Necrology: Ab Initio.

[Kylerryth]

Her name was Alyce Pangbourn. She had dark hair and dark eyes, and was not very tall but not too short, either.

She was seventeen, and she was about to die.

* * * * *

Alyce sobbed around her gag; the pain in her wrists and shoulders was excruciating. Her nerves jangling, white-hot and pulsing with varying degrees of suffering, and for over an hour now having heard nothing but the sharp crackling of a fire, she dared to open her eyes -- just a little, a fraction, enough to allow slivers of blinding light to pierce her vision. It was a small thing, opening her eyes, an act performed daily: when she woke, for example; after she blinked; and after she finished kissing that blacksmith's son, whose hands were so large yet so gentle. But her captor had issued one soft command before the torture had begun, before the ropes had been tightened:

"No matter what, do not open your eyes."

It was a small thing, but it was now an act of defiance.

Alyce tried to swallow, found she couldn't, not around the gag; her mouth was forced too wide. She could feel dried spittle and mucus around her lips, on her chin, and would think the same of her tears if they were not still flowing. Her mouth tasted faintly of bile; she must have thrown up. And passed out, she realized -- she did not remember vomiting. Her captor must have removed her gag and cleared her mouth, too. By the Gods, he couldn't have her choking to death on her own vomit, could he?

Slowly opening her eyes wider, Alyce saw that she was in a wooden structure, like a shed, and guessed it was not overly large nor particularly small, especially if it could contain a fire or a hearth. Even the dim light hurt her eyes, but they were adjusting quickly.

She saw that the wall she faced was devoid of any ornamentation, any mark at all that might distinguish this place from any other, but that it seemed vaguely familiar; the connection escaped her, lost in a haze of torment and anguish. She turned her head -- but too quickly; the motion caused her body to move, to rock slightly, and she let out a muffled cry. As hidden knives carved the inscriptions of agony into her shoulders, as she felt the bones in her shoulders grinding together, inexorably; and as she felt more blood leak from her raw wrists a fresh set of tears came streaming from her, a new round of sobbing wracked her, and she mustered every scrap of strength and will left in her to resist shaking.

And then suddenly, horribly, she heard the voice.

"You opened your eyes," said the voice. The voice of her captor, behind her, where she couldn't see him. Him, yes; his voice was soft but distinctly masculine, and it sounded disappointed.

* * * * *

"You opened your eyes," said the voice. A pause; then the creak of leather, followed by the scuff of a boot; and then, a moment later, a metallic scrape and the smell of something hot, something burning.

"I knew you would," said the voice. "That's why I waited. I wanted to see how long it would take before you broke down and tried."

She felt a hand, not large but firm of grip, grasp her ankle and jerk her leg until it was pointing in a straight line from the hip. Reflexively Alyce kicked with the other leg, but she had no strength left; her foot thudded dully against what she thought was his shoulder, then slid off and to the ground. The jerk of her leg, the kick, the swaying caused by any motion, even the slightest, had drained her completely for the time being, and she fell into a dark despair punctuated by occasional sobs, barely audible around the gag. She did not know how much longer she could hold on -- to will, to strength. To hope. To anything. The pain was her world, now; it was consuming her, grinding her to nothing -- but not before, she thought, the constant strain on her overextended shoulders would tear her arms from her body completely.

"I know you are in pain," said her captor, pressing his thumb into the arch of her foot, holding it in a vise-like grip while spreading her toes apart with his fingers.

"But, just so you know," added her captor, "I plan to cause you a great deal more."

* * * * *

They found her naked body the very next morning. Her arms were twisted and tied behind her back, and a large rope, first tied around her wrists, was suspending her from a beam in the ceiling. From the evidence they could gather -- what little there was -- the girl, Alyce Pangbourn, had been pulled up by the aforementioned rope until she hung by her arms, approximately one full pace from the ground. She had been raped, although whether it had occurred before or after death (or, for that matter, before or after she had been suspended from the ceiling) was to be determined. She had also been denailed; the scorched skin around her fingers and toes implicated the use of heated pliers. Too, her eyes had been gouged out -- not removed, but simply destroyed. The cause of death, however, was established by the staggering amount of blood that had sprayed on the ground, even a little on the walls to either side of her body, from puncture wounds in her throat.

In a horrific turn of events, it had been her parents that discovered her body.

After all, it had been in the storage shed on their farm.

[Cinnabar]

"What is wrong with this place?" The High Constable's words fall flat as he gazes upon the rough-planked confines of the murder scene, taking in the blood, the mutilations visited upon the girl's hands and feet and eyes, the cold ashes of the fire that even now fills the shed with the scent of burning wood and the stink of scorching flesh.

The body has been cut down by now, laid out with as much dignity as stiffened limbs will permit. Raw flesh about the wrists where the coarse rope had rubbed away her skin; face puffed and livid where what blood left in her had settled as she hung face-down in death, caked with gore around those ruined eye-sockets and where here lifeblood had poured from the wounds in her throat.

His meaning behind the question is clear enough: what is it about Myrken that draws such horrors like flies to dung; what causes this brutality, this atrocity, this deliberate and calculated destruction of innocence? There is an air of anger about him, an aura of outrage that has the detective beside him taking an unconscious, wary step away.

Another few moments pass in silence before he eventually nods, and the detective hurriedly covers the body with a sheet once more. The High Constable turns from the grisly vignette, and the detective follows him back to the small group of Constables that wait a few yards away. Steady breaths allow him to regain a semblance of calm, of cool professionalism, and his voice is low as he issues instructions.

"Discover what you can. Find the girl's nails, if possible - were they discarded, or did the murderer take them with him? Likewise the tools used to remove them. And her clothing - was she taken from her bed, was she snatched on the way to or from the house, or while performing her chores?" He glances to the house, where the girl's parents are being comforted as well as possible by another Constable, who struggles to learn what information he can from them while still being sensible to their grief and shock.

A glance to the sky, then to one of the men in particular - a pale-looking youth in a Street Constable's uniform who'd made the mistake of peering inside the shed before the High Constable's arrival - he nods. "Head back to the yard; tell Langwine to bring the hounds, and four men good with a crossbow. Given the stink in there, the murderer may well have left a trail we can follow. If we're quick."

[Kylerryth]

The High Constable's question went unanswered, the men near him glancing at one another but not speaking. Those of the Constable interviewing the girl's parents, however...

* * * * *

"Mr. and Mrs. Pangbourn, I am truly sorry for your loss. I do have a few questions for you, but these can wait if you don't feel up to it."

The father, Alfred Pangbourn, was the first to regain a measure of his composure, knowing he had to be strong for his wife, Carolyne. For the both of them. That the Constable had been calm and comforting yet professional all the while helped considerably.

"Go ahead," said Alfred, sounding grim but tired. "Ask your questions. I'll answer as best and for as long as I can stand to."

The Constable removed a small book from one of his coat pockets, as well as a stick of charcoal. Opening the book, he wrote a few things before proceeding to the first question.

"When was the last time you saw Alyce alive?" asked the Constable, gazing at them.

"An hour or so after sundown," answered the father. "She had complained of a headache and took to bed early. After that..."

Alfred trailed off; the Constable, after writing, waited a moment before the next question was asked.

Then: "Can you think of anyone in particular that would do this to her? Say, a boy or man she rejected, or someone that might have held a grudge for something done or thought done?"

"No," said Alfred, slowly shaking his head. "Alyce was a sweet girl. She didn't have many friends, but she had no enemies. She had a liking for the blacksmith's boy -- Vibbard Roby, that's his name. Lives and works with his father in town, on the Horseshoe. Everyone knew about it, they saw them holding hands and talking all the time, but that was it. We knew it was innocent. Can't think of anyone else, really. But, God..."

The Constable wrote it all down, nodding -- and then, at the end, paused to ask, "What is it, Mr. Pangbourn?"

"To think someone could sneak into our home and steal her out of her bed without us knowing, without even a sound..."

The Constable realized the man was losing his tenuous grip on the scrap of will he had mustered to face these questions; he closed the book and stood, knowing further questions would only serve to hurt the grieving father and mother. The latter had barely moved beyond hugging her husband and crying into his shoulder.

"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Pangbourn. That will be all for now."

* * * * *

"High Constable!" called a voice. It was one of the detectives; he was standing by an oak tree northeast of the shed, gazing at something on or around the tree.

"You should have a look at this, sir."

[Cinnabar]

For a short while Calomel is left to his thoughts as the Constables start on their assigned tasks. Even now, after months of exposure to such things, he finds it hard to comprehend how such a depth of cruelty can be inflicted by one being upon another, with such malice and calculation. It is madness, he can only think, for all that those more jaded souls in the Constabulary insist that no, it is Myrken.

The detective's call rouses him from this introspection, in any case, and he focuses on the present once more. A nod, and then he's crossing the yard towards that tree, slowing as he approaches in order to avoid trampling anything that might be significant. He has regained his composure now, setting aside the sense of sickening wrongness that permeates this case, instead endeavouring to consider only the facts as they may present themselves, seeking the underlying pattern and meaning that links them.

"What is it?" He steps up to stand beside the detective, pale eyes glancing over to follow the man's gaze.

[Kylerryth]

The Constable who had interviewed the Pangbourns sought to approach the High Constable with his information, but upon hearing the detective's call for Calomel's attention decided instead to wait. He joined the other Constables at the scene and watched as a few men gathered their grisly bundle and, impassively but respectfully, moved her to a covered wagon waiting nearby.

* * * * *

The detective waited until the High Constable was able to see the ground in front of the tree, between two of its surfaced gnarled roots.

The soil had been turned recently.

Someone had dug in this spot.

"That isn't all," said the detective. By way of explanation he pointed at the bark of the trunk, a pace above the spot.

There were four words carved into the tree:

My name is Murder.

[Cinnabar]

For a time the High Constable stands still, simply regarding the scene; disturbed earth, carved tree, cryptic but portentous words graven there. For a time he looks tired, vexed and weary of it all; the moment passes, however, and he looks to the detective.

"Hm. Somewhat melodramatic, but such seems to be our suspect's idiom. Well, we can but oblige for the moment. Fetch a shovel, would you? Or a trowel, if they have one. And one of the sheets."

The detective obligingly hurries to retrieve said implement, meanwhile Calomel takes off his coat, hanging it from a fairly convenient branch and rolling up his shirtsleeves; he crouches at the base of the tree to peer closely at this latest discovery, slender fingers running over the letters cut into its bark, measuring out the turned earth with his hands.

A few moments later the detective returns, and the High Constable accepts the tools from him. The sheet is laid next to the patch of unsettled ground, and the shovel is set aside for the moment, too unwieldy for the task at hand; instead Calomel sets to work with the trowel, carefully digging away the loosened soil and piling it neatly onto the sheet. He works methodically, digging only the area already disturbed, clearing it away in layers rather than excavating as deeply as possible as quickly as possible.

There is an undeniable sense of tension among the detectives who watch him at this task, combined curiosity and dread as to what might have been buried here.

[Daphne-Kyle]

"You know, if you are seeking clues in the dirt, may I suggest a sifter?"

Standing behind him, was a young woman, looking to be in her mid-20's. To say she was hawkish looking would be something of an understatement, Her eyes were larger then normal, and round, the pupils hold a distinct resemblance to a hawks eyes. her features were sharp, yet they held a soft edge, narrow nose and mouth. It was the hair that was the most stricking, for growing naturally along with light waves of dirty blonde hair, were feathers. A smooth mixture of white with brown tipping.

She is an employee at the Waystation and livery stables. an establishment, similar to the Dagger, with a few minor changes. Its main cliental are those newly arrived to town, or those who are just passing though, and are looking for a good quiet meal, and a warm bed. there are more rooms available at the Waystation, as well as a couple of suits for those in need of lodgings while they get on their feet.

It was because of this that Mary was actually in the area of the farm. As she was helping a new family move into their new home, when she passed by and saw all the comotion, she had pulled her wagon to a hault just in time to see the covered body removed from the farm. She put serious thought into moving on, until her companion spoke, and she was soon removing herself from the wagon. A large bag strung over one shoulder, she spotted the High Constable, and was about to call out to him, when another grabbed his attention and everyone was moving towards a tree. Distracted they all seemed to be, her presence was not yet noted, her path took her past the barn. Just a quick glimpse, before she was moving towards the tree. It seemed this scene whatever had happened, had them all alittle out of sorts. and Soon she was standing right with them observing the Constables work. Eyeing the writting.. and after she spoke of the sifter...she continues.

"Do you think it was blade?...or claw?...

She makes motion to examine to the carving....Not even yet introducing herself...Or why she was encouraged To come take a look...
One wounders how the High constable will take this...Aid?

[Cinnabar]

The suggestion prompts the High Constable to glance round, regarding this interloper with a gaze that contains perhaps more than a hint of irritation; then again, maybe it is simply residue from his outrage at the scene within the shed. Moments pass as pale grey eyes inspect her features, though if he finds them peculiar his expression makes no indication of such. A brief glance is given to the detectives as if to inquire as to why this lady was permitted to approach a murder scene, but before they can answer he turns back to his digging, calmly removing trowelfuls of earth and setting them aside.

"In good time. It's why I have the cloth laid out." Just on the polite side of brusque, offering the minimum explanation required to answer her suggestion. As she approaches the tree he holds out a hand to warn her from coming too close to the spot where he digs, but a small movement of slender fingers indicates where she might circle around to view the tree trunk.

"A blade, I would think." The girl's body had shown no marks from anything like claws, and even the sharpest of claws would have trouble with the precision required to carve letters into the oak's thick bark. Meanwhile the regular gritty sound of the trowel scooping out measures of soil punctuates his words as he casts a sidelong glance to the woman. "Is this just ghoulish curiosity, or do you think you might be able to assist?"

[Kylerryth]

The High Constable would soon be rewarded with a dull but audible thunk.

Cinnabar had found something. Judging by the sound made when the trowel struck it, whatever it was was wooden. Further digging would reveal a small handle -- which was, as discovered by more digging, attached to a plain wood box with brass trim and corners and a simple clasp for a lock.

The box was approximately six by six inches in width and length, but only four deep; the dirt and grime aside, it appeared to be fairly new, and were Calomel's nose keen enough he might detect the faintest hint of varnish beneath the heady scent of damp earth. The wood was devoid of carving or ornamentation, save the aforementioned brass. The clasp was firm, not likely to be jiggled loose, but looked as though it could be easily opened by hand.

When opened, the lid's hinges made no sound. The box's interior proved to be surprisingly extravagant: it was lined with bright red velvet, with thread-of-gold embroidery forming an intricate knot on the bottom of the lid.

There was a rose inside. It had been cut to fit in the box perfectly. Its petals showed the first signs of withering, the stem dried or drying. The rose had been here for some time, then, meaning the box had been planted just before or after the murder occurred.

Beneath the rose was a folded piece of parchment. When the High Constable removed and then unfolded it to read, he would see in a blocky but neat hand the following words:

Here is your first clue.
I have moved; the board is yours.
Let the game begin.

And below that, in a smaller, finer hand:

My name is Murder.
What is yours?

[Cinnabar]

There is a period of stillness from the Constable as he reads that note, a few moments in which he moves not at all, barely even to breathe. Finally he takes a slow, deep breath, and holds it for a space of heartbeats before exhaling with every bit as much careful control. It is not until another few heartbeats have passed that he trusts himself to speak.

"A game." A girl is dead, tortured, defiled and mutilated with calculating cruelty; her parents are distraught, destroyed.

"A game."

Head bowed over the brass-bound casket, slender fingers trace across the knot embroidered inside the lid; the rose is lifted that he might inspect it more closely, turning it this way and that before holding it to his nose, a steady breath drawing in its scent. Then it is laid back

When he finally stands and turns to face the Detectives his eyes glitter silver where they should be grey, and seethe with fury for all that his face remains an impassive mask as he issues orders to his men in a quiet, clipped tone.

"Cauldrey: There is a flower-seller who hawks his wares in the marketplace in Myrken; find where this flower came from. Find from him what you can about this rose's breed, where it is grown, and from whom one might procure such a bloom.

"Vinter: Bring me a list of girls named Rose, and where they live, starting with those nearest to this farm; dispatch officers to check on them - discreetly, mind. Use whatever pretense seems appropriate. This creature baits us with riddles.

"Haleford: You are to interview Myrkentown's cabinetmakers and joiners; discover who made this box, and for whom. If I am not back at the Yard by the time you are each ready to report, I will be here, with Langwine and the hounds." That gaze moves between the detectives, reflecting their own startled features back at them.

"Any questions?"

[Kylerryth]

When the High Constable lifted the rose, one of its petals fell off and landed silently, almost tenderly in the velvet-lined box. All but six of its thorns had been removed, so there was little chance of pricking his fingers.

When he smelled the rose it was vaguely sweet, but also had a subtle rotten tinge, like that of decay -- a result of its withering, no doubt.

When he spoke -- after returning the rose to its box; after turning to regard the group of Detectives awaiting his commands -- it was with furious eyes that glittered behind a mask carved from cold stone. The High Constable delivered a set of calculated instructions to each man, each task being like a thread in a net. A net designed to catch a killer ... before he killed again.

When he finished and asked if the men had any questions, they said as one: "No, sir." And they went to their assigned tasks, their faces impassive but their eyes afire.

A game, the note had said.

A game that, with any luck, would end quickly -- and in their favor.

[Daphne-Kyle]

"To help, I have had a bit of teaching in this line of work, Though Daphne-Kyle is the true expert"

True words indeed, and the woman in question still sits in the wagon watching from afar. Unfortunatly a crippling of one leg, does not allow her an easy gate over much of the territories terrain. So her student, and a very good one at that is there, now moving over to examine the words more.

then the box was produce, and she watched the discovery unfold, and the orders been handed out. Her brow creased a bit as she put her thoughts in order.

"If you don't mind me saying so Sir, this seems to be a personel message to you.

The notes to seemed directed to him, even if it did not plainly say so.

"Are you a game player?...Cards? chess?...Also, this Murderer, took great care in creating this message. I do not think you will find a maker in town. something of this caliber was made with passion...The liner, the embrodery. It is possible it was made by the one who laid it here. the rose as well, for it was cut to speck, and the stem pruned.
Is there significance to the removal of the thorns, or the amount left?

Perhaps your men should also look for those who culture roses, grow them as a passion. Also the tools used for the cutting, it is possible to match this one with the tool used to cut the stem. And maybe, speak to the wood workers in town about anyone they may have apprenticed, or who would works as a hobby but not a career. for a work like this, I believe he wouldn't just sell or give away. It is a special gift....It has meaning to this one..

She realizes suddenly she was babbling and perhaps pushing...a quick bit of her lips, as she looks at the dirt, then trails her fingers along the carving in the wood...

"Do you think it is possible to remove this part of the tree?..To take back for a more detailed inspection?"

And then a sudden thought about the box...

" Can you remove the lining?...."

She didn't know what she was looking for. tool markings maybe, something to shed light on the marker...

[Cinnabar]

A pale and sceptical brow is raised at the odd woman's suggestions, the High Constable regarding her askance for a moment.

"So you think we may be looking for an amateur cabinetmaker with an interest in horticulture and needlework? That should narrow it down nicely." A wry and humourless smile twists his lips for a time before he sighs quietly. "I beg your pardon, that was unnecessary." A glance over towards the woman in the wagon, and a shrug.

"If it was intended for me personally, I would imagine the culprit would have addressed it to me by name. That he must ask my name - even rhetorically - implies that this is aimed at whoever should follow the trail of clues he leaves." He frowns, considering the matter.

"He is arrogant, that much is clear - the taunting tone, the deliberate planting of clues to draw any investigators onto his trail, and so forth. Also highly calculating, as this is certainly no crime of passion - methodical, planned-out, organised. And, of course, callous." Lips press into a thin line as he envisages the scene inside the shed. "Dangerous." His gaze moves to the tree for a moment before he returns his attention to the box in his hands, shaking his head. "I do not think we could learn more by hacking the tree apart than we could by leaving it as it is - if you wish to investigate it, feel free to do so as long as you do not deface it. And if you have some way of discerning between one sharp knife and another merely from the way a flower's stem is cut I would be thoroughly impressed."

Seemingly on a whim he drops to sit cross-legged on the ground beside the excavated hole, turning the box over in his hands. The latch is worked again, the rose and the note retrieved from within before he hands the casket over to the hawkish girl for inspection. In the meantime he casts about for a twig before turning his attention to the rose once more; he wrinkles his nose as he pries open the petals curiously to explore the heart of the bloom, seeking to confirm or refute an idea which has occurred to him.

[Daphne-Kyle]

"You know, for someone who has in the past argued about people, not doing what they can to heal Myrken. you sure have a funny way of accepting help."

She comments though not in a snide, or snippy type manner. Just stating fact as she knows them. And how does she know them? Well it seems a certain Gypsy is a long time friend and partner to Ms. Daphne-Kyle, who still sits waiting in the wagon and has had to listen to this Perticular Gypsy rant about a no good do Gooder of a High Constable. It was during one of these rants that Mary, got the idea that maybe she could help. Of course Daphne-Kyle pushed her just enough and fate had her here today.

Taking a seat beside the Constable, she digs into her satchel, pulling out a peice of rolled cloth, unrolling it on the ground there was a lining of tools in various varieties. Pulling out one, a thin sharp tool, a short knife, she goes about slowly slicing the edge of the lining.

"The only reason I would bring up him perhaps making the box himself is, its pretty specific. If someone was commisioned to create it, it would not be a great step to find the maker in town, and then garnish a description of some sort. It just seems somewhat suspect, for him to go through the trouble of the crime and hiding the clue, to leave such an easy way to track his identity.

A shrug of her shoulders, she didn't mean to come off as nosy, or know-it-all. But she was a touch nervous, so use to keeping herself tucked away in her room with her books and notes, and experiements. It took some self convincing and a nudge from a friend to even get her out from day to day, and now her she was dropping herself into the middle of a mystery, with a somewhat borish High-constable.

"Oh and yes, it is possible to discovery to some extent what type of tool was used to cut the stem. for instance if it did indeed originally come from the flower sellers in town, it would have been longer, and pinched at the end, for they use sheers. But as it is obvious that the stem has been cut to the size of the box. It could be two things, cut right from a bush, or recut. In any case, certain blades leave different markings. And no before you ask, i'm not pulling feathers from my ass.. I tested it once, though it was lilly stems. I think the theroy should still hold. It can't hurt....right?"

she was looking at him now, as he was pulling the petals away. Setting the box aside, the lining delicatly removed from the box, for later inspection. She was moving closer.

"What is it?..the smell?...Do you have an idea?..A theory?"

she was inquisitive....and curious...One shouldn't be to harsh though, it is the nature of her race to seek knowledge and discover new things..

[Kylerryth]

Congratulations, High Constable: your curiosity has paid off.

After carefully exploring the inner folds of the petals, Cinnabar would discover a tiny thing, no larger than the nail of his little finger, tucked inside. Upon inspection, the object would turn out to be a wood button; and if Cinnabar's curiosity was still getting the best of him, he would find that the button had been carved into as well.

There was a single jagged letter:

E

Mary, too, would come across an interesting thing when the wood beneath the lining was examined: in the bottom right corner of the lid, just barely visible, was an imprint.

More letters -- two, to be specific:

BA