A Raven's Journey Pt. 3: Arcana & Order

It is slightly past dawn in the city of Duskwall. The lone raven continues her journey, her senses guiding her towards one of the many estates in Brightstone. She glides slowly downwards, over the statues of Unity Park. It’s too early for most in the district to be out and about, although the Docks are surely already bustling with activity. The raven spots a lone figure standing in the direction in which she’s flying. She pulls up and alights on the ornate wrought-iron balcony of the estate, with a clear view of the lone figure and the corpse she detected earlier.

The lone figure is a tall woman, wearing an ornate and immaculate white uniform which marks her as one of the Inspectors of the city watch. While the watch as a whole have an earned reputation for being corruptable and easily-bribed, the Inspectors stand alone as an scrupulous force for justice in Duskwall. Her blonde hair is tied up in a tight bun, and her grey eyes are steadily examining the corpse in front of her. Those two features mark her as of Skovlander descent as opposed to Akorosian. She takes a drag of a hand-rolled cigarette through thin lips and sighs, bending down to more closely examine the body in front of her.

It’s a young adult, probably about eighteen years of age, with short, light brown hair and immaculate skin that marks him as one of the nobility. He’s wearing his best finery, navy slacks that end at the ankles and an expensive grey jacket. His mouth is open in a fixed scream, a grisly reminder of rigour mortis. His eyes are open but appear to be covered in some kind of thick black film. The inspector already knows that this was Lord and Lady Bowmore’s fifth son, Wester. The raven watches impassively, and then feels the familiar feeling of the approach of one of it’s masters. There’s a voice behind the inspector.

“I wouldn’t get too close if I were you, Skannon. If he’s like the others his blood is flammable. It’s quite a sight when we throw them in the incinerator. You should come see it one day.”

Skannon straightens, careful not to drop any cigarette ash near the corpse, and turns to look at the person approaching her. They’re wearing a long, black coat, with grey trim and a wide, turned-up collar, brown tweed pants and a dark cloth shirt and a black triangle hat. The belt buckle, cufflinks, and coat buttons are all gleaming bronze, as is the mask that covers their face. The latter item, which keeps their identity secret and marks them as one of the Spirit Wardens, is smooth and impassive, with two holes for eyes, a protrusion for the nose, and a small hole at the bottom to allow speech. Skannon adresses them.

“Hey. We met?”

“Oh, probably. I don’t remember. You all look alike.”

“Skovlanders or Inspectors?”

“Both.”

“Very funny. I get the one Warden with the sense of humour. Great.”

The bronze-masked figure pauses for a moment. They turn their face towards the corpse.

“Such. A. Shame. Another child of the City Council dead before their time. Wasn’t Wester supposed to be Lady Bowmore’s favourite? I don’t really know, we don’t have time to keep up on gossip. Any leads?”

Somehow the fixed bronze face manages to look inquisitive.

“Not really. It’s obviously someone who moves in nobility, otherwise they wouldn’t have access to all these kids. What did you say about his blood being flammable?”

“Oh yes, it’s some kind of alchemical process that we can’t quite figure out. His blood’s been replaced with electroplasm. The corpses are mostly drained after, but there’s still enough residue to go up if you touched him with your cigarette. Seems like a useful process actually, although you think if you wanted to farm electroplasm you’d maybe use prisoners from Ironhook rather than noble children. Anyways, you finished with your investigation?”

Skannon grunts. 

“He’s all yours.”

She swears she sees a smile through the hole in the mask. Once given the go-ahead, the Warden works with impressive speed and ease, bundling the body into a large burlap sack and hauling it quickly back to a small carriage, pulled by one Akorosian goat. As the carriage pulls away, Skannon drops her cigarette to the pavement, snuffing it out quickly. The raven, satisfied that the situation has been resolved, takes back to the sky, emitting a peircing cry as she rides upwards on a draft of warm air.

“CAW!”