Prosellet
Searching for her shoe
Act One: An Artist's Refrain
They found the body by the docks, half buried beneath the remnants of a wooden crate, with the glassy sheen of its remaining eye left open to search for a sun that would never come. Had it not been for the rivulets of blood seeping from its resting place and mapping the grooves of the stone, they may have passed it by – for the acrid stench of scorched paint, flesh, and wood was too fresh, too cloying. Distinguishing the subtle odor of blood from the heavier scents permeating the air would have been asking for a needle in a haystack. In the end, it was only due to the glow of the dying flames that puddles that once appeared normal in the dusk could be discerned for what they were: blood, fresh yet thinned by the rain, painting a map to the dead.
Lucian saw the hand first, the appendage frozen in a desperate bid for traction against slick stone as it reached into the dark. Its fingers were bent and rigid, blood speckled along their tips as broken nails split flesh and splintered upon the ground. While the knuckles were in marginally better shape, the raw and cracked skin there hinted toward a struggle that had not ended in the victim’s favor. A smattering of red marks lining the cadaver’s wrist, a collection of bruises that would never get the chance to form, further supported this assumption. Yet, for all the desperation captured in that single appendage, it was not the state of the corpse’s hand that arrested Lucian’s attention and numbed him to the rain soaking through the fabric of his coat. Rather, it was the corpse’s face – or what remained of it – that held him transfixed. For where a lower jaw should have met his gaze there was naught but a tongue hanging limply in a pool of blood.
Footsteps behind him broke Lucian from his trance, green eye cutting through the drizzle to meet a golden gaze that slid past him to alight on the body at his feet. His sister, fingers stained black from shifting through soot and scorched remains, was silent as she approached. The other corpses on site had been burnt beyond recognition; the spread of flames too quick for the evening’s rain to subdue before the victims melted under their blaze. Annette, who carried their remains on her flesh, clicked her tongue as she kneeled by his side. There was disgust in the curl of her lips and the crinkle of her brow. It did not stop her from reaching forward to prod at the corpse’s upper lip.
Where she touched a residue of black painted the pale skin, the bit of flesh yielding beneath her ministration to yield an enlarged incisor. Lucian cursed under his breath at the sight, left hand lifting to push his bangs away from his forehead.
“This murder was not pre-meditated.” Annette’s voice cut through the silence as she tapped a cheek chilled in death. “The other bodies were stacked together inside a shipping container. Whoever this was,” her hand moved to prod the skin around the cadaver’s empty eye socket, “found something he shouldn’t have.”
“The excessive violence?”
“A hate crime.” Annette frowned. “Whoever did this knew what he was. We’ll take John Doe here in for examination, but I guarantee we won’t find his missing eye or jaw.”
Lucian sighed. “You think the murderer took them as trophies.” When Annette met his eyes it was with a gaze that lacked all doubt, golden irises hardened by years as a witness to the dregs of society and nature.
“I know it.”
Rajan was not a man prone to rash actions. Spine straight and book in hand, he stood in front of one of the many bookcases lining The Order’s library with an air of contemplation. His was a carefully crafted countenance that belied the dissatisfaction churning his blood. To Lucian, who had finished relaying the events of the morning, it was a relief to know that, even as the city of London spiraled into chaos once again, some things never changed. Even in the wake of a mass murder, Rajan would digest the information presented to him like a man partaking in a gourmet meal. A page turned, a heart beat, and the head of The Order’s London branch parted his lips to speak.
“We would be fools to claim this as a one-time ordeal.” Rajan’s eyes narrowed, pointer finger tapping on the cover of the book in his hand. “Get a hold of Giddeon. I want eyes on London’s East End docks and ears on her streets. If someone so much as sneezes in the vicinity, I want to know.”
Lucian, who felt his lips purse, made no effort to argue Rajan’s orders. While Gideon was an annoyance and a drunkard, his help would be invaluable. As matters stood, they had no clear leads. The corpses had been transferred to headquarters, but there was no telling how helpful they’d be in solving the incident until Viktor finished his observations. They were stuck in limbo; if they weren’t careful, they’d be too slow to act until the next casualty occurred. And that was something no one wanted to happen.
When Lucian left the room, it was to the sound of a book snapping shut.
If her body was capable of producing sweat, Annette was certain her clothes would have been drenched long ago. As was her habit, the brunette had made her way to the training room when she and Lucian returned from the pier. Her mind had been darkened by thoughts she no longer wished to entertain, "what-ifs" dancing behind her eyes in a constant stream of noise she sought to drown out the best way she knew how: training. While Annette was by no means a junky for physical exercise, even she gave credit to the focus that accompanied the act of losing herself in the repetitive motions of her kata.
After all, she was not an analyst like Lucian or a coroner like Viktor. Her role in handling the ordeals that landed on The Order's doorstep was limited to the field. The headquarters were not her domain, even if she lived there. Indeed, where her brother excelled behind his desk, she found her use in the heat of combat and amidst London's streets - for hers was an existence forged for battle, a purpose centered around subduing and eliminating those threatening the balance between humanity and the supernatural through direct means. Annette was a tool, a weapon - and, like any weapon, she needed to be honed and sharpened to strike with precision.
Perhaps, if she kept training, she'd be able to ignore the voice in the back of her mind that told her this is all she'd ever be.
Worthlessplebian
A Murder Of Corviknight
Necromantic
Nano
Aravini
screaming armadillo
kasigi
Location: East End Docks, London, England
4:45 am
4:45 am
They found the body by the docks, half buried beneath the remnants of a wooden crate, with the glassy sheen of its remaining eye left open to search for a sun that would never come. Had it not been for the rivulets of blood seeping from its resting place and mapping the grooves of the stone, they may have passed it by – for the acrid stench of scorched paint, flesh, and wood was too fresh, too cloying. Distinguishing the subtle odor of blood from the heavier scents permeating the air would have been asking for a needle in a haystack. In the end, it was only due to the glow of the dying flames that puddles that once appeared normal in the dusk could be discerned for what they were: blood, fresh yet thinned by the rain, painting a map to the dead.
Lucian saw the hand first, the appendage frozen in a desperate bid for traction against slick stone as it reached into the dark. Its fingers were bent and rigid, blood speckled along their tips as broken nails split flesh and splintered upon the ground. While the knuckles were in marginally better shape, the raw and cracked skin there hinted toward a struggle that had not ended in the victim’s favor. A smattering of red marks lining the cadaver’s wrist, a collection of bruises that would never get the chance to form, further supported this assumption. Yet, for all the desperation captured in that single appendage, it was not the state of the corpse’s hand that arrested Lucian’s attention and numbed him to the rain soaking through the fabric of his coat. Rather, it was the corpse’s face – or what remained of it – that held him transfixed. For where a lower jaw should have met his gaze there was naught but a tongue hanging limply in a pool of blood.
Footsteps behind him broke Lucian from his trance, green eye cutting through the drizzle to meet a golden gaze that slid past him to alight on the body at his feet. His sister, fingers stained black from shifting through soot and scorched remains, was silent as she approached. The other corpses on site had been burnt beyond recognition; the spread of flames too quick for the evening’s rain to subdue before the victims melted under their blaze. Annette, who carried their remains on her flesh, clicked her tongue as she kneeled by his side. There was disgust in the curl of her lips and the crinkle of her brow. It did not stop her from reaching forward to prod at the corpse’s upper lip.
Where she touched a residue of black painted the pale skin, the bit of flesh yielding beneath her ministration to yield an enlarged incisor. Lucian cursed under his breath at the sight, left hand lifting to push his bangs away from his forehead.
“This murder was not pre-meditated.” Annette’s voice cut through the silence as she tapped a cheek chilled in death. “The other bodies were stacked together inside a shipping container. Whoever this was,” her hand moved to prod the skin around the cadaver’s empty eye socket, “found something he shouldn’t have.”
“The excessive violence?”
“A hate crime.” Annette frowned. “Whoever did this knew what he was. We’ll take John Doe here in for examination, but I guarantee we won’t find his missing eye or jaw.”
Lucian sighed. “You think the murderer took them as trophies.” When Annette met his eyes it was with a gaze that lacked all doubt, golden irises hardened by years as a witness to the dregs of society and nature.
“I know it.”
Lucian Greene
Location: Library, Headquarters, London, England
7:28 am
7:28 am
Rajan was not a man prone to rash actions. Spine straight and book in hand, he stood in front of one of the many bookcases lining The Order’s library with an air of contemplation. His was a carefully crafted countenance that belied the dissatisfaction churning his blood. To Lucian, who had finished relaying the events of the morning, it was a relief to know that, even as the city of London spiraled into chaos once again, some things never changed. Even in the wake of a mass murder, Rajan would digest the information presented to him like a man partaking in a gourmet meal. A page turned, a heart beat, and the head of The Order’s London branch parted his lips to speak.
“We would be fools to claim this as a one-time ordeal.” Rajan’s eyes narrowed, pointer finger tapping on the cover of the book in his hand. “Get a hold of Giddeon. I want eyes on London’s East End docks and ears on her streets. If someone so much as sneezes in the vicinity, I want to know.”
Lucian, who felt his lips purse, made no effort to argue Rajan’s orders. While Gideon was an annoyance and a drunkard, his help would be invaluable. As matters stood, they had no clear leads. The corpses had been transferred to headquarters, but there was no telling how helpful they’d be in solving the incident until Viktor finished his observations. They were stuck in limbo; if they weren’t careful, they’d be too slow to act until the next casualty occurred. And that was something no one wanted to happen.
When Lucian left the room, it was to the sound of a book snapping shut.
Annette Greene
Location: Training Room, Headquarters, London, England
7:28 am
7:28 am
If her body was capable of producing sweat, Annette was certain her clothes would have been drenched long ago. As was her habit, the brunette had made her way to the training room when she and Lucian returned from the pier. Her mind had been darkened by thoughts she no longer wished to entertain, "what-ifs" dancing behind her eyes in a constant stream of noise she sought to drown out the best way she knew how: training. While Annette was by no means a junky for physical exercise, even she gave credit to the focus that accompanied the act of losing herself in the repetitive motions of her kata.
After all, she was not an analyst like Lucian or a coroner like Viktor. Her role in handling the ordeals that landed on The Order's doorstep was limited to the field. The headquarters were not her domain, even if she lived there. Indeed, where her brother excelled behind his desk, she found her use in the heat of combat and amidst London's streets - for hers was an existence forged for battle, a purpose centered around subduing and eliminating those threatening the balance between humanity and the supernatural through direct means. Annette was a tool, a weapon - and, like any weapon, she needed to be honed and sharpened to strike with precision.
Perhaps, if she kept training, she'd be able to ignore the voice in the back of her mind that told her this is all she'd ever be.
Worthlessplebian
A Murder Of Corviknight
Necromantic
Nano
Aravini
screaming armadillo
kasigi
