Delgado decides to take off this damned mask. He’d approach the duo the bartender lead him to, and would flash the best smile he could manage. “Hello. Inspector J.W. Brookdale.” He’d take his hat off and place It to his chest, as the two placed their eyes upon him.

The pair couldn’t be more different. The man was covered in light armor, with matching boots and gloves and at his side was an impressive series of daggers. His skin was rough, his hair disheveled, his eyes trained. He was a soldier, and had his eye on Brookdale since he talked to the bartender. The woman was different, with sharp ears, fair skin and rather casual wear. She wore heavy glasses over her already large eyes, and only now looked up from her book to notice the world around her.

The man groaned and almost began to speak, before the woman cut him off. “Hello, Inspector.” She spoke with just enough of a voice to be heard over the crowd, a mousy woman. But she spoke with a smile and seemed much more receptive than her friend. “Please, sit down.” Brookdale would return his hat to his head and find an extra spot in the booth, on the other side of the brusque man. The man would grunt, but wouldn’t speak more, his eyes going to the stage… Until Brookdale away. He felt the man’s eyes on him even without a full on stare. A professional.

“Thank you. Um… Before I ask anything, I feel like I’m at a bit of a disadvantage, Miss…?” The woman’s eyes would shoot closed and open as she realized her rudeness, placing a hand to her chest. “Oh, my apologies, Inspector. Dr. Gladia Darren, Barton Institute of Higher Learning. Societal Studies.” She would beam proudly as she mentioned her credentials, before pointing to the man across her. “And this man is Michael Bright, my shield against this crazy world. He’s a good man, but not particularly… Graceful, socially.” Bright would idly wave as his name was called, and would grunt at her description of him.

“5 MINUTE UNTIL THE SHOW!”, a caller would shout out from the stage. Brookdale would sigh. “Alright, so…” Brookdale would take out his pen and pad. “I would hate to interrupt your show, but I have a few questions before it starts.” He’d flash that fake grin again. “Promise you I'll shut my mouth the second the curtains open.” Michael would just glance over, while Gladia looked concerned. The mousy woman seemed broken at the fact she could have done something wrong. “D-did we do anything, Inspector?” Brookdale would shake his head. “No, no… Alright, I don’t have a lot of time, but…”

“Bunch of charred corpses on the outskirts of town. One body not scorched, researched markings on him, lead me to an old book talking about elven clans… The, uh… Al-teem. Seems they are known for having silver hair, but this kid’s hair was red. Heard about a silver haired elf getting into a fight here, and the bartender told me you were asking questions ‘bout ‘im too. So… First off.” He’d tap his pencil against his pad. “Why were you asking about him, and what do you know about him?”

Gladia would blink again, her large glasses making her eyes seem the size of saucers. “Oh, that is awful news…” She'd close her book and finally give him her full attention. “Well, first of all, it’s ‘Al-Tim', not ‘Al-Teem’, and secondly, as I said before, I am a researcher in the field of Societal Studies, primarily lesser-known and more isolated peoples. These societies hold so much information, history, beliefs… But, erm… The Altiim are… Well, different than most of my studies. Mostly I learn about strange religions or customs, mostly harmless…”

“2 MINUTES UNTIL THE ALESSA INDIGO SHOW! TAKE YOUR DRINKS AND YOUR @sses TO YOUR SEATS.”

“But the Altiim are different. I haven’t been able to learn much, only stories from people who have interacted with them, but they hold… Deeper secrets. Frightening, arcane secrets hidden and developed since the age of Urufu… The silver hair of their warrior caste is not natural. They were born with red hair. With what I know, learning about one of their Warrior Caste being here, away from the clan… The idea of picking his brain for any information I could was too tempting… But I was too late. He and his group have already sailed away. Does that answer your questions?”

Brookdale would nod. It checked out… But there was more he needed to know, and he knew he wouldn’t get those answers tonight. But… maybe he could get her attention. Get another conversation out of her. “Those ones, for sure.” He’d force a chuckle. “But, uh… You seem to be my only resource for info on these guys, and I still got so many things circling around in my head. Y’see there’s so much I don’t know, like the burned bodies or the glass container with the silver water…” Her eyes would light up. “Well-well, erm… I’m sure we could manage another conversation tomorrow… If you brought it, I-“

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, DON’T SAY WE DIDN’T WARN YOU. PREPARE FOR SINGER SO SENSUAL, SO SORROWFUL, YOU’LL POP A HEART-ON! ALESSA! THE MISTRESS MALIGNED! INDIIIIGOOOO!”

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I felt an awakening as those heavy, dirty curtains parted and Miss Indigo took the stage. Standing there in the light, her ivory skin shining like a beacon of purity in this forsaken place. I don’t know what about her took, I usually wasn’t one for bright purple hair, but her short black dress may have had something to do with it. But it wasn’t really that, or her curvy waist or her plump red lips… It was her eyes. Her beautiful, shining green eyes. They were so gorgeous, so pure. Pure, unfiltered, sorrow.

Ms. Darren and I quickly exchanged information and planned to talk over lunch the next day. The two could tell I was hooked, even before the goddess on stage sang a single word. I took out one of my Black Bears and took a large smell of it. Gold Ring. Just like the old days…. I took one of Delgado’s knives and cut it under the table, before bringing between my teeth. I almost felt like myself again as I struck up my match and took a large puff from my old friend. Didn’t even have to feel guilty anymore. Not my lungs.

Shortly after the crowd would finally stop wailing at our new goddess and finally let her sing. The band behind her began with a dark and heavy, yet smooth melody. Audible Scotch to match the liquid one in my hand. It was enough of a show with just the band, but then… She sang. And I held onto every single word like it was the last handhold I had in this world. ‘I am Stalker, I am Delgado', he tried to think behind the mask. But we both knew that wasn’t the case. Right now… There was nothing in here but me… And the song.

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Ain’t Man Enough- Alessa Indigo

I got all these boys talking bout their luck,
Like their life’s a trap and they’re all just stuck
But I lived climbing out of the muck
So how do I say ‘I don’ t give a-‘

Oh no, you’re a pretty boy, that’s no lie,
But that talk proves you’re not my kinda guy
Bettin’ away your good life just proves it-
You just ain’t man enough for me yet

Met a man, or so I thought, in Niblick
Muscles bulging, dark skin, hair nice and slick
Thought his looks were enough to do the trick
To woo me, and get me, to touch his-

Oh no, you’re an Adonis, there’s no lies,
But you're just a child in a disguise
Live a little and it may change, but nyet
You just ain’t man enough for me yet.

Oh, I need a man, not a boy, to hold me late at night
With the hands, scarred and bruised, to keep close and tight
A man who has the fire to keep always doin’ what’s right
A hero, full of bravery, just fighting the good fight! Oooooh

Oh

But I’m just a pretty little fool girl
Goin’ round giving these fool boys a whirl
But when will it ever happen to unfurl,
That a man will come and complete my-

World?

Oooooooh, I’m just a silly girl, I can’t lie
Passing up every boy passing me by
But I'm not looking for another regret
Can I find a man-

Can I find a man?

Oh can I find a man…

Who’s man enough for me…

Yet?

---

After her opener, she stuck to covers. The lounge classics: Fly Me To The Moon, Mack the Knife, Monster (S)Layer. But none were as personal as that first one, I could tell. That was her song. At the booth, Ms. Darren proved herself good company. After a drink or two she had a wit and a love of music that was hard to escape from. Not a bad looker, either, after she took off her bottle glasses, her golden hair swaying with her movements as she fell deeper into the bottle.

I was about to say my goodbyes as Ms. Indigo wrapped her last song up, but… I caught Michael staring at Miss Indigo with an intensity I’d understand if he was that type of man. But as she wrapped up the last song about Krakenous battle and romance… I saw it too. A mark on her shoulder, one I couldn’t recall from either of the minds in this brain. But he did… He'd lean over to Gladia, and whisper something. I was lucky to be listening in, or I would have missed it.

“It’s Altiim Language.

Means ‘scythe’.”

[Vic Alriikerson]

Chapter 3- Mr. Bright

After such a long day, stuck in the detective’s thoughts, Stalker almost forgot to take off the mask. Even when he remembered, he found it hard to pull away. He had excuses, reasons to keep his mind running like Brookdale’s. Those thoughts are dangerous. He needed to remember that Brookdale was a tool. Brookdale was dead. He was Stalker.


He briefly considered letting it all go as he finally wrested the mask from his face and began to get ready to rest, hopefully for the night. But no, he was too deep on it now, he needed to know everything. There was something big in this, something worth all of this insanity. He just needed to work it a little more until everything lay bare before him. He’d close his eyes and finally drift off, with pleasant dreams of a big score leading his mind to calmer pastures.


He took some time for a bit of ‘self-reaffirming exercises' early in the morning before eventually deciding to place the mask back on. Almost immedistely, he felt the need for one of those damned cigars. After cutting the end and shoving it in his mouth, lighting it with a match, he went over the day’s itinerary; specifically pressing the good ladies Gladia and Alessa on whatever he could get from them. He had plenty of leverage with Ms. Darren, as long as he had that container of silver water. But Ms. Indigo… That was a bridge he’d have to cross when he got there.


After puffing down the cigar and eating a hearty breakfast, Brookdale sped off to the hotel she told him to meet her at. A small, dingy number near the end of town. After waiting about 15 minutes in the lobby, Mr. Bright finally came down to meet the detective. “Sorry, Inspector, we didn’t realize how late in the morning it had gotten already.” Bull. This was the kind of man who kept tabs on every little detail. He’d follow Mr. Bright up a staircase and through a hallway that smelled not unlike a sewer to lead him to a door at the end.

“Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Darren will be back soon.” Looking at the small room with the two separated beds, one neat and well arranged, the other left splayed open with notes, he wasn’t so sure it was possible for him to do so. It may be the breeze coming through the walls or the creeks underfoot, but he felt almost sure this hotel was going to fall apart around him. “There’s jerky and bourbon in the cupboard.” Suddenly he felt better about those chances.


After taking a piece and a glass, he’d sit down, and watch Michael wait patiently. “So, Mr. Bright, what’s your story?” Michael would groan at the idea of continued conversation. “I’m Ms. Darren’s bodyguard.” “And why would Ms. Darren need a bodyguard?” “Because it isn’t safe out there, and she’s not a fighter. Thus, hiring protection. Ergo: Me. Any other questions you wanna ask?” Brookdale would smirk. “So… ‘It means scythe'. You can read their language.” Bright would groan.


“I… It’s a long story.” Brookdale would look around, and shrug. “And I’m in just such a rush. Look, buddy, I’m not saying you did it, or they didn’t deserve it. I’m just trying to find out the whole story. Now… Please. Tell me how you learned how to read Altiim.” Michael would sigh, and place his face in his hands for a moment, before looking up to Brookdale. “Fine, Inspector. I’ve always been a sword for hire in some fashion. Bodyguard, merc, caravaner, I’ve done it. Used to run with a merc group known as the Red Eagles.


We were rough suns of b@tches, but we were on the level. Worked protection all over the frontier. ‘Til we get to this sh@thole called ‘Port Town’. Just ‘Port Town’. Guy hires us to take out this cult. Whole company. Never explained why he wanted his revenge, but he had the dough to buy it. So we set out, bout 200 of us, to this sh@tty forest. We find a good entry point, we start to make our way in… And we start losing men by the squad. Only half of us make it through to the part where it starts to become a madhouse.

Crazy trees that don’t look real. Monster animals. The silver haired b@stards in the trees. We took out what we could, but we couldn’t hold. Panic set in. Half of us kept charging, half were retreating, one over the other. None of the runners made it. Only 20 of us left. Then they start taking captives. I try to hide. To escape, or to at least die fighting. They don’t let me. I’m in the cage.” Bright’s eyes would look off to somewhere distant. But Brookdale realized what he had done… The poor man was there again.


“The first 5 die like heroes. The rest of their squad try to break out, are cut down like animals. Only my crew left. Wilborn’s skin got pulled off like a banana. Argyle gets burned alive. The head b@tch comes down and kills the rest slowly with poison. Makes me watch. Tells me she’ll let them live if I just tell her who hired us. I refuse. I watch them rot from the inside out.”

Bright’s hands would tense up as he began to sweat heavily. “Weeks pass. No food. I finally break. I sell him out. She lets me go. I crawl back through the woods. I survive. Make it back to the town. The client rotted from the inside…. All… I…” Brookdale would snap his fingers. “Mr. Bright!” Michael would suddenly come back to reality. “I… I…” Brookdale would groan, looking around before finding a towel to hand to Michael. “…. I see it was a hard time. I assume… You picked it up during your, er, 'time there’?” Bright would take the towel and dab his head. “… Yes. Now, I… I should go find Ms. Darren for you.” And with that, the bodyguard would quickly escape the room.


Brookdale felt sorry for the man. Seen plenty like him, been through too much but refused to just lay down and die. He wanted to just ask the man to stop when he started to lose his calm… But he needed to know as much as he could. He said a lot… But Brookdale was sure there was more pertinent info in Ms. Darren’s notes. He quickly began to scan through what was scattered over her bed.


'The Altiim Social Model’. ‘Altiim by Caste’. ‘The School of Higher Mysteries-A Primer’. ‘The Covenant of Altima.’ ‘The Argent and its Properties’. ‘Boltinian Infusion Principles As Applied To The Silver Knights’. She knew a lot about them… And with her, erm, grandiose verbiage, the Detective couldn’t really pick too much up from the papers, but the titles… This seemed to cover a bit more than sociology. ‘Boltinian Infusion’… Curious. However, after some looking, he found something a bit more of his speed- ‘First-Hand Accounts of Altiim (Frontier Fringe Accounts)’. He'd take a drink, and get to reading.


---

This is a collection of first hand accounts personally gathered by Dr. Gladia Darren, Barton Institute of Higher Learning. Societal Studies. These are simply personal accounts, and cannot be taken as absolute fact, but due to their Altiim’s secretive nature, I personally believe in the merit of gathering any accounts of the Altiim for research. This collection of accounts specifically pertains to the Silver Elves, and any inconsistencies I can find on them. I personally find the inconsistencies rather fascinating, as it implies modifications to each batch of the Silver Knights may be independent of one another.


Account 1- “Granny Eldie”, aka Eldine Botham Argyle, Elf, Age 600


Interviewer: First, Granny, tell me who you are.


Granny Eldie: I’m Mrs. Eldine Argyle, but everyone calls me Granny Eldie. I’m the one who opened Barton University after Mr. Barron moved in and fixed things up, but before that I was headmaster of the Port Town School of Higher Learning. Now, I just… Sit here, sometimes people ask me things… Once you get my age, well, about all you have to give is knowledge.


I:Thank you. Now, you said when you were young, you were familiar with elves of the Altiim clan. What can you tell me about this time?


GE: Ah, yes… Back when, the Altiim were less… Isolated. They’d do trade with the nearby towns: Barton, Port Town, Illia… Most of the trade was for food. They traded crafts: woodwork, metalwork, clothes. Wonderful craftsmen, those Altiim. It was usually the same group: the trader, Alvir, and a group of his knights. He’d come riding in on his caravan, filled with gear, flocked by those strapping, muscular, tall elves, their silver hair shining in the sunset… Oh, but hear an old woman talk. From time to time, a knight would be replaced by another… I was just a girl, so… I didn’t quite grasp the context of why they changed. But one Knight never changed. Exal Alvon. He was always so sweet on me… Every time he’d stop by, he’d give me something one of the craftsmen made, or some flower found only in Exxos…


I: Exxos?


GE: Oh, that’s their name for their home. Sounds so much more romantic than 'Bleakwoods’, doesn’t it?


I: Ah, thank you. No, I agree. Please continue.


GE: Anyway, that man kept visiting me every time. He’d slip out, make a straw dummy of himself, put it in a bed roll and put on a silver wig, and he was off to the races. But I was a proper girl… And I refused his advances for years… But… A girl can only stay away from abs like that for so long. After the first time, we made it a date. Every time he’d come to town, he’d see me, and well… We'd share what time we had together. And this went on for years… He was so sweet. So dashing…. So rugged... It kept going until… One day Alvir’s caravan came, and my Exal wasn’t there. He had been replaced…


I: …. I’m so sorry. I know this must be hard… Do you remember what happened to him?


GE: … No. They never told me. But… The worst part was… I… I wanted a family. His family. I shared a bed with him every night he came, but… He was infertile. He couldn’t bring life into the world. I didn’t know until later… He had such a drive… I could tell how badly be wanted that family too. But they took that chance from him… And now I live in a house with such nice things… But it’s so quiet at night…


Notes: Mrs. Argyle passed two weeks after our conversation. Her contributions to Academia are incalculable, and she will be missed. However… Silver Knights are known for their lack of sex drive. When did this change? Is there evidence… That they were ALWAYS infertile?


Account 2- Kyle Bradshaw Laurey , Human, Age 50


Interviewer: To begin, tell me a small bit about yourself.


Kyle Laurey: Name’s Kyle Bradshaw Laurey, of the Port Town Laureys. Retired Blight Hunter, now Swordsmith. Son of Daniel Laurey and Maria Benton-Laurey.


I: And you said you are related to a member of the Altiim clan of elves?


KL: Well, I rightly say Uncle Al is more a Laurey than one-a them sneaky little bastards, but yeah, his Mom was of their type.


I: Can you tell me more about this ‘Uncle Al’?


KL: His name’s Alriik. We count him as a Laurey, but he goes by the full name “Alriik of Altiim”. He’s a strong bastard, and good with a sword. Good man, not, er… The most socially intelligent but he’d give you the shirt off his back and die fighting for any man wronged.


I: Yes, but what of his more physical attributes?


KL: He’s small for a Laurey, but big for an elf. Got the classic elf ears and some bright green eyes. Covered in scars. He’s half-elf so even though he’s 90 he’s still lookin’ young despite the gray hair.


I: Excuse me, but this is pertinent to my research- was it grey or silver, like metal?


KL: Erm… It shined, if that’s what you’re asking.


I: Thank you. Now, is there anything special about your uncle?


KL: He’s strong. Carries grandpa’s old sword on his back like it doesn’t weigh a thing. Got some weird magic to ‘im too. Laureys are good with fire, good for burning Blight, but he can do all sorts of things with lightning n’ ice n’ can pick up big ol’ rocks with his sword.


I: Has he ever been injured around you?


KL: Yeah. Cut himself in the smithy a few times. Bleeds weird, got metal in his blood. Didn’t question it too much. In my history elven magic can be weird.


I: How so?


KL: Saw an elf use some weird water crystal as part of their magic before. Member of those creeps that come after Uncle Al.


I: … I have so many questions. First, how did they use the crystal?


KL: They spoke to it… Then it shined this weird light. Like… Ever see a rainbow? Or light shining through a crystal? It was like that. But it was… The elements. The red was fire that burned around me, the purple caused the grass to die, the green caused it to grow like crazy… It started to start to all come together when he was stopped.


I: And how was he stopped?


KL: He didn’t see my brother Dave right behind him. Dave broke his neck.


I: … How did you meet this elf?


KL: Dave found him on the edge of town after the last time Uncle Al saved the whole town. I was the distraction, caught his attention, shouted loud at him. Weren’t one of the soldiers, just one of the red haired d@cks. Weren't our hardest kill.


I: … And you just killed him?


KL: Ma’am, we Laureys have stories we’re willing to tell, and others we’re not. Not gonna go too deep into it, but… Any o’ them Altiim that ain’t Uncle Al are kill on sight in Port Town. They took somethin’ special from us.


Notes: Mr. Laurey seemed such a kind man but our conversation left me terrified of the man. The casual nature in which he described his kill, like a hunter describing slaying game. But I have learned of a Silver Knight that may be willing to part with information, this Alriik of Altiim, which is valuable information. Attempting to find this Alriik of Altiim and learning all I can from him is my next step in learning more on the Altiim. But… I have an account that describes The Spectrum without having prior knowledge of it. I need to learn more about these ‘water crystals’.


Account 3: “Ol’ Jessup”, real name and age unknown. Appears to be older than 60, Human.


Preface: I was writing in a journal at a coffee shop at the edge of Port Town, when I was approached by a vagabond that identified himself as “Ol’ Jessup”. He pointed at the front of my journal, which had a few of the Altiim symbols I have been able to translate and transcribe, and said one word. “Exaltis”. The Altiim written language is similar to hieroglyphics, actually a rather simple language, but the fact he could translate “Exaltis” from symbols that resemble an upward pointing arrow, an upward curved arch, and a sharp ‘D’ meant he knew something. After asking for and successfully obtaining a bribe, the vagabond sat with me and allowed me to write down our conversation.


Interviewer: Thank you. And now, tell me a little about yourself.


Ol’ Jessup: Name’s Ol’ Jessup.


I: Thank you, but you already told me that. Something more.


OJ: I’m a hobo.


I: Yes, I can see that. Now, you were able to read the Altiim on my journal.


OJ: Yes.


I: And how did you learn how to read Altiim?


OJ: I was taught.


I: By whom?


OJ: An’ old friend who could read it.


I: Erm, Mr. Jessup-


OJ: Mr. Jessup was my father. Please, call me Ol’.


I: Ah, okay. Erm, Ol? If you don't mind, could you tell me what that’s short for?


OJ: Old.


I: Fine… Ol’ Jessup, forgive me for my failure in communication. Please, when I ask questions, answer and then it would help if you described the answers. As in, you said you had a friend who taught you. Who was this friend?


OJ: Brad. He likes to drink the bits of liquor he can find in trashed bottles and ate a rat for 10 gold once.


I: Now, how did Brad learn how to read Altiim?


OJ: From Shelly.


I: And who taught Shelly?


OJ: Mike.


I: And who taught Mike?


OJ: Johnny


I: This is going nowhere. Erm, do you know who was the person who taught the people here how to read such a rare language?


OJ: Alriik.


I: Alriik?


OJ: Alriik the Great.


I: Alriik… The Great?


OJ: Yep. Came here bout 3000 years ago, when this town was called ‘Drania’, before the fire and rebuilding.


I: Yes! Yes, thank you that was a great answer! Now, is there anything else you can tell me about this Alriik the Great?


OJ: He taught the hobos Altiim so we could leave marks no one else could read, so us hobos could talk to one another without people reading in.


I: He seems like he was a kind man.


OJ: Not really. A kindness for a kindness.


I: What do you mean?


OJ: Alriik the Great taught the hobos how to leave secret notes for each other, hobos hid his baby.


I: Hrm… Well, thank you. Unless you can think of anything else, that would be-


OJ: The baby was born old.


I: The baby… was born… Old?


OJ: Had the same grey hair as his dad.


Notes: WAT Mistake? Variation in story over time? Key subjects to attempt to research on in the future: Alriik The Great, Drania, Port Town, Historical Disasters in the Port Town Area. Need verification, even just to disprove. 

----


A lot questions raised with that one, nothing seeming relevant to the case. But in the back of his mind Delgado was giddy for the information. Creep had some sort of obsession with all of this. Hearing a rather loud and excited Ms. Darren speaking to someone, assumedly Mr. Bright, and approaching, he’d idly place the paper back into its spot. He’d rise to meet her, pouring himself another glass and raising it to her as she approached. “Ms. Darren.”, he spoke, smiling to the half elf in the rediculous glasses. Ms. Darren would smile back, entering the room with a large stack of books and placing them in the middle of the sea of notes on her bed.


“Please, Inspector, call me Gladia. And it’s a pleasure seeing you again.” Brookdale would smile, sipping from his drink. “The same, Gladia. And call me John, I’m not on the clock just yet.” As Mr. Bright made his way in after her, shutting the door, Gladia would giddily pull out her pen and paper, smiling with a cat-like grin. “I hope you don’t mind if I document over conversation. Oh, and did you bring the container, John?” Brookdale would reach into his coat, and pulled out the container. Hrm… A water-crystal? Perhaps those notes weren’t useless after all.


He’d place it on a table and sit down in a chair next to it. He’d pull out his own pen and paper. “Of course, and of course. As long as I get to keep my own notes.” Gladia would shift her glasses, her eyes vanishing behind the light reflected in the lenses. “Oh, but of course John. Now… Let’s begin. Please, tell me a little about yourself.”

[Vic Alriikerson]

Chapter 4- Gladia

“My name is John William Brookdale, or J.W. I’m an inspector that recently transferred from Aldur, and before that, Barton. I am currently investigating a series of deaths near the edge of Shiner’s Bay, which seem to be related to your research into the Altiim. I am currently under the belief the deceased were members of the Altiim clan, the majority being of the ‘Silver Knights’. Is that enough?” The detective stared at the light-covered-glasses on Gladia’s face, attempting to get some sort of view on her eyes. “But of course, John.” “Good. Now you.” “My name is Dr. Gladia Darren, Researcher at Barton Institute of Higher Learning. Societal Studies. The focus on my research is on the Altiim people, their history, their religion, and how their society functions. I am currently in Shiner’s Bay following a lead that I believed would lead me to a Silver Knight of Altiim who had defected, and was willing to provide information on his clan, but by the time I had arrived he had left the city by boat. Is that enough?” Brookdale would attempt to move his head, but he couldn’t pierce the lenses of her glasses to peer her eyes. “But of course.”



“Now… You said you came from Barton, my hometown. I’m curious, why did you transfer?” Brookdale would ruffle his brow. “Disgrace. Failed to catch a thief and serial killer.” “And the names of this thief and killer?” “His name is Joshua Delgado.” Gladia would finally move her head, he would see a noticable blink. Finally, he had the advantage. “Oh, erm... Yes. I’ve read the papers. The man was… Despicable.” eBrookdale would look to her. “So, I have my own question. Why do you study what you study?” Gladia would light up.



“Ah, Sociology. I have always been interested in societies, different cultures, their similarities and differences. You see, my mother was human, and my father was an elf. But when they met at University, despite their vastly different histories and environments, their search for knowledge lead them to the same place. And through studying together, they found many commonalities. A love for nature. An excitement in discovery. A passion for each other. But they were so different. Mother was bright, excitable, passionate. Father was firm and stoic, yet so deeply kind. And they found their differences completed each other. So I guess… My true dream is to find success on that on a larger scale.” Gladia seemed proud of her answer, but Brookdale furrowed his brow.



“I meant why the focus on the Altiim. From all accounts they’re a small clan of little importance, and if what I have seen is accurate, their ‘super-soldiers’ seem less than impressive.” Gladia would look at Brookdale in disbelief, Michael stared daggers through him. “W-well, I… Expected the question, just not… that way.” She would clear her throat. “W-well, first off, the Altiim only send out their younger crop. Less than 60 years old, the more expendable warriors. Those that survive a certain amount of work or have shown exemplary aptitude for combat are kept at the Bleakwoods as commanders , defenders and trainers. Defense is their first priority, over any outside excursion. Only during the most dire missions will they send out a seasoned warrior.”



“So the ones out at the clearing… They were fodder.” Gladia would sigh. “Only by surviving this life can they ascend in rank and obtain a modicum of respect and a few rights. Until then, they are slaves, controlled by a member of the Mage caste. Those who you found in that clearing were still but cadets.” Brookdale’s expression would turn grim. “So… I’m assuming not too many reach that higher rank?” Gladia would nod. “It’s assumed less than 10% of all successful Silver Knights are given permanent assignment in the Bleakwoods.”

“But what about the other one? The mage? Do you know anything that could cause a man to become shriveled up and die in the matter of a few minutes?” Gladia would think. “Hrm… It would have to be magic, for it happen so quickly. Any non-magical poison would require at the least a few days to get that result. So… Magic. Either Blight, or Poison. And powerful.” Brookdale would nod. “ Thank you… But erm… You didn’t answer my question.” “Ah, yes. Why the Altiim. The ‘small clan of little importance’, I believed you called it.”



Brookdale would sigh. “I’m sorry if I offended in any-“ “My father had a family heirloom. In his study. A shred of brilliant red cloth with golden accents. Symbols. Sound familiar?” Brookdale would blink. “The mage elf’s cloak…” “The symbols on it. What were they?” “Like… A lot of ornate, sweeping lines and water droplets.” “That indicates the mage was proficient with water. Now, Altiim use these symbols as markings, whatever elements the mage can use, and their rank. No rank symbol, lowest rank. Student. Now… My father’s piece had different symbols.” She would close her eyes. “Ex, or All, represented by an upward arrow. Al, or Greater, represented by an upward arch. Now, Ex can also mean ‘most’ in some contexts, such as Exal meaning ‘most great’. Next is Tis, or time, represented by a sharp triangle similar to a ‘D’ which I believe originated as the image of a sundial. “Greatest of All Time. Then a sword.”



“Riik”, Michael finally spoke up. “Ex-Al-Tis-Riik” are the words, “Greatest Swordsman of All Time.” Gladia would blink. “Why didn’t you-“ “This is the first time I’ve heard of it. I never asked, you never told.” “… Hnnnh.” Gladia would furiously pull out a second piece of paper and speedily write down notes. “Erm, Gladia,” The Detective would speak up, but the professor wouldn’t reply. “How much time do you- “She would look up, a fierce look in her eyes. “This is important. Please give me one moment to collect my thoughts, and we’ll continue, Mr. Brookdale.” She would return to her papers, scribbling madly. Brookdale would simply wait and be impressed by the penmanship she showed, even in her mad scribbles.



She would eventually stop, re-reading her notes intensely… Before sighing happily, and placing the second paper to the side, returning to the first. “Ah, sorry John. Was important to my research.”, she would say somewhat sheepishly, a bit embarrassed. “So, this cloth… Did you father say anything about it?” Brookdale wasn’t asking for the case. His gut told him she wasn’t the killer, didn’t have it in her. Bright had the skill and motive, but not to kill the mage that way. He simply… Wanted to know. See if he could help a girl work things out. “That he got it from his mother. That it was a family heirloom. And I truly want to see why my family left. I’ve found so many reasons, but… I don’ t know which one it was.” Brookdale would nod. “Ah, I understand…”



Gladia would take a moment to collect herself… Before adjusting her glssses, her eyes again vsnishing behind the light. “Thank you…. Now… The container…” Gladia would smile giddily as she gently lifted the container and observed it, utterly transfixed. “The material inside resembles mercury… But it acts like water…” She would give it a light shake, listening to the insides slosh. “Heavier than water, though… Weight is… One and a Quarter times what it should…” She then walked to the center of the room, holding it tight. Brookdale and Bright would both eye her warily. She would then hold it up against the lantern lighting the room.



As she moved it to the light, the entire room would be bathed in the colors of the rainbow. Like holding up a crystal, the light was refracted and split the room across the color spectrum. But it also seemed to increase the intensity of the light, making the shifting colors intense and vibrant… And if one looked deeply, one could see something in each other colors. The red light wisped and flickered like flame. The yellow light shuttered and crackled with energy. The green light seemed almost like leaves, shifting in the wind. The blue light flowed and shifted like water. The three would take a moment to… Simply take in the moment. Was something you didn’t experience every day. While Bright watched the occurrences ready to act, Gladia laughed giddily, so happy with her discovery. “Do you see it? The Spectrum… I finally have evidence!”



Brookdale would finally speak up. “So, uh… What’s all this mean?” “The Altiim… They use a special kind of energy. Their word translates to ‘Silver’, though I prefer and have coined the term 'Argent’ for it. It comes from their lake, this water is filled with it, the Silver Knights are filled with it… It’s… Hrm, what do you know about magic?” “That the people born with it can control some sort of element. And I know a lot of applications when it comes to being a criminal.” Gladia would chuckle. “Okay, so… I’ll try to say this in a way that you can follow. Magic is spread across ten different elements- Light, Fire, Lightning, Wind, Poison, Nature, Earth, Ice, Water, Blight.” She would count on her fingers as she did. “Now, the exact order is disputed, but those are the elements that comprise the spectrum of magical energy.”



“Now, The Altiim deny this separation. Now, I do not know the exact science yet… But I believe this ‘Argent’ is a pure, distilled life energy. This could have so many different implications. It contains energy similar to magic, but it there are no mages on record with the ability to use it like normal magic. Is it an 11th magical element, the keystone that connects them all? Is it a blend of the 8 ‘ lesser’ elements into a force strong enough to match Light and Dark? Or maybe… It’s a stabilized blend of Light and Dark, and through it one ‘cuts’ the other into this spectrum? Their mythology implies of a goddess that allows them this gift, one still in the lake. She… Must be the source of this impossibility. No matter the source, their use of Argent is the primary advantage the Altiim have over other mages.”



Brookdale would nod. “He died reaching for it. So… He went out trying to take the bastard who got ‘im.” Gladia would glance at the crystal. “Prehaps… Some say they can communicate through these waters, though. Prehaps he died trying to warn his people, or ask for help. It… Didn’t do much for him in the long run.” Brookdale would rub his chin, and would glance over to Bright. “So, uh… I got a question. A girl with Altiim on her shoulder seems a little… Too convenient. What do you two think?”



Bright’s glance would go upward as the gears turned in his head. “So, the Scythe symbol, ‘Ess’, means either the literal scythe, or what the scythe does. Reap. So… Without any extra context… Could mean ‘Reaper’, of either lives or fields, or just ‘scythe’. But… I agree. Her showing up at the same time… Either she was looking for our elf friend too, or…” Brookdale would nod, and finish the man’s sentence. “Or she's our killer.” He’d grumble, and write down some notes.



“I just… Brookdale would sigh. “I don’t think it was her. I got this gut feeling… Something else is at play. And I gotta go talk to Ms. Indigo soon, before I lose my chance, but… I don’t want to leave just yet.” He’d flash Gladia a grin. “And not just for the company.” He’d sigh. “ I just… I feel like there’s something I’m missing here. Some lost puzzle piece.” Gladia’s eyes would again vanish behind the veil of her thick glasses as she brought a finger to her mouth. “Hrm… Well, I…” However, that moment, a smile would begin to curl on Gladia’s face. “Well, I’m certain we can help each other.”



“I will be in town for the next few days… Is there any way I could hold onto this crystal, at least until the end of your investigation? It would help greatly with my studies, and frankly, it would probably be safer with me until we know what is going on with it.” Brookdale would blink, a bit confused. “Miss Darren, you are a sociologist. What good wou-“ Darren would immediately cut him off there, her voice terse and words quick. “I have a doctorate in biology, in sociology, in medical science, and in magical studies. I am also the world’s premiere Altiim researcher outside of their clan. If there is anyone who can figure out what is true and what is myth on this object… It is me.” Micheal would shrug his shoulders, and chime in. “She’s right.” Brookdale would sigh… And finally hand it over. He had no use for it himself and maybe she could help him learn something. And besides, if she wanted to kill him with it… Well, she already had a good shot. She’d take it with both hands, grin tightening as she observed it again. She would stare for a minute, before finally speaking up.



“The Altiim’s greatest enemies… The ones with the most to gain from killing them… Well, there are a few groups I could think of. Escaped knights, obviously. Members of the Port Town Blight Hunters Guild would be a close second.” Brookdale would blink. “What does Port Town have to do with the Altiim?” Gladia would continue to simply stare at the diamond. “Well, there came a time when Port Town ended up with an additional guardian besides the Hunters. Her name was Angel, and she was a dragon. She was mighty, and beloved by the town. Then the Altiim killed her.”



That… Was a lot. He’d take a moment to jot that down. “Well, I got another lead now… After I talk to Ms. Indigo, that is. Thank you, Gladia.” Darren’s glance would finally break from the crystal. “Oh, no, thank you, John. I… I cannot wait to share my findings with you.” He’d smile to her, and after Bright cleared the way, he’d step from the hotel room, and soon found himself back outside. It was… A lot to process, but he could chew through the rest later. The day was already more than half done, and he still had a singer to find.



The sun would slowly lower as Brookdale as spent the day asking around for his singer. The sun would hang low before he finally made any headway. She was booked at a different bar across town, and he had time before her show. By the time the sun rested against the horizon, he had made it. “The Spit-Take”. Brookdale was less than impressed by the dilapidated building, but the crowd seemed less rowdy than Moon Shiner’s. He’d push his way through the door and the crowd, making his way through to the bar, when he saw-



-When I saw her sitting there, humoring the bartender. I'd slip between drunks, and finally make my way to her side, taking a torn bar seat next to her. I take a moment, and just let them talk. I keep my glances short. It’s hard to operate in the presence of a goddess. I take just a moment, before distracting the bartender with an order. 3 complex drinks with specific instructions. I tip him well. He doesn’t seem to mind too much. Then I take my shot. I smile. I look her in those pearly eyes, and my preparation pays off. I’m only breathless for a second. I finally speak. I expected to break down, confess to her just how much I needed her in my life. I somehow manage to not embarrass myself, and simply say…



“Hey.”