Alchemist City Stories: Abridged Edition by John Xavier

Of course the ogre didn’t wait for their victim to hand it over and with one
anvil sized fist, they reached in and tore it from Cooty’s grasp. “Id any good?”
interjected Dirk as Morhl prodded it with a huge grubby finger.

“Nah,” id’s stoopid,” growled the latter ogre before he crushed the clock with
one hand and sprinkled out its wreckage in mild amusement. Then the two titans
took turns slapping him around for a while before finally succumbing to boredom
and leaving a battered Twillard Cooty doubled over in the fetal position. He lay
there tearful and bleeding for a few minutes but eventually the pain subsided and
he sat up. He didn’t care much for poetry but, wiping away some oozing snot, he
recalled a couplet he’d long ago committed to memory. “In moondust shadows
even satyrs weep, pondering paths of life they did not heed.”

Despite recognizing the futility of it, Coots couldn’t help crawling over and
sifting through the ruins of his plundered prize. There was nothing in the broken
pieces though that looked like it was valuable enough to pay his fare to the moon.
Those bungling louts! Two noggins all bone and no brain, eager to squander
unappreciated treasure in the service of a petty thrill! And Fortune! A woman for
sure, fickle without remorse! Filling his heart with hope simply for the pleasure of
squeezing it all out. Oh! How he hated being toyed with. But what power did a
puppet like him have against an invisible heavenly hand? Unable to think of any,
Twillard Cooty suppressed the last of his seething desire to scream and pushed
himself up from the ground. Standing alone, smacking the dirt from his clothes, his
mood plummeted from the crags of anger into the crevasses of despair. Another
wasted day in a worthless life. Shuffling away from the scene of his most recent
shame, Coots wandered around aimlessly for a while, simply trying to keep moving
so he didn’t have to contemplate the depths of failure he’d succumbed to. In this
too he was unsuccessful.

Memories of childhood proved an irresistible melancholy. It sure hurt
though, to picture the boy he’d used to be. Not a bad kid, a little lazy maybe and
unrepentant when it came to taking short cuts, but not mean and greedy.
Nevertheless he knew from a young age he was a disappointment to his father. A
county tax collector who’d aspired to respectable mediocrity since earliest
adulthood, the old man had no patience for dreamers and didn’t shed any tears
when his son Twillard ran away at sixteen to seek out the enchantments of the
magic city. Coots flirted with so many different ambitions but none of them lasted

long enough to amount to anything. Drake wrangler, artisan, merchant mariner; all
fell apart at the first moment of resistance. Then by happenstance, a fellow partyer
at a Nymphomorphosis festival gave him an introductory snort of moondust and
his continuing lesson in forced dependency began. Having nervously stayed on the
right side of the law until that point, it was hardly three weeks later before he was
committing a half a dozen acts of brazen theft a day. All to feed the dragon tyrant
that now ruled him. As if everything that had ever occurred since the beginning of
the world was pure clockwork, an instance of serendipity transpired here that
defied random coincidence. He saw from afar the Dragon Cenotaph, a memorial to
the victims of the last awakening. A forlorn and neglected monument presently
covered in graffiti, Coots felt an irresistible urge to draw nearer and soon he was
wistfully circling the statue of the dread beast like he’d reached the end of some
long pilgrimage. Meaning he felt exhausted. Then, to his utter dismay, the statue
of the dragon started speaking to him.

“You’re looking a bit glum there Coots,” remarked the dragon statue with
casual familiarity as its massive stone head moved slightly to gaze at him.

“It’s no problem,” answered Coots guardedly. His caution here stemmed
from the fact that one of the side effects of prolonged moondust usage was
periodic hallucinations. On the other hand though he really did live in a world
where wizards could bring inanimate objects to life and where the powers of magic
were nearly limitless, so there really wasn’t anything so implausible you could be
sure it was a delusion. At this point in his life, reality for Twillard Cooty was a
concept more hypothetical than actual, but he made do by matching the
unreliability of his perceptions with his own inconsistency.

“Well, you know what would cure that?” asked the dragon statue
rhetorically. “A spoonful of lunar medicine.”

Coots sighed in dejection. “Just another trick is all,” he muttered dismissively.
“A way to play you for the fool again.” Hearing this, the expression on the marble
dragon shifted with tectonic pity.

“Come on now Mr. Cooty,” it replied in mild protest. “Don’t be like that. How
many times have I basked you in joy and shooed off your sorrows? How many
times?”

A pang of embarrassment struck Coots from a sense of his own ingratitude.
“Lots,” he said sheepishly.

The dragon however didn’t gloat here. “No need for that,” it said with
munificence. “I’m simply trying to help you out my friend. And if you’re willing to
heed my advice, I’d recommend you pay your pal Knid there a visit. You may not be
able to afford a trip to the moon right now but that doesn’t mean you can’t hitch a
ride to get there.” Coots considered this idea with the same level of analysis a
banker would use when weighing out the merits of giving out a loan. His conclusion;
he had nothing to lose.

“Thanks dragon,” said a brightened Coots, but the statue had reverted to its
earlier lifeless state. No matter. He had hit the ground hard but he was bouncing
back. The day wasn’t over, the fight wasn’t lost.

Although not a particularly festive place, there were still some signs of Pawns
Carnival among Gaol Island’s crowds. With the jumbled tenements’ upper levels
visible above the rest of the surrounding sprawl, Coots weaved his way through the
usual masses dressed with scavenged elegance and pragmatic grotesqueness, as
well as the odd reveler attired in more celebratory costume. Two of these, a tip-
toeing fiddler and a one-armed man cranking a hurdy-gurdy, were performing a jig
in horse mask, and he felt drawn to them for a fleeting moment before his addict
priorities reasserted themselves.

Reaching the east-west thoroughfare of Hangman’s Boulevard, he waited
impatiently for a break in traffic he could use to scuttle across. The flow of carriages
and animals however seemed determined to keep him sidelined and eventually he
got so fed up he dashed into the lethal turmoil running in both directions. Between
slicing wheels he dodged and stumbled until, halfway in, he tried to catch his breath
during an apparent interlude. Here however a vehicle changed lanes and suddenly
a wall of hog-sized rats was rushing towards him. Somersaulting at the last second,
he quickly looked behind to catch sight of the caravan the giant rodents were
pulling; a huge rickety wagon helmed by a top-hatted dwarf cracking an angry whip
over his chittering beasts. Beside him a swirling fairy seemed to be offering useless
driving advice but there was too much noise for Coots to hear anything as they
rumbled by. He had time though to read the colorful sign on the side of the vehicle;

Garl’s Mystic Circus, it read. Shaking off the daze of a close call, Twillard Cooty
scrambled the rest of the way across the road. There he collapsed for a moment
and puked from dizziness before noticing a crow, pecking at some nearby roadkill,
who promptly took off. Wiping away his mouth, he lurched to a standing position
again and veered once more towards Knid’s squat. A shortcut through a fetid alley
halved the journey and, passing a clique of elderly drunks sharing a gallon of Dog’s
Breath Stout, he emerged from this immediately in front of Ugly Knid’s building.
There the normal mess of scorched lowlifes were idly enjoying the squalid
ambiance but Coots manoeuvered through them with minimal hellos and banter.
Finding the weathered steps that led to the basement entrance, he danced down
these in a flash and disappeared into the dark recesses beyond a pair of battered
swinging doors.

The basement was a dismal swamp. A shallow layer of water covered the
entire floor and it was only by haphazard islands of debris that you could pass
through without getting your feet soaked. Wall mounted oil lamps had originally
illuminated the area too but these had long ago been ripped out, leaving only a few
shafts of sunlight slipping in through cracks, and the occasional candle, to provide
any visibility. One of the latter of these was actually floating by on a crude toy boat
when Coots completed the series of leaps he needed to reach the curtained hole
to Knid’s lair. This was where he was supposed to knock beside the hole and wait
to be let in but instead Twillard Cooty just stood there and listened. For a second
he couldn’t figure out what was so peculiar and then it hit him; the quiet. Knid
Bloxen and his associates weren’t exactly known for that. Deciding after a minute
that he’d risk it, Coots swept back the curtain and furtively snuck inside. There he
found the gang passed out on the ground in random positions like a pack of hounds
depleted after a hunt. Creeping closer, he caught sight of Ugly Knid (Still as ugly as
ever) being spooned by a snoring wench with hideous yellow teeth. Her ephemeral
paramour however was jealously hugging a small leather pouch. Coots instantly
knew from Knid’s body language that the pouch had moondust in it; looking at the
man was like looking in a mirror at himself when he was flush. Twillard Cooty
realized that it would be next to impossible to steal the pouch without waking Knid
but his desperation paralyzed him for a minute as he considered risking it anyways.
Then, right when the temptation was about to push him into the reckless act, he
remembered something. Months ago while hanging out there, Coots had seen Knid
suspiciously opening and closing the door of the old iron stoke heater. This struck
Coots as odd because he’d never known the squat to be heated and, fueled by an

inarticulate faith, he went over first to investigate. Despite opening the heater as
slowly as he could, a sharp creak still escaped and this brought on a momentary
flood of panic. None of the dogs were roused though. Then, groping around in the
ancient heap of ashes, Coots found a tin box whose contents were as wonderful as
any he’d ever personally beheld.

Cradled in a nest of silver coins lay an ivory pipe carved in the shape of a wolf
and… twenty one dice sized cubes of moondust. Simmering with elation, Twillard
Cooty nevertheless had the wherewithal to shut the heater door again and inch his
way back out from where he came. It required an extraordinary act of will power
on his part not to let his greed convince him to try and pilfer Knid’s pouch as well
but here the earlier encounter with the ogres made him conscientious of the
possibility of sudden and total disaster. Instead he went with the smart play for
once and cavorted out of there in a hurry. Noticing how ashy his hands were in the
hall, Coots availed himself of all the foul-looking water around him and washed
away the evidence of his theft before abandoning caution and fleeing in a burst of
splashing footfalls. So quick was he though that the water didn’t have time to
rebound back to his boots and, when he shot out of the basement entrance into
the open air again, his feet were still perfectly dry.

Now he had to decide where he was going to get high. A place he could be
alone but no so secluded he might be surprised upon. Somewhere with visibility
and distance. The obvious answer soon struck him like a gong going duh. The
beach! And the nearest one was ideal too; Carapace Shore on the north side of the
island was never particularly busy so it’d be an excellent spot to launch himself into
lunar orbit. And, a quarter of an hour later, he was leaning against a wooden railing
with his back turned to the waters of Oblation Bay and the far off mouth of the
Sybeles, happily taking hits from his new ivory wolf pipe while passing merry
judgement on the assorted pedestrians walking by on a yonder path. For example,
Coots giggled hysterically when an older orc couple sauntered past in their church-
going best. Their earnest effort to be upstanding somehow seemed especially
ridiculous to him as his mind churned with ideas and impressions electrified by the
spirit of the moon. Then a wealthy looking trio of lads apparently having a day of it
in the slums went by. The Minter’s Street type. A now thoroughly dusted Twillard
Cooty saw them with the clarity of drug-enhanced insight and in an instant the
meaninglessness of the usurious luxury they strived for was revealed to him. Cats
chasing yarn, he thought. Here he finished off the last bubbling resin of his second

cube of moondust before deciding he’d reached peak intoxication and putting away
his paraphernalia. Feeling a bit parched from all the smoke he’d inhaled, Coots
wobbled away from the beach and went looking for a grocer he could grab a drink
from. Thumbing a silver coin he’d transferred to his pocket, he quickly made his
way to a busy street lined with shops and there he stumbled along contentedly,
examining each one with a conspicuous and unusual concern. It took a while but
eventually he found a bodega that looked promising and, smiling to himself, he
lurched inside, unmindful of the bemused looks others on the street were sharing
at his expense.

The first thing he noted was the intense aroma of spices. Garlands of garlic
and bouquets of dried chili peppers hung from the ceiling but there were also an
astonishing variety of onions in heaped display and clay vases filled with pistachios,
plus the amalgamated scents of cumin and turmeric and mustard hanging in the
air. Then his attention drifted to the variety of other provisions adorning the room.
Among these there were leopard mushrooms, jellied sheep eyes, ectoplasm
pudding, tattooed gourds, cyst of salamander, mineral of elementa, caramelized
locusts, pixie crystals, pigeon jerky, minotaur horn powder, cockatrice feathers, and
some fried yams that looked highly suspect. It was a cornucopia of delectables and
oddities overflowing the shelves of a hearthy store pennanted with primitive décor.

As one would expect, the proprietor was similarly eclectic and, when Coots
approached her, vendor and customer appraised each other with commensurate
scrutiny. For her part she was wearing a hand woven hemp poncho whose color
roughly matched the ochre of her leathery skin. The woman, appearing to just be
embarking on the downslope half of her journey into old age, had teeth studded
with a random spectrum of tiny jewels and her pick-axe nose and elongated ears
sagged with the weight of all their piercings but, it was her eyes, their irises like
purple quartz, which proved the most difficult not to stare at. And she had the aura
of the weird about her, the vibe of the uncanny, the luster of the ancient arcane;
she was, in other words, a witch.

“No samples,” she said sourly by way of greeting, letting him know exactly
what she thought of him in three rasping syllables. Coots however was immune to
slights at the moment and he was on a mission.

“A pint of mare’s milk will do me,” he slurred with a dazed smile.

“Well, I ain’t filling a flask of yours,” replied the witch with a grimace. “You’ll
have to take it in a glass bottle, which’ll be extra.” Coots unbothered, shrugged.

“Sure, sure,” he said as he unleashed the mighty sterling coin from his
pocket. Upon his producing the gleaming silver, his counterpart’s hostility
evaporated and was replaced by the most gracious affability imaginable.

“Thank you kindly,” she crooned as she took his money. “Are you sure that’ll
be all?” Coots responded simply with a dreamy nod and waited humming to himself
as the owner of the bodega ladled out his purchase into a translucent flagon which
she then topped with a cork.

“See you again,” she said with a contrived grin as she handed this to him and
the fistful of bronze change he was owed. Coots took the bottle in one hand and
most of the change in the other (Several coins fell on to the counter where he
ignored them) without bothering to acknowledge the witch as he left.

Outside he finished stuffing all his bronze into one of his two pockets which
didn’t have any holes in them, and then he started chugging his rapidly de-corked
drink as he began another adventurous stroll. Cheers to the Deuce, he thought, as
he soaked up the warmth of the evening sun. Yeah, they had to be some kind of
genius if they created all this. The day, which had started out so unpromising and
had wavered so wildly between fair and ill fortune, seemed to have finally decided
to settle into glory. He could mark it down as one of the good ones. Everything was
beautiful. The inner light of the world was shining through all the surfaces of its
objects, seemingly unable to contain itself in the presence of his uplifting mood.
Rushing stagecoaches were now splendid things and barking dogs merely added to
the stimulus of the ambience. Twillard Cooty felt like a patron spectator in the axis
of a mobile panoramic theater catering to his faintest approval. And he did
approve! He enjoyed it all immensely; every last detail right down to the amusing
antics of the smallest little insect. It was a realization of the profoundest truth, that
every experience was, when understood correctly, something worthy of divinity.

His elation carried him along until eventually he wound up at a recently built
gentrifying residential complex known as the Hexada Estates. Four hexagonal
towers three stories high had been erected in a diamond arrangement on an

elevated hexagonal plateau. This was then accessed by the subterranean courtyard
underneath and from there Coots duly arose into the diligently manicured park
where a central fountain maintained a tall cascading spray and the numerous
surrounding cherry trees were all in full blossom. Taking off his boots and socks
before carrying them in the hand that wasn’t holding his bottle of milk, Coots
stepped barefoot into the warm welcoming grass and wandered over to a nearby
pond. There he noticed his reflection and lay down to look closer at this. Out of the
shimmering mirror a wild man stared back at him with ravaged features that
nevertheless held together an unorthodoxly handsome quality. He spent a while
making faces at himself, stretching his expressions as far as he could and exploring
their underutilized diversity, before movement under the water aroused his
curiosity.

It was pond carp. A sizable school of them were lurking just below the surface
and, his heart sprung with generous emotions, Twillard Cooty felt a tremendous
urge to feed them. Glancing around he could find no worthy harvest and cursed
himself in disappointment at not having bought any food at the witch’s bodega. He
could go back there of course or… here Coots scratched his head as he tried to think
of a preferable alternative. This inadvertently caused some large flakes of dandruff
to flutter down and settle on the surface of the water, piquing the interest of the
fish. No, he thought to himself excitedly, before this turned into a yes and he began
to furiously scratch his scalp, sending down a continuous shower of dead skin. The
carp, indifferent or unable to tell that this wasn’t their usual food, now swam to
the surface all at once and began pecking at the floating dandruff with happy greed.
Coots laughed with joy as he kept inundating the aquatic critters with a feast from
his body. He was fish food apparently, but today it felt good to give.

MURDERS ABOMINABLE

It was a long night. Rain shattered as it hit the streets and people ran in the
open spaces to get away from it. What few of them were still out that is. Not only
was it late but the clouds that wrapped the skies were too hostile, too foreboding.
There was an ominousness in every shadow. Some people of course had no choice.
One of these was a clerk scurrying from the Tower District offices of his boss to the
weekly rented suite he had in a leaky building in the Port District. It was cramped
and noisy but he was lucky to have it. And the landlord’s son didn’t let him forget
this. In the meantime though he was just eager to get home and salvage some of
his evening after the unexpected overtime. So he pressed on; head down, shivering
hands holding closed the flaps of his jacket. He did his best to ignore the water that
seemed determined to impede him. His boots struck puddles in large splashes as
he half-flew past city buildings but he stared straight ahead through his splattered
spectacles and the parade of drips running off the brim of his soaking cap. Only the
cathedral gave him a moment’s pause. Eudoxa Cathedral; a mother superior of
stone and stained glass. All were welcome by her, even the poorest, provided they
entered through the designated side door and didn’t interfere with the services
catering to the more wealthy parishioners. For this she received no more than a
respectful glance however as he sped on, thoughts of dry clothes and hot tea
spurring him forward. Crossing Elven Way, where only an idle stagecoach on one
side and a garbage rummaging gnome on the other alluded to any life in the area,
he neared one of the two openings that led into Troller’s Alley. He was almost
home. Then, something made him slow down. He couldn’t tell what it was. A

shimmer in the gloom maybe. And, as soon as he caught a hint of it on his periphery,
it was gone. Most certainly just a trick of the eyes. Yet he couldn’t help looking and,
turning around, he barely had time to see the blur of the sword strike. Then he
stood for a second before quietly splitting down the middle and falling in two
halves. After this, all that was left was the sound of the rain.

When dawn broke, the storm had weakened to a misty downpour. For
Detective Constable Tyldavuis, this was better but far from good. Drenched
outdoor crime scenes were the worst. He even preferred the dry putrid ones; at
least then you didn’t have to go hunting for the evidence that’d washed away.
Which usually meant going into the sewers. Taking a swig from his flask of coffee,
the elf then ducked under a rope-barrier he lifted as he entered the cordoned off
entrance to Troller’s Alley. Human drinks weren’t popular even among city elves
but Tyldavuis had dwelled among men since early childhood and his habits were
distinctly unsylvan. Elves, fairies, nymphs; the sylvan folk as they were called, were
the denizens of Orb who lived in the greatest harmony with nature. Almost all of
them shunned the products of agriculture. Orphaned at the age of eleven though
when the majority of his troop was slaughtered by ranchers in the northern plains
along the Lupuis river, Tyldavuis had been forced to go to human farmers for aid
and from that time on he had lived as an alien among their people. In fact he made
no effort to be anything else. There was no point. Although elves had various
complexions, his terra-cotta colored skin certainly wasn’t shared by any of his
human counterparts and this was nothing compared to the adder-like eyes he had
which made more than one elderly woman gasp when she saw them. Then there
were the ears; oh, the infamous ears of the elves. Peasant villagers said they could
hear the sound of hair growing. But speaking of hair, Tyldavuis’ haircut was perhaps
the most human thing in his appearance. Parted on the right side and combed over
the top, it was a haircut that would suit any of his fellow city warders but somehow
it seemed to make him look that much more incongruous. No, he certainly didn’t
fit in, that was for sure. There were a few other non-humans on the force but
generally they had it even harder than him. His exceptional talents helped him here.
It’s true he had the lowest conviction rate among detectives but that’s precisely
because he was the best; all the hardest cases got thrown at him.

“Another one huh?” commented Tyldavuis as he walked into the tent that’d
been erected over the body. The detective and the inspector constables inside

greeted his arrival with a mixture of relief and unease but the sketch artist
remained focused on capturing the details of the corpse.

Detective Eigers, a leery tousle-haired boulder of a man, was the first to
speak next. “Appears so,” before adding, “But this victim doesn’t match the profiles
of the other two.” Here the detective was referring to the female shop-keep that
had been beheaded on the stoop of her store and the disemboweled patrician lady
left impaled on the wall that surrounded the Cypress District. Naturally it was the
latter of these which aroused the fury of the powerful and affluent but so far there
were still no leads despite the case immediately becoming the City Warder’s
utmost priority.

“Or maybe they just like helpless victims?” mused Tyldavuis. “Maybe it’s
pure opportunity? Maybe it’s ritual?”

Eigers scowled but not out of personal animosity. “You tell us elf,” he
muttered. “You tell us.”

Sweeping the length of his high collared trench-coat behind him, Tyldavuis
crouched down to do exactly that. Inspecting the body, he noted that it had been
separated in almost perfectly symmetrical pieces. Bone and flesh were carved
through with equal ease, from the crown of the man’s head to the taint between
his legs. “One swing,” marvelled Tyldavuis out loud.

Hearing this, the more junior of the two inspectors in the tent offered up his
own insight. “Not natural strength that,” said the man as he laid claim to the
incredibly obvious.

Tyldavuis looked at him without rising. “From the killer’s perspective though
it might be.” After all there were only a few plausible culprits who had both the
power and the speed to successfully execute these kinds of surprise attacks. Three
to be specific.

Here a werewolf made the most sense given the brutality involved but he
wasn’t sure whether the astrological conjunctions supported this. Artificial
transformation perhaps? Of course it could also be a vampire but this kind of
violence seemed a bit too crude and bestial for one of them. Finally, if it was neither

of these, the most likely answer was that it was a depraved sorcerer driven by some
kind of mystic evil. In a city ruled by wizards, Detective Tyldavuis didn’t even want
to contemplate the political challenges a scenario like that would involve.

Deciding he knew where he wanted to begin, the elf stood and spoke to
Eigers. “I’m thinking we should start with werewolves.”

Detective Eigers sucked his teeth before replying. “Yeah,” he said with a
drawl. “That’d be the sort alright. Ready to head over to headquarters?”

Tyldavuis nodded and the other detective left the tent with no more than a
brief glance of displeasure at the spilled mass of internal organs lying between the
two clothed sides of the dead clerk. The elf however decided he had one more quick
thing to do before he went. “And what are your thoughts?” he asked the still busy
sketch artist.

“I’m thinking I’m glad he’s not just hunting women,” she replied with grim
humor.

Tyldavuis indulged the slightest smile before responding. “He? You sure it’s
a he?”

The sketch artist paused for a second before gathering her thoughts. “Don’t
know one way or another really but, if it isn’t a man, I’d say it’d have to be a devil.”

The law enforcement of Alchemist City had its headquarters down in the
south shore end of the Port District. A sternly glaring colossus of a building that
monopolized an entire city block, it had been completed in eleven zero seven o.e.
(Obid Exilo) and so was now nearing the thirtieth anniversary of its construction.
Given the persistence of crime at all hours, the vicinity of the building was entirely
devoid of traffic and at any time of day you might see there lumbering machine
men in piston driven armor, perhaps leading a shackled witch to the inquisition
dungeons, or cloven-hooved lawyers with drake-skin briefcases, meeting their
incarcerated clientele and charging by fractions of the hourglass. That morning the
two detectives bypassed such sights however by going in a back entrance where,
after paying their hansom cab driver his fare, they were let in by a sentry who
recognized them from a sliding metal viewport. Inside, the City Warder’s citadel

(Since that’s what it certainly was) contained a warren of hardwood floor rooms
and archival libraries and equipment lockers and holding cells; as well as a gym and
the aforementioned dungeon.

Tyldavuis and Eigers meanwhile made a swift dash up the stairs to their
fourth floor offices and headed over to a desk that served as the administration
nexus for their section. Staring at them from over her spectacles, the woman
working behind the counter there was covered in the totemic scars of someone
raised among the people of the Olgoth plains but these did nothing to detract from
her abundant natural beauty.

“Morning Ze’ana,” chimed Eigers with unusual pleasantry. The reason
however being obvious.

“What do you want detective?” she replied with all the coolness of a woman
used to parrying the advances of men.

Eigers though was undeterred. “Oh, just a peek at the records you’ve got for
our local moon dogs. Unless of course there’s something else you want to show
me?”

Surprisingly, Ze’ana chuckled. “Nope. But I’ll see what we’ve got on beasts
who are occasionally men.”

When she left, the two detectives waited for her in silence and Tyldavuis
turned his attention to his surroundings. They were standing in a large open area
with several islands of desks and tables. Around them, the tedious clerical business
that took up such a large part of policing was being done but like all places of social
gathering there was a wealth of conversation too.

“Anything interesting in the queue?” one warder was asking of another.

“Not really,” the second replied. “A fisherman that went over-board’s still
missing but there’s nothing suspicious about the case.” This was then followed by
some back and forth bantering in single phrases that consisted of the following:

“Brigands?”

“No.”

“Drunkenness?”

“Uh uh.”

“Ahhhh… sea beast.”

“There you go.”

Given the less than consummate professionalism by some of his colleagues,
these assertions might be entirely untrue but Tyldavuis didn’t have time to give it
any thought before some banging and yelling from a nearby interrogation cell
swept the matter away. In response, a uniformed constable leaned back in his chair
and barked a reply.

“Pyre all! Food ain’t coming for another hour so quit your hollering!” The
outraged retort to this was too cockney for Tyldavuis to understand so he shifted
again to the administration desk.

As he did, Ze’ana returned carrying something enormous in her arms.
“Careful you don’t catch fleas,” she said to Eigers, dropping the velum binder on
the counter and walking away.

How exactly were-beasts were affected by the moon was a subject of
considerable speculation. Using their celestial histories, consulted astrologers at
the Opticon had determined that certain lunar alignments with the animal stars
seemed to be the key factor. And when it came to werewolves, it was observed
that different lineages were susceptible to transformation at different times. The
science was all very complicated but, over the years, fairly reliable consistencies
were observed and almanacs were published accordingly. Using these, plus an
index of known werewolves, it soon became apparent to the detectives that there
were no promising leads in this direction.

“Still could be one of ‘em,” Eigers grumbled in disgust.

“You’re right of course,” replied Tyldavuis. “But chasing down all these
unlikely suspects wouldn’t be the best use of our time. We should look at the
likeliest candidates first.”

Detective Eigers nodded in appreciation. “Those who thirst,” he said.

“And sleep,” added Tyldavuis.

Here the detectives divided between themselves some preparations they
needed to take care of before they went out knocking on the doors of vampires,
and then parted, each to their separate tasks.

Eigers walked away first though and as Tyldavuis was still watching him leave,
Ze’ana came up next to the elf. “Have you ever checked Eigers’ legs?” she asked.

Confused, Tyldavuis responded with a “What do you mean?”

Ze’ana shook her head in mock gravity. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s hiding
the fact that he’s actually a satyr.”

The elf had a good laugh at this and the two talked pleasantly for a few
minutes until Tyldavuis said goodbye and left the station. Tyldavuis didn’t tell many
jokes himself, a result of his upbringing and living in a society he didn’t belong to,
but his sense of humor in fact was something about him that was still distinctly
elfish. Elves, even ones that were centuries old, were well known for enjoying tricks
and mischief. For Tyldavuis this expressed itself in what one might call pranks on
his colleagues. Nothing humans would consider pranks though. Instead, Tyldavuis
liked to change things in ways that perplexed or disturbed people but were so
innocuous and trivial, no human would conclude they were the result of deliberate
interference. For example, sometimes Tyldavuis would reposition the mug of a
fellow city warder who left their desk so they’d, however fleetingly, wonder if
something was different when they picked it up again. That was fun. In general he
thrived on sprinkling the world with uncanny moments and so far no one had ever
caught him. None of this impacted his work though and, after spending the day
running down informants and making discrete inquiries, he returned home to
prepare a vampire fighting kit.

The detectives that night probably weren’t going to be in any real danger
but, when seeking out powerful blood thirsty immortals, not to mention one who’s
a potential serial killer, some means of self-defence might be in order. Now,
contrary to popular myth, vampires weren’t harmed physically by sunlight; they
simply found it too visually intense to endure unfiltered. The detectives though
might be able to take advantage of this so Tyldavuis duly set out some glass vials of
phosphorescent agent. Throwing these against a hard surface, a flash would erupt
that could blind a vampire for several minutes. Next the elf added some vials of
consecrated water to the mix. It didn’t seem to matter which religious order
performed the required prayers here, only that the people directly involved in
chanting were sincere and moral. The manufacturer of the items, a company no
doubt run by individuals of superlative dishonesty and corruption, recognized the
economic necessity of ensuring their product worked and, as such, Tyldavuis was
confident the Sacra Aca vials would be effective. They were Arcaneum certified
after all. Finally the elf added to all this a crossbow with wooden bolts and some
witch-elm stakes in case things got really nasty. Despite being a lifelong practitioner
of martial arts and having superhuman strength, Tyldavuis was not eager to have it
out with a vampire. A pre-centennial he might be able to handle but, one of the
elder brood? They’d flay him alive. Pondering the tepid reaction at headquarters
that news of his death would likely inspire, Tyldavuis poured himself a cup of
orange rind tea that’d been brewing and sat down among the numerous plants in
his Upper Domestia loft. All that was left now was to wait for the shadow of the
moon to fall. Which wouldn’t be long.

That night, when the appropriate hour arrived, Tyldavuis went down to
Floating Shield Pier in the vicinity of the Star Citadel and hired himself a ferry. This
consisted of a single rower manning a pair of oars who was content to do their task
without talking and so his elf patron gladly took a seat at the prow of the small
dinghy and quietly watched as Gaol Island grew larger in size. Squidings Prison
dominated the south-east corner of the place but Tyldavuis hardly glanced at it as
the shoreline adjacent to the Vampire District came into view. Technically this was
only a portion of the larger Knave Quarter that encompassed the whole island but
those who enjoyed the vintage of the human heart, or elf hearts for that matter,
certainly weren’t scrupulous in confining themselves to it. Meaning Tyldavuis and
Eigers might end up criss-crossing the whole island for all they knew. Which
reminded him, the two detectives had arranged to meet in just over an hour at the
Sterling Lance, a city warder tavern one hop away from the prison. Tyldavuis, a

vegetarian by physiological necessity like all sylvans, considered going there right
away and ordering a steaming bowl of long-noodle soup with fungus broth, but he
thought he could get some value out of doing a little preliminary scouting first.

Throwing a couple bronze coins to the ferryman as their boat reached the
shore, Tyldavuis jumped out onto a rocky beach and made his way to the road
running alongside it at the top of a short incline. There a row of shanty shops and
curio houses stretched in both directions and he briskly hustled over to the parallel
walkway, adjusting the collar of his trench-coat as he did so. The nocturnal life of
the Vampire District was predictably busy, giving Tyldavuis an ample selection of
the sort of people the half-chic, half-slum neighborhood had to offer. The elf
detective noted for example a propensity for black leather studded with steel
spikes as well as feudal clan garb and velvet baroque finery. There were many
fashions in vogue at the time. With regards to folk breed, it was as usual a mostly
human crowd, but he saw a few orcs and elves too as well as a centaur rickshaw
driver and a nymph street busker. She was singing melancholically as she plucked
a harp, naked except for a thin veil of silk, but Tyldavuis only admired her for a
second before he saw a slouched man shuffle into a dark alley and two skulking
youths stealthily trail in after. Something interesting, thought the elf, and he quickly
followed them in.

Fortunately for the helpless man looking to take a piss, he was drunk.

“Alas brother; this bottle’s spoiled,” complained the vampire who made the
discovery. “Stay back and spare yourself the stench.”

His sibling, by rite not by birth, was famished however and had to see for
himself; when the smell of Getsly Ale on the man’s breath invaded his nostrils
though he was instantly convinced and shoved their inebriated target to the
ground. “Bah!” spat the second vampire. “He won’t be good again for many hours.
Let us go sweet kin and seek our satisfaction elsewhere. A fresh young girl would
do us better anyways.”

Not killers, concluded an eavesdropping Tyldavuis, just blood thieves. Still,
he might be able to get something out of them. “Alright! City Warders!” barked the
detective as he pulled a loaded crossbow out from behind him and pointed it at the

ground. “You know how this goes. Down on your knees, hands on your head.” The
vampires froze then, seeing his weapon, complied.

“Hey! Addle-head!” snapped Tyldavuis now to the drunk. “Stumble off!” This
he readily did and with a sheepish grin while he doffed his cap. Once the man was
gone, the detective began his interrogation of the two vampires. “So you only
wanted a quick tap of the keg, is that it? Not going to slash him up for some fun as
well?”

Answering after a moment’s pause, the vampire kneeling on the left replied
in a sullen voice. “We’re not looking for trouble officer. We’re just thirsty.”

Tyldavuis scoffed. “And the overseer of your lair couldn’t spare you a free
drop from their slaves? Please. There’s plenty of willing cattle if all you wanted was
a drink from a vein.”

The other vampire protested. “It’s not the same. There’s no power in it
without the fear. It’s what you mortals would consider water.”

Tyldavuis here took offense at being called a mortal by a vampire who’d
probably been one for less than ten years. Not only did these two look like kids,
they were kids. “Well, I’m sure your overseer will consider that an adequate excuse
for putting your kin in the crosshairs. Ha! I bet you two are even too young to
remember the riots when angry mobs of fearful mortals burned several of your
predecessors in public bonfires.” The prospect of reprisal from the senior vampires
seemed to do the trick.

“No officer!” begged one. “Don’t! Please. There must be something else you
want. Tell us.”

Detective Constable Tyldavuis pretended to consider the proposition for a
minute. “Actually… I do have some unrelated business you might assist me with.
And, if you did that, I suppose I could just let you go. Hmmm.” Both vampires were
eager to hear more.

“Go on,” said one. “Ask.” Tyldavuis affected a casual air.

“It’s nothing really. All I want to know is where the elders are going to be
tonight.” Still kneeling, still with their hands on their heads, the two vampires
turned towards each other in disbelief.

“He must be insane,” whispered one to another. “Shut up,” the second
hissed back. Then the latter of these fixed Tyldavuis with a big innocent smile. “No
problem officer.”

They would be at the Lotus House Salon; a vampire-only establishment
overlooking the sea. This the elf was assured and he had no reason to doubt it. The
little leeches probably thought he was going to die there. Not that this was entirely
out of the question mind you. Nevertheless it was the best way forward at the
moment and, after arguing Eigers into going along with the idea, the two of them
began the lengthy walk over. Due to his earlier encounter, Tyldavuis corrected a
lapse in precaution he’d forgotten to exercise, and the detectives were sharing the
last of a bottle of Moon Cider when they neared the salon. Sure, it wouldn’t stop
the elders from killing them, but at least they’d be discouraged from having a taste.
Approaching the palatial mansion from the front, the two detectives went directly
to the windowless guardhouse situated at its gates. There Tyldavuis took the lead
and, knocking politely but sharply on its metal door, they awaited the response.
This came in the form of a pair of murky jaundiced eyes appearing at a view slot.
As the odor of the crypt wafted out around him, Tyldavuis realized it was a ghoul.

“Lost?” asked the ghoul with a rasp.

“Warders,” answered Tyldavuis. “We need to speak to the owners.”

The ghoul stared at them malevolently and then ran its slug-like tongue along
the whole of its bottom lip. “Or maybe,” it gurgled. “You need to reconsider. And
never come back.”

Sensing that the monstrous sentry was about to turn away, Tyldavuis used
his most authoritative voice. “Look. Tonight it’s two city warders. Maybe tomorrow
it’s fifty. Maybe we get the wizards involved. Or you can simply relay our presence
to your masters.”

The ghoul had to ponder this for a few seconds. “Got credentials?” they
eventually asked. Tyldavuis flashed them his silver warder’s badge and then handed
over a writ of officer identity. “Tiled-avus?” mused the ghoul out loud.

“Til-da-vee,” responded the elf with mild irritation.

“Well, dee-tec-tive con-sta-ble Til-da-vee,” the gatekeeper lisped, “I will
carry your request inside. And, if you’ve made a mistake, I will gather up the scraps
of you that are left behind and make a stew from these. Yesss. That will be nice.”

Then the detectives were alone with only the sound of the nearby surf filling
the darkness and Eigers took the empty bottle of Moon Cider and hurled it spinning
into the sea.

The vampires confiscated all their weapons. Tyldavuis and Eigers considered
resisting but they were met at the front entrance of the mansion by a pair of eight
foot tall ghouls and five attendant vampires who certainly weren’t like the young-
deads the elf had encountered in the alley. After this though their hosts were
cordial enough, and the pair of detectives were led through the gathering inside by
a fanged socialite in a powered wig and gown while two hulking guards shadowed
them. They received a few curious looks, mostly of distain, but there was so much
that was exotic and carnal going on around them they were easily overlooked.
Making their way past some lounging vampires discussing the metaphysics of
sadism, the detectives were brought into a wide statue-lined hall where the
atmosphere grew significantly more menacing.

As the pair of interlopers were escorted past the twisted shapes of tortured
stone figures next to them, Eigers gave one a lingering stare and quipped.
“Commemorations of previous visitors perhaps?”

Tyldavuis, impressed by his colleague’s fortitude, shook his head with a
morbid grin. “I’ve got to say Detective Eigers,” he replied. “I think you’d look quite
good in marble. Very distinguished.”

Overhearing this exchange, their escort insisted on clarifying the matter.
“Please officers, you impugn us. We are not devils. In fact, who more than our kind
has cherished the riches of civilization? These creations are testaments of art, born

only from the spirit of liberal imagination. They speak for the souls of the beautifully
cursed, for those hunted by the decaying and scorned by the heavens. Even you
fair elf, can never dread the chill of eternity like we do. These are not your people.
These are us.”

The detectives received this lecture with chastened silence and then waited
awkwardly together as the socialite knocked at a large set of ornate hardwood
doors. When these opened, she stood to the side and motioned within. “Come. He
is waiting,” was all she said.

Giving each other a look before doing as they were asked, the two entered a
gloomy hall and had to be patient as their eyes adjusted. With the door softly closed
behind them, the only light in the room was coming from two rows of tall iron
candelabras that barely illuminated a dais with an ancient wooden throne of huge
proportions and the two dozen vampire courtiers present. Unlike the ones they’d
seen in the rest of the mansion, these showed signs of the effects of long corruption
that came from drinking horror-tainted blood. Even in the shadows their bestial
features betrayed themselves and skeleton and flesh were warped as well,
extending and twisting in grotesque exaggerations. Yet they were still attired as
aristocrats and one of these approached the two detectives with impeccable
courtly manners. Bowing ever so slightly, he gestured to the ceiling above the dais
and spoke. “Look up you children of light and tremble in wonder.” Doing as
directed, they saw something that turned their bones to water. Still gazing at the
ceiling, both detectives slumped to their hands and knees in a daze as they stared
in terrified awe at the one hanging upside-down above them. It was Lord Cargena,
the primordial father.

Tradition stated that, thousands of years ago Cargena, as he was simply
called then, was a slave to a prince of the Old Empire. Folk tales abound with
competing claims but one of the most accepted versions of the story is that he was
unwillingly turned by a daughter of the First while out one night doing his master’s
errands. Making the error of revealing what’d happened to him when he returned,
Cargena, it is said, was placed in a cell under the floor of the prince’s torture
chamber and there he remained for several generations, feeding on the victims of
the prince and his successors through a small vent with iron bars. No comforts were
provided for him and his existence consisted solely of waiting and devouring the
damned. Sometimes alive, sometimes not. This didn’t continue forever though

because eventually the enemies of the prince’s descendants destroyed them and
the castle, where the torture chamber was (Being known as a place of evil) got
thoroughly razed. Again, decades passed, but somehow Cargena broke through the
layers of stone and iron he’d been imprisoned in by persistent effort and dug his
way to the surface. Here accounts differ so wildly up to the period of the exodus
that no reasonable chronology can be inferred but a sample of some of his legends
should be sufficient to provide an idea of his reputation. He is said to have turned
an entire abbey of nuns into his children and unleashed the women as assassins
against his enemies among the Imperial ruling class. It is claimed that he built a
temple to himself under the city of Ordulf and there, for over a century, mass
human sacrifices were held in his honor. There’s even a story that he shared a feast
with the great dragon Archapyras while the latter was enjoying a reprieve from the
succession of defeated armies attempting to destroy him. Then, just over eleven
hundred years ago, the Autonomists fled the tyranny of the empire in their fleet of
thousands and established the Free Nations far to the west. It’s unclear whether
Lord Cargena was with them initially of whether he followed soon after but,
however it happened, he made it to the lowlands where, since then, his supremacy
among vampires has never been challenged. Not only is he a sorcerer of
transcendent power, he is probably the eldest vampire alive and this, combined
with his networks of spies and secret thralls, means he essentially knows everything
worth knowing if it is even known at all. And this is who the two detectives suddenly
had to contend with.

Casually unwrapping himself from an artificial stalactite-like structure which
descended from the ceiling, Lord Cargena dropped to the floor and spread his
wings. All fifty feet of them. These largely conformed to what you might expect of
an enormous bat except, at the apex of each wing, large reptilian claws protruded
from colossal hands and the wings themselves were often folded so that these
rested besides His Lordship on the ground. Lord Cargena in fact was only twelve
feet tall so this gave him an almost gorilla posture. Unlike any ape however, his
mouth protruded with a forest of eighteen inch fangs and he could bite off the head
of an adult horse as easily as a man would gulp a piece of chocolate. Although once
a man himself, his face had elongated into something wholly unnatural and nothing
of his human ancestry could be discerned in its predatory features. His eyes too
were immense, and almost molten, seeming to fume at the edges as they radiated
a furnace-like glow. He was, in short, an absolute terror and even the other
vampires around him, killers with centuries of slaughter to their credit, gave him a

respectful distance. Tyldavuis and Eigers meanwhile kowtowed and shut their eyes;
not because they’d been told to but because an overriding animal instinct for self-
preservation compelled them.

“And why do I have visitors this evening?” These soft words were drizzled
out like honey but the detectives were still too immobilized by fear to do anything
about it. Mildly amused, Lord Cargena cocked an ear and leaned in slightly as he
listened to the sound of their tiny galloping hearts. “Speak elf,” he said, the words
still incongruously sweet and gentle.

Tyldavuis did his best not to stammer. “We’re investigating some murders…
your lordship.” This answer, strained out in a whisper, was followed by Lord
Cargena yawning and stretching with a daydream-like pleasure.

“Ah, murder,” he crooned. “Such a messy business. But I know of course the
ones you mean. And naturally you might suspect one of my creations. They did not
do this though. The wizards and I have an agreement.”

Sensing that here the vampire lord expected a response, Tyldavuis groveled
out an apology. “We’re so sorry your lordship. We made a terrible error.”

Lord Cargena laughed as if the elf had said the most delightful thing
imaginable. “Not at all little one,” the great vampire said soothingly. “I hope you
find whoever’s responsible.” Here Lord Cargena went and took a seat on his throne
and then wordlessly motioned for an attendant to bring him someone. This turned
out to be the nymph Tyldavuis had seen busking earlier and she went up to the
Lord’s ear and began to whisper into it.

The detectives then remained prostrate on the floor for a while before the
vampire courtier who had introduced Lord Cargena came and spoke to them. “You
may leave,” he said graciously and the pair that he addressed responded with
several meek nods. Then they both crawled backwards out of the hall, never once
ceasing in their bow towards the throne.

For quite a while after their ordeal, Detective Constable Tyldavuis and
Detective Constable Eigers made sure every room they were in was well lit. Some
of their colleagues noticed this new tendency and commented but neither warder

would offer an explanation. Regardless, their responsibilities as officers of the law
remained, and they preoccupied themselves as much as possible with matters
unrelated to what had come to be known as The Frenzy Cleavings. A couple of
weeks went by with no new victims and even The Orbserver and The Gab Diet
tabloids began to publish their lurid speculations about the case less frequently.
Eigers moved on to different unsolved crimes entirely and so Tyldavuis was left as
the sole party now dealing with the issue on a regular basis. Certain that he could
exclude vampires, the elf went back to his original werewolf suspicions and
investigated a number of them and their associates without any success or
progress. While he was doing that he also very cautiously looked into the sorcerer
angle but obtained nothing useful from the hostile magic users he tried to enlist
the aid of. If it was even possible, city hall and the community of patricians became
even less helpful and eventually his involvement with the murders consisted of
nothing more than the odd follow up on random tips and the occasional
perfunctory berating from his superiors. He was instrumental though in catching a
mimic jewel-thief during this period so his fortunes weren’t dismal by any means
and he began to settle into a sense of routine that’d been missing from his life for
some time. He pruned his shrubs, fed his pet turtles, and started going out on dates
with a female illusionist he met in a bookstore located at the mouth of Pale Body’s
Lane. Things as such were good and the elf, having endure plenty of unpleasantness
in his brief sixty seven years, made sure to appreciate this.

The happy lull ended when a fourth victim was found between the western
pillars of Legion Bridge. Taking a zebra-pulled hansom cab to the scene, Tyldavuis
ignored the Triumph District and gigantic Amphitheatre behind him as he got out
to see what he was dealing with. It was a neatly heaped pile of severed body parts;
dwarf parts to be precise.

“Great,” sighed Tyldavuis. “A non-human.” His exasperation here was the
result of a change in the killer’s chosen prey, which would mean he’d have to cast
a wider net in his investigations from here on out. Approaching the corpse, if it
could still be called that, the detectives gave a casual two-finger salute to a trio of
nearby warders before coming up beside a woman standing directly over the grisly
remains. She wore the coat of a forensic doctor and Tyldavuis perceived something
strangely familiar about her.

“Do I know you?” asked the elf.

The woman smiled. “I just made my qualifications. We met though while I
was finishing my practicals.” After saying this the doctor made a sketching motion
with her fingers and Tyldavuis at last recognized her.

“Congratulations,” he said, extending a hand to shake. “Detective Tyldavuis.”

At this offer of a name she responded warmly with her own. “Dr. Sulfurs,”
she answered before adding, “Polly.”

Here the elf recognized that a genuine connection had already begun to form
between them and he initially attributed this to the fact they were both outsiders
in their respective fields; her a female doctor, him an elven warder. “So, how’d the
devil pull it off this time?” he asked with honest nonchalance.

“Bare handed,” Dr. Sulfurs replied.

“Really?” The detective was surprised.

“See this tearing along the frays of the flesh?” continued the doctor as she
pointed to the remains of the expired dwarf. “That’s indicative of the fact the victim
was pulled apart. Piece by piece. And the killer was almost certainly holding him in
the air as they did so.”

Tyldavuis gritted his teeth. “So nothing to alter my pool of suspects.”

Dr. Sulfurs raised a lone eyebrow. “Who’re you thinking’s behind it?” she
asked.

“Werewolves or wizards,” he replied.

Polly Sulfurs pondered this for a second. “What about…” she said before the
elf’s firmly shaking head aborted her question. “Maybe a monster then?” she
suggested.

Detective Tyldavuis stared up at the underside of Legion Bridge and listened
to the streaming traffic above. “Can’t see how,” he replied. “Too much intention.
At least in the first couple.”

These ambiguous words hung in the air a minute before Polly veered into
something unrelated. “Can I ask what troop you’re from? Elven culture is one of my
interests.”

As he answered, the elf’s eyes grew sad. “Laughing Creek,” he said quietly.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” replied the doctor.

Tyldavuis decided he wanted to get a better look at the surrounding area so,
after saying goodbye to Dr. Sulfurs and checking in with the other warders, he
trudged up the incline leading away from the river shore to an intersecting road
that ran perpendicular beside the bridge. Here he had a wide view in almost all
directions and he noted the spacious plaza next to the Amphitheatre and the
statues and gardens of the Triumph district as well as a modest farmer’s market
that was taking place not too far away. With the sun in full radiance and only a
handful of merry clouds in the sky, the atmosphere that day was one of innocence
and unmitigated leisure. People were out enjoying themselves in fine attire and it
didn’t seem like anyone was aware of the fact that only a few yards away was the
site of a gruesome murder. Tyldavuis looked with wistful envy at the groups of
jovial pedestrians and patricians on horseback and trotted stagecoaches going past
before a member of the last of these came to a stop beside him.

A lone passenger inside beckoned to the elf with a flaunting wave and as
Tyldavuis approached he could see that the man was someone of considerable
means. He wore his cascading black hair untied, where it congregated around his
shoulders, and his proud face freshly shaved and free of any mark of toil. For clothes
he was wearing a matching cobalt blue jacket and pantaloons with ruffled trimming
and his pristine white socks were stretched taut to his knees. Tyldavuis even got a
glance at his shoes, which were mirror black and pointed with gleaming golden
buckles. “Officer!” the aristocrat began. “Our preferred route along the river seems
to have been impeded by the rest of your cohort. Any chance this imposition is
presently resolving itself?”

Tyldavuis discretely exhaled through his nose. “My apologies sir,” he replied.
“The situation’s still in its preliminary stages.”

Hearing this, the man in the carriage seemed somewhat aghast. “Dear me!”
he exclaimed. “A stage of some recent villainy is it?”

The detective, already weary of the conversation, did his best to calm his
counterpart. “Nothing to worry about sir. The matter has the full attention of the
City Warders.”

With these words though, Tyldavuis revealed more than he meant to. “That
serious my good constable?” whispered the wide-eyed aristocrat. “One of our poor
citizens has surely died then. And? No. But it must be. It’s the handiwork of the
Frenzy Cleaver isn’t it?”

How did I get caught in this? thought Tyldavuis, as he tried to figure a way
out. “Sir, again, I’m sorry,” continued the elf. “But I simply cannot discuss police
business.”

The aristocrat seemed disappointed but he leaned back in his seat. “How
dreadful,” he moaned. “So abominable, murder. Please catch the culprit swiftly.”
At that moment the man turned away completely and called out to his driver
through a window at the front of the carriage. “Come on Zeffrey! A change in
agenda! Let us proceed with all haste to Madam Svetany’s ballet! Hence now!”
With this the stagecoach bucked and took off, leaving behind a bemused Tyldavuis
who watched it go in a state of perfect relief.

With the newly murdered dwarf, a fresh heap of coal was shoveled into the
engine of public interest, and Tyldavuis was forced to set everything aside as he
redoubled his efforts to find the killer. At this point he was doing everything from
shaking down moondust dealers to setting up stings so he could blackmail friends
of the deceased who were less than exemplary in their private conduct. Finally, a
week later, he decided he needed a night off and he took the illusionist he was still
seeing out to the Quicksilver Bazaar for some curiosity browsing and a culinary
meal. There they enjoyed a couple hours of gawking at the local spectacles and
haggling over trinkets when Tyldavuis decided he wanted to eat and found them a
pair of stools at the Gourmet Griffin, an eatery booth he’d heard good things about

from an elf acquaintance. His companion that evening though realized here that
she needed to pick up a few necessities before she forgot and, after asking him to
order for her, she disappeared for a while. This Tyldavuis gladly did, selecting two
servings of spicy carrot bisque as well as two slices of potato lentil pie and a pitcher
to share of Honeycomb Mead. These materialized faster than he expected however
and, after waiting a couple more minutes, he shrugged and picked up his spoon.
Not much later, as he was chewing with a somewhat overstuffed mouth, someone
addressed him from behind.

“Greetings elf,” trickled the melodic female voice. Proselytizer? Prostitute?
Tyldavuis didn’t know and Tyldavuis didn’t want to find out.

“Go away,” he said emphatically, the food still in his mouth doing its part to
accent his disinterest.

The voice did not go away however. “I bring a message,” it said. “From His
Lordship.”

Tyldavuis swallowed slowly and swiveled on his stool in dread. It was the
nymph. There were of course three folk breeds susceptible to vampirism; human,
elf, and nymph. The fair ones. This nymph though was so pristine and wholesome
looking it was hard to imagine her being one of the afflicted. And yet, as she spoke
to him, Tyldavuis would occasionally catch a glimpse of the fangs she could use to
inject the paralyzing poison shared by all of her kind.

“Our father thinks you should be informed that the victim selection is not as
random as it’s been made to seem. The patrician woman, Mrs. Junabeth Smith, was
known to frequent the shop of the first murdered girl and we have heard that the
former of the two was seen in a heated quarrel with a gentleman at a society event
two weeks prior to her demise. These are things you should look into. And we
trust…” the nymph added with the slightest edge to ensure clarity. “You shall do
so.”

Tyldavuis nodded with due deference but, at the last second, couldn’t resist
a question. “May I ask why you’re helping me?”

The nymph smiled. “You shouldn’t,” she replied with what almost appeared
to be real concern. “Suffice it to say, we desire to remove the spectre of suspicion
from ourselves.” Then she smiled again and walked away, brushing past the
confused illusionist as she did.

“Who was that?” inquired his date.

“A total stranger,” answered the elf.

The next morning Tyldavuis grabbed Eigers and the two of them rushed
down to the shop of the first murder victim like two starving hounds who’d just
caught a scent. Of course investigators had spoken to the proprietor and remaining
staff several times before but now Detective Tyldavuis had a hunch. Opening the
rough oak door of the Motley Antiquarian, Eigers was the first to enter and peer
around its knickknack laden shelves before Tyldavuis slipped in a second later. At
the far end of the store a man, with an assortment of varied optical lenses that
jutted from the goggles he had on, watched as they entered. More good luck. This
was the owner himself who’d been lately forced to be present at his establishment
now because the girls on his staff didn’t want to work there alone.

“Warders of course,” he said as they neared. Not hostile but not impressed
either.

Eigers took the lead now and Tyldavuis was content to scrutinize the
proprietor as his colleague worked. “Just here for some last bit of follow up Mr.
Haffle. Hoping to look at your ledgers actually.”

The proprietor cranked aside the lenses currently filtering his view and
stared at Detective Eigers with two narrowed untrusting eyes. “I don’t know if I like
that,” he mused. “What for?”

Eigers smiled like a pastor ready to baptize the man. “Only want to explore
some other potential witnesses. Follow up with your customers on shady
characters they might have seen. Plus, it’ll give us some people other than yourself
to trouble.”

Mr. Haffle snorted. “Don’t mind the sound of that,” he admitted with a half-
sour grin. “You’re not gonna tell them I sent you though?”

Eigers pretended to be mortified by the mere suggestion. “By the deity, no
sir.”

Mr. Haffle screwed his mouth into a knot before surrendering. “Well alright.
I just need a second.”

As the two detectives waited they made a show of admiring the wares
around them while they leaned against the counter. This consisted of things like
cuckoo clocks, fairy cages, ceramic vases, butterfly collections, whistles, siren plugs,
croquet sets, lizard cigar cases, and pewter figurines. When the proprietor returned
with a table sized book, Eigers and Tyldavuis were still examining their
surroundings, but he took no notice of their feigned interest.

“Here it is, the year so far,” said Mr. Haffle with a twinge of reluctance. The
man handed his ledger to Eigers but Eigers quickly passed it to Tyldavuis before
engaging the proprietor again in distractive conversation. His elf colleague got right
to work. Flipping through the pages before him, Tyldavuis noted the name of
Junabeth Smith in connection to an Imperial ruby necklace but that wasn’t what he
was looking for. He was looking for gentlemen; ones who might have been buying
things for her specifically. Nothing stuck out around the appropriate time frame
however until a receipt of delivery entry caught his attention.

“Eigers,” said Tyldavuis as he marvelled at his luck. Eigers excused himself to
Mr. Haffle and looked at what the other detective was pointing to. He was
perplexed though and was about to say so when Tyldavuis shut the book with a
snap and handed it back to the equally confused owner. “Thank you sir. Thank you,”
he gushed to the man before yanking on Eigers sleeve and hauling the other
detective out into the streets.

“What is it you crazy wyvern?” pressed Eigers. “Who’s Zeffrey Poltroon?”

Tyldavuis laughed in a state of exaltation. “We’re about to find out! Yes we
are!” This was it; he could feel it. This was the moment shared by all hard-solved
cases where the mystery at last began to unpeel itself.

Zeffrey Poltroon had a juvenile record as a result of being marked as a coin
chiseler but, due to the intervention of a wealthy benefactor, he’d largely escaped
unscathed from the consequences of his actions. It was enough though for the
detectives. Using this they managed to get what they really wanted; a much more
plausible suspect in one Count Huson Bansardo. Tyldavuis had no doubt this was
the aristocrat in the stagecoach; certainly he would be the sort to return to the
scene of his crime in order to try and surreptitiously gather information from its
investigators. And here the whole picture quickly emerged out of the various puzzle
pieces. With the addition of some stories from a few gossipy servants, as well as a
venomous diatribe from one of the Count’s more helpful enemies, the two
detectives reconstructed the following events. The Count and Mrs. Smith, both
married, were having an affair. Nothing particularly unusual about that among the
patrician class. Mrs. Smith however was apparently not satisfied with only her
husband and a single additional gentleman so she sated herself with other discrete
encounters as well as occasional visits to a bordello known for its exotic array of
male prostitutes.

Discovering this, the Count, who was both grossly enamored with the image
of himself as a peerless lover and paranoid about any injury to his reputation,
became utterly incensed. Confronting his mistress at a fund raising gala held at the
Prestor Arboretum, the Count must have been so thoroughly humiliated or
unsatisfied at the end of their private argument that he decided to dispose of the
lady completely. Meanwhile, the shop girl had been previously involved in the
matter through a relationship established with Mrs. Smith as her customer, and
later the Count when he was still sending his mistress gifts. It is likely that she was
confided in by the former at one point or otherwise privy to some intimacies
pertaining to the liaison and so the Count decided she had to be dispatched too.
This he did, making her the first victim so she wouldn’t be able to accuse the Count
when news broke that Mrs. Junabeth Smith had been murdered. As for the other
deceased, the detectives were agreed that these were merely the result of the
Count trying to mislead investigators. And it had worked, for a while, but then his
arrogance had betrayed him. Although their investigation wasn’t finished by any
means, Detectives Tyldavuis and Eigers had total confidence in their having enough
to obtain the warrants for an arrest of person and for a search of property which
they required next. Therefore they now went directly to their boss with the plan.
Chief Inspector Worming, the man himself, listened politely as they laid out what

they had. Then, with his metaphorical antennae twitching at the mere hint of a
political scandal, he officially killed the idea. “Detectives, I must say, it all seems
rather circumstantial to me.”

For a moment they were both shocked but then the truth dawned on them;
he didn’t believe what he was saying, he just wanted them to. Tyldavuis though
was still willing to make a fight of it when a dampening look from Eigers and a heavy
hand on his shoulder reduced the elf to seething.

The Chief Inspector ignored this exchange entirely and continued. “In fact, I
have to confess it’s been my opinion for a while that you two’ve been a bit stymied
by the whole business, and so I asked Detective Ardent to have his own look at the
case. Discretely naturally. He tells me there’s a very promising ogre whose
whereabouts are consistent with all the… unfortunate events; therefore I certainly
see no merit in levelling implausible accusations against one of our most
upstanding residents.”

An ogre! Tyldavuis mentally scoffed at the idea but responded with
considerably more tact. “I understand sir,” he grimaced. “At least let us make a few
more inquiries into the matter. If only to absolve the gentleman completely.”

Chief Inspector Worming erected a steeple with his fingers as he considered
this before calmly spinning in his plush chair and looking out his office window. “No,
I think not,” he said as the pair of detectives faced the bald spot on the back of his
head. “No. I think you two are done with this entirely. And I’m sure there are other
criminals you can preoccupy yourselves with from now on.” There was silence in
the room as Tyldavuis and Eigers glared at the spineless oozing barn-carpet of a
man who’d just covered up a murder as if he were doing them both a favor. The
Chief Inspector swiveled back towards them then and adjusted the dainty
spectacles perched on the end of his circumspect nose. “That’ll be all,” he said.

Outside afterwards, the two detectives did their best to calm themselves.
Tyldavuis danced with rage and Eigers brooded until, following a flurry of punches
in the air on his part, the elf burst into a lament.

“We had the rotter!” he moaned.

Detective Eigers seemed to make up his mind about something. “We still
could,” he said. Tyldavuis gave him a confused look and the man continued. “Tyldy,
Tyldy. Always policing by the rules.”

Tyldy? Had they crossed some human bonding threshold? The elf didn’t have
time to contemplate this however because Eigers had just dangled a scrap of hope
out of nowhere and Tyldavuis was eager to pounce. “Come on. Give it up,”” he
insisted.

“Well,” smirked Eigers. “If we should find some overwhelming evidence, we
could conceivably force the Chief’s hand. And we have a list of all Count Bansardo’s
properties; even the apartment he keeps exclusively for his women on the sly.”

This got Tyldavuis enthusiastic again but he paused and then started talking
out loud to himself to work at a nagging issue. “But he wouldn’t go to the apartment
to clean himself up. Too many eyes, too many acquaintances. And that rules out
the Cypress District mansion of course. No. It has to be somewhere more isolated.
Somewhere not residential.”

Detective Eigers recalled something. “The Count rents a warehouse in the
Forge District. Right on the edge of the Crypt Quarters actually.”

Tyldavuis grabbed the man by his shoulders and shook him excitedly. “We’re
goin’ to get that rabid bastard, I swear it!”

Eigers clasped him on the arm back and looked directly into his face. “Tonight
my friend,” he trilled. “You and I get to be the criminals.”

Here the moment began to fade away naturally and Detective Eigers raised
a preliminary matter. “You’re still thinking he’s a werewolf right?”

Tyldavuis nodded. “Oh, for sure,” he replied.

Eigers let out a long sigh before adding, “Well, I guess we better silver up
then.”

That night Tyldavuis took great care in preparing his crossbow and a
bandolier of silver tipped bolts. Also, he painted his body in battle glyphs and spent
over an hour in ritual chanting. Then he attired himself in appropriate infiltration
gear crafted from blackened witch-elm fibers and concealed this under his usual
trench coat. Now he was ready. Roughly forty minutes later Detective Eigers met
him at an earlier agreed upon location just north of the Arena and the two warders
talked in conspiratorial voices as they made their way to the destination on foot.

“You look like you could do with a little exercise,” said Eigers. “So I’ll leave
you to the climbing and the window entering. I’ll keep a lookout at the back door
and you let me in when you get downstairs.” Tyldavuis agreed to this reasonable
course of action without any mention of his counterpart’s paunch and the pair of
detectives soon found themselves at their target building; recognizing this from the
description of one of Eigers’ more reliable informants. As they crossed the street
to enter the adjacent alley, they paid less attention to the largely unremarkable
brick warehouse and spent more time frequently glancing around to see if anyone
was watching. They saw no one. However, in reality, they had been under
surveillance ever since they left their homes.

“There you go,” whispered Eigers as he tugged on the rope he’d just set up
by way of a grappling hook. “The fancy part’s all yours.”

Tyldavuis, his trench coat already removed, responded with a jesting nod
before testing the rope himself and then starting his ascent. It took him no time at
all to climb the fifteen feet he needed to place himself eye level with the
warehouse’s lone rear window. From here he saw that it was mostly dark inside
but he could also make out some stacked crates on the main floor and a desk
situated on a wooden platform connected to the upper tier. Here’s where it starts
to get illegal, he thought, as he removed a diamond tipped compass used for
cutting glass. He was therefore too busy tracing over his deepening circle the
numerous repetitions required to pay any mind to his fellow city warder down
below. The lone figure now watching them though recognized their awkward
position and decided the moment was right. They went straight for Eigers who, on
his end, only noticed things were amiss when he caught sight of a shadow leaping
down from a distant rooftop and begin sprinting towards him. “Isle of elves,” he
blurted as the charging werewolf rushed him.

Detective Eigers had thrice checked himself to make sure he remembered to
bring his sixteen inch silver short sword and, once the spell of surprise wore off, he
pulled this to engage his assailant. The werewolf came only within a few yards of
the man though before it rapidly broke off galloping on all fours towards him and
instead bounded off the wall across the alley; at the detective again but from a new
angle. Descending on him with its huge claws in full swing, Eigers frantically dove
aside and took a blind swipe at the beast. He managed a superficial wound to their
arm but this did nothing to slow his attacker’s next charge. Here the werewolf
managed to catch him on the bottom of his jaw, ripping the bone out of his face
and sending it clattering in shards down the street. Had Tyldavuis not succeeded in
burying a well-aimed silver bolt in the werewolf’s stomach right then, Eigers would
have been finished; but he did and the beast howled in pain and fury before
disappearing once more into the night.

With their enemy fled somewhere to claw out the piece of metal inside his
guts that was currently melting everything this touched, the two detectives were
left alone to recover from the assault. Eigers at first tried to stop the flow of blood
with his hands but that achieved nothing. He was already succumbing to shock and
passing out when Tyldavuis dropped from the rope and caught him, propping the
critically injured man up against the wall. There the elf tried his best to bandage
Eigers’ wound with a sleeve torn from his trench-coat before grabbing a flintlock
flare pistol and shooting it into the sky. The rocket screamed in a wispy arc of white
light before turning into a throbbing star gently falling to the ground. A City Warder
invention for signalling an emergency with one of their own. Several desperate
minutes passed though before Tyldavuis heard the lung-fueled horns of the
mounted responders dispatched by the shift sentries.

Detective Eigers barely survived. Fortunately St. Demota Surgical was only a
short distance away and there he spent almost two whole months as anatomist
doctors and monks attended to him with their respective scientific and spiritual
remedies. A necromancer even came in as a favor to Tyldavuis to make sure there
was no arcane infection and to apply a healing poultice. Eigers jaw however could
not be saved and he was reduced to communicating via a portable chalk board and
sarcastic hand gestures. Many nurses left his bedside blushing. Tyldavuis of course
visited frequently and took the brunt of the heat when the Chief Inspector
interrogated him regarding what had happened. Out of necessity the detective lied,
covering up the real reason for being in the area with a story about chasing a gang

of hobgoblins before getting surprised by an axe wielding barbarian in a moondust
induced rage. The police bulletin on the barbarian was duly sent out and Tyldavuis
was released back to his regular duties. For a while he laid low, doing the work
expected of him, but the elf knew who had attacked them that night. And he was
still around, living as extravagantly as ever, while Eigers was left to recover from his
brutal mauling. Naturally Tyldavuis wasn’t satisfied with things ending this way so
he kept tabs on Count Bansardo, tracking his movements and accumulating a trove
of details on the man whose werewolf status was still being denied by authorities.
You’re not the only one who can play without rules though, thought Tyldavuis; and
one evening, when the Count was going to be at the opera, his elven nemesis
decided to confront him.

Tonight they would be staging The Duchess of Lunefall, a formulaic romantic
comedy devoid of anything even remotely resembling profundity or moral insight,
and the Sun Palace Theatre was sure to be packed with an impressive selection of
the city’s wealthy and famous. Detective Tyldavuis of course didn’t even bother
trying to get tickets but his warder’s badge and a domineering manner proved
enough for the ushers at the door and the elf soon found himself the most
underdressed person among the crowd despite him wearing his best suit. Engulfed
in the full kaleidoscopic plumage the decadently privileged had at their disposal,
the detective waded through all the golden laughter and strategic banter
surrounding him in consternation as he searched the bustling halls before act one.
He could not however find Count Bansardo. Then the show-time bells rang out and
the throngs thinned as the patrons went to go take their seats. Soon he was one of
the only few left; the others being theatre employees tasked with cleaning up all
the discarded wine glasses and stubbed cigars left by their slovenly betters. Missing
on his first chance to find his target, Tyldavuis sat down on a bench to think.
Certainly the Count was in one of the box seats. And that should make finding him
easy enough. Where to have a private word with the man though? Suddenly a
surprise image of the Count traipsing off early with some woman he’d seduced
struck the elf and, unnerved at the prospect of his quarry slipping away, he made
for the stairs. On the next floor up he found a hallway like the one he’d just left but
here each end had a velvet roped section reserved exclusively for the patrons
whose private seats lay just beyond. Going up to one of the staff guarding these,

Detective Tyldavuis guessed right when he flashed the man his badge and
asked, “Is Count Bansardo in this section?” His counterpart seemed a bit unsure of

himself before nodding but that was enough for the detective and he raised his
hand in a gesture that conveyed this. Having only to wait now, he paced the hall
and listened to the muffled singing and laughter and orchestra that let him know
the opera was transpiring with due haste. Yet he was anxious. In a few minutes he’d
be facing a lethal enemy and who knew what the outcome of that would be?

At intermission the hall began to fill again but Count Bansardo didn’t
immediately appear. Then Tyldavuis saw him among a company of chattering
aristocrats; only in a canary yellow outfit this time. Not wasting a second, Detective
Tyldavuis approached him right as he was nearing the velvet rope marking off his
section. “Count Bansardo!” hailed the elf with false good humor. “It’s been a while
hasn’t it since last we spoke?”

The other members of the Count’s entourage sneered at Tyldavuis with both
contempt and irritation but Bansardo recognized him and raised a hand to pre-
empt any comment from his group. “Detective Tyldavuis of the Laughing Creek,”
he replied augustly. “An appropriate name perhaps for an inappropriate person.
You desire something? Other than the amusement of the theatre?”

Tyldavuis bowed, his heart ice. “Only a word in private. It won’t take more
than a few seconds.”

The slightest scowl glanced across Bansardo’s face before he did a swift
mental calculation and decided to indulge the surprise course of events. “I’m sorry
my friends,” he sighed to the rest of his company. “Only some old business I’m
afraid which needs to be dispensed with once and for all. Go, please, and I will meet
you downstairs.” They left with only a few curious looks between each other and
Count Bansardo motioned for Tyldavuis to join him in his box seat. That’ll work,
thought the elf.

There Bansardo spoke first, turning around to face Tyldavuis right after he
followed the werewolf in. “You have some courage elfling,” he snarled, but that
was all he could get out before Tyldavuis pulled out Eigers’ short sword he’d hidden
under his jacket behind him and sunk this deep into the Count’s sternum. Up into
the heart. The Count was surprised of course and attempted to express this, but
only blood and saliva bubbled out of his open mouth. He started to transform
though, involuntarily, and his proud face twisted and bristled into something

grotesque but not fully canine. He was dying. He would soon be dead. It wasn’t
enough for Tyldavuis however. Still holding on to the hilt of his partner’s sword,
Detective Tyldavuis peered into the Bansardo’s face and then pushed him
backwards and over the edge of the balcony. Somewhere below, the slain murderer
landed with a thud.

Hours later at headquarters, the storm Tyldavuis had unleashed was still
raging. Everyone was furious at him. The owners and patrons of the theatre, the
tabloidists eager to make him a villain, and of course the senior management of the
City Warders. He was even hearing about rumblings at City Hall. Only their desire
to salvage the whole mess with a press release about the Frenzy Cleaver’s demise
spared him from the full vengeance of the ruling class.

“I tried to administer a test of silver on him,” protested Tyldavuis to the Chief
Inspector with scrupulous dishonesty. “He resisted though and attacked me.”

This did nothing to alleviate the livid hue that had flooded Worming’s face.
Pacing back and forth in front of his empty chair and the seated detective, he gave
the elf an unrestrained scourging. “You conniving little snake! Do you have any idea
who I have to explain this to!? Shut up! I bet you think you’re the cleverest mystery
in the forest! Got one over on the old man huh!? Rotting elf! Oh! I would love, just
love, to put you in the stockades right now! Let the inquisitors have their way! But
it seems you have an influential friend among the nymphs so I’m going to have to
make due with a permanent reprimand in the Warder annals and knocking you
down two levels of pay.”

If he’d thought about it, he probably would have realized he was getting off
easy. Instead the hypocrisy of the Chief Inspector’s outrage made him snap.
“Okay,” he spat as he shrugged and rolled his eyes in anger. “I quit. Had enough.”

Boiling but at a loss for words, Chief Inspector Worming impotently watched
as his former detective got up and walked out of his office, flashing two fingers in
the traditional archer’s victory taunt behind him as he went.

At the hospital that evening, Eigers was elated by the news. He even chuckled
at one point before the pain of his wound stopped him. Tyldavuis shared the whole
story without embellishment but made sure to really emphasize the parts where

Bansardo and Worming received their comeuppance. These were Eigers favorite
parts too.

“It seems my career among the Warders though has reached an inglorious
end,” Tyldavuis sighed. “And after being so careful for so long! What I don’t get
though is why, after the fact, they were all so offended that he was dead. I get the
politics of it when Bansardo was alive but… to almost mourn him? He killed a
patrician lady! And that’s besides the other three victims”

At this Eigers waved his hand side to side in a gesture of contrary opinion and
wrote something down for Tyldavuis on his chalk board. This read: yes but he was
still one of them and they dont like it when small poeple do what you did.

The elf nodded and shrugged at his friend’s logic. The system was corrupt is
all. No use letting it plant roots of resentment in your heart. “You know what?”
Tyldavuis said suddenly to his seated companion. “I could probably use some time
off anyways. I’ve always wanted to see Panhallia.” Having been informed a while
ago about Ze’ana’s joking suspicions, Eigers made himself a couple of mock horns
with his index fingers and Tyldavuis laughed hysterically. Then they embraced,
shared their goodbyes, and Tyldavuis left. Outside it was beautiful and the lead
horn of the moon was just beginning to blot the sun. Tyldavuis pondered the city
around him, the city he’d become a part of. A whole variety of thoughts swirled in
his mind now but one idea in particular was preoccupying him. Maybe he should
start a private detective agency.

ULTRA CODEX – CHAPTER OF ORIGINS

1. At first there was nothing. Then the nothingness grew empty and a void
formed inside it. This was the womb of the original being. In it, one who could
remake things using only their will was born. When they awoke they saw the
emptiness and became displeased. “A void cannot be,” they said, and the
nothingness listened. The one from the womb now pushed the void outwards until
it became a sphere. “Here I will create a world,” promised the being because that
is what they desired. So far there was nothing to build the world with though so
they pondered that question. After an age had come and gone, they decided. “This
time I will make the world in four parts.” The void could not comprehend this
however and it resisted. “A time is coming when you will be destroyed,” said the
one who was to that which wasn’t.

2. The void hid within a darkness but the one who was reached inside this
and removed some light. They then divided the light into four shapes. “Go to the
center of the void,” commanded the maker and one of the parts went there and
became fire. “Go to the edge of the void,” commanded the maker to a second and
it became earth. “Divide these two from one another,” commanded the maker to
a third and it became air. Here he asked the fourth, “Will you fall on the earth I
have made?” and it did, becoming water. The one who had created all this was very
glad and they descended on the earth to explore it. They found the earth flat
however so they raised up mountains. Then, because the water was everywhere,
they split the earth in two and made a place for all the sea. “Stay there,” they said

before returning to the earth. “You have pleased me,” the maker told their
creation. “But I cannot enjoy you alone.” Hearing this, the sea crept towards the
maker’s feet and the maker smiled. “Yes, you will be the one,” they said.

3. From the sea another being was made and the one who created it spoke
to them. “You will be a woman and I will be a man,” he said. “Yes,” she replied. So
the maker gave them both bodies which he crafted from the four elements and this
was the beginning of the flesh. Through this their beings achieved harmony and the
maker gave the woman his heart. “You are a delight to me and so I will call you
Aca,” said the maker. Aca considered this. “That is a good name, but what will I call
you?” The maker laughed. “You will call me husband and father and lord; but
because you have asked, I will name myself Deis.” Aca kissed her maker and replied,
“Let these things always be so but also let us have children.” He that had created
the woman stared upwards and said, “If that is your wish.”

4. After this Aca gave birth to three sons and the maker named them
according to the spirits they received. “You will be Fer because your heart will be
fire,” he said to one. “And you will be Ert because your heart will be earth,” he told
another. The third had disappeared however so the maker shouted, “Because your
heart is a wind you will be Vand.” That angered the third son and, appearing from
behind the fire in the center of the sphere, he taunted back, “And who are you to
say so?” The maker reached into the sky and pulled down Vand before tossing him
into the sea. “I am your father and this woman is your mother. You must honor us.”
Vand sat in the water frowning. “Well who is your father?” he asked. The maker
kneeled his sons at his feet. “I am the one who has no father,” he told them. “Above
me there is nothing.”

5. The earth was still barren then and soon Aca said to her husband, “I also
want to create.” The maker shrugged as he replied, “So create.” Aca thought about
this and then turned to her son Vand, “Lift up a part from the sea and spread it on
the earth.” Vand did so and then his mother spoke a word which made green things
rise from the ground. “These are interesting,” said Fer as the brothers examined
their mother’s work. “What are they called?” asked Ert. “I cannot say,” replied the
woman before adding, “Ask your father.” The maker smiled. “Let them be known
as Ave.” The brothers and their mother were satisfied with this and, exalting in the
power of creation, they filled the world with many things. Each wanted to create
that which shared their spirit but they also combined their powers as well. Fer

however was jealous of his father’s creation in the sky. “What is this called?” he
asked. “That is the Sun,” replied his father. “And it is life and death.”

6. The world was now full of plants and beasts so the maker decided to create
a council of stars to rule over them. “Make sure this creation prospers,” he said and
the stars bowed. Vand however had been listening secretly and he said to himself,
“Why should this maker give our creations to others?” Having an idea then, he went
to his brothers. “Fer! Ert! I’ve just heard father say that one day one of you will
have to take his place but he does not know which.” Fer answered, “It should be
me. I am father’s glory.” Ert retorted, “But I am father’s wisdom.” The two brothers
were previously building volcanos together but now they began to fight. “That’s
enough!” cried their mother. This did nothing so instead Aca broke them up with a
flood. “Let the stars rule over that,” laughed Vand. Then his father descended on
him and asked, “Why do you create mischief?” but Vand slipped away without
giving his father an answer.

7. Later Vand went to the sea and stared at his reflection there. “Ah,” he said.
“Without light the stars cannot see.” Therefore he concentrated with all his will and
lifted the whole sea into the sky. Here it froze and from this he made a wall around
the sun. As soon as he did this though, darkness swallowed everything and Vand
cried out in fear. “Oh no! What have I done?” He was too tired to repair his mistake
and, helpless, he listened as his mother and siblings yelled in confusion. The maker
however had seen all and he was not alarmed. With a single shout he shattered
Vand’s wall and all of it except one piece fell back to the earth and melted. “Will
you kill every living thing?” the maker asked his son. Vand didn’t reply so the maker
continued. “I will leave a reminder of your error in the sky and, because of you, the
living world will spend a third of each day in darkness.”

8. For a while Vand did not make any more evil but one day, after secretly
watching his father and mother united in the flesh, he approached the maker. “I
want a woman too,” he said. “Make one,” his father retorted. Vand howled with
rage and fled. Now at that time the maker often travelled to the kingdoms of the
stars and sun to attend to affairs there. During one of these absences, Vand was
thinking about his father’s refusal of his plea when he made a decision. “Fine. If he
will not give me a woman, I will take his.” So, extracting the venom of a viper, he
made an elixir which put his mother to sleep. After this he used her as he’d seen
his father do and she became pregnant. Realizing what had happened when she

awoke, Aca wept and threw herself into the sea. For seven days the sons of the
maker waited. On the eighth day finally the sea churned and out of it rose the
titans. All numbered they were thirty six, male and female.

9. Soon the titans proliferated and they became nations. Fer, Ert, and Vand
made themselves lords over these and took wives from among them. Aca
meanwhile reigned over a city deep underwater and she only spoke to Fer and Ert
when they went down to visit her. Vand she refused to see. The corruption he had
given into had taken him over too. For instance, he twisted the children of the titans
to create monsters and from these came the earliest devils. Fer and Ert and Aca
also used their powers on the children of the titans and eventually there were
peoples of many shapes and sizes. The world fell into war and chaos. Hearing of
this from the stars, the maker returned and, when he learned of all that had
happened, his wrath was swift. “Vand! You have defied me, ruined your mother,
and spread evil across creation! Since you only devour as the void does, you can
join it in its nothingness!” Vand tried to escape but the maker struck him down with
lightning and then began to breathe in the flesh of his son. “No father!” cried Vand
but it was too late. From then on he was doomed to forever be a spirit.

10. The maker gazed across his broken world and decided what needed to
be done. Gathering his two remaining sons to him, he issued them the following
instructions. “Of these peoples there are too many kinds. Choose three who are
fair and three who are foul and set these apart. Then gather with them all our
original creatures and ready them together. I will command the stars to bring an
urn to save these before you cleanse the world of the rest.” Fer and Ert initially did
what their father said but the spirit of Vand whispered to them and through this
many evil creatures were saved. With the urn then set safely in the sky, the maker
ordered his sons to sweep the world with inferno and earthquake. “What of our
mother?” asked Ert. The maker looked towards the sea as he replied, “She will die
and I will create a new one.” With no more delay, the removal of the titans and the
monsters was undertaken. None still on the earth or in the sea survived. Satisfied,
the maker opened the urn and spread its contents over the world.

11. Of the six who had been specifically chosen, the three fair were elves,
nymphs, and humans while the three foul were dwarves, gnomes, and orcs. Of the
condemned who Vand had saved, there were many, and these went and hid
throughout the lands and waters. Most notable were the devils who built kingdoms

under the earth where they created imps and gremlins and goblins. The maker
however only considered the six chosen ones and he blessed each with an animal
spirit. “The elves will have the spirit of the deer. The nymphs will have the spirit of
the otter. The humans will have the spirit of the horse. The dwarves will have the
spirit of the badger. The gnomes will have the spirit of the mole. The orcs will have
the spirit of the wolf.” That done, he turned to his sons and said, “So that none of
these peoples challenges us, I will bring into being a creature to rule over them and
this will be the dragon.” His sons were confused, and Fer asked, “What of us?” The
maker replied, “We will live among the stars.”

12. The maker and his sons left and the peoples of the world lived for a while
in plenitude and simplicity. They did not build tools or dwell in cities but rather ate
abundantly what the land freely provided and slept whenever they would under
the stars. The evils created by Vand emerged to torment them though and in their
distress they cried for help. Here the stars heard them and sent a messager to give
aid. The visitor instructed all the peoples in how to make tools for agriculture and
war. It gave them medicine and crafts. It even showed them how to build ships and
tame animals. To each people it gave appropriate lessons and urged them to follow
their own spirits. “What is your name?” asked the peoples. “I am Alethenos,” said
the being and it left. Using what they’d learned, the peoples became strong and
defended themselves from evil. Humans especially flourished and began to
dominate the land but many fell under the influence of the moon. The spirit of Vand
was still striving with his father’s creation.

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