Seeing is Believing

[Saraphael]

Within a small shack on the outskirts of town, shadows swung back and forth, illuminated and twisted by the sputtering, clinging life of a dying hearthfire. Seated calmly at a three-legged table, a brown-haired woman calmly scratched a quill over a dirty, stained piece of parchment.

Forgive me.

That girl. That dead girl. The voices told me .. I understand and accept my punishment.

Michael Hart had not been as discreet as he had thought himself. She had come to him with a quiet fury, this tiny, brown-haired thing. Her dark eyes had sparked accusations. They had argued; he had broken down and cried. But murderers are not allowed to see Heaven, even when they repent. Especially not murderers such as him.

There was another, however. Another that would take his soul if He would not. It only required one sacrifice.

On the table next to the scrawled note, two green orbs sat in a bloody, wooden bowl.

Over the shoulder of a dark-haired girl, feet swung back and forth lazily. He had still been alive when his own knife had cut out his eyes. He had still been alive when the noose had been wrapped around his throat, and the rope yanked in order to leave him dangling.

He had not been alive when the bold words were cut into the dangling body.

BELIEVE

[Cinnabar]

...eyes removed, and "BELIEVE" carved into the victim's flesh; this is consistent with murders previously attributed to members of the Order of the All. Whether this is a resurgence in the cult's activities or an isolated incident is uncertain at this point.

Cinnabar Calomel sits back in his chair, setting the report down on his desk and frowning in thought. A week, and still little more is known about the murder, one of too many in recent days and weeks, each marked by callous, wanton barbarism. He picks up the paper again, skimming over the details once more.

The words carved into the man's chest were indeed consistent with the Order's activities, but the note found at the scene was... odd. "Punishment", it said, as if this was some sort of retribution visited upon him that he had understood and somehow agreed with. But the cult's willing sacrifices had had their throats slit before their eyes were harvested, rather than being hanged in their own homes. And he had been hanged, rather than hanging himself - no stool or similar perch overturned beneath his feet, as might have been expected were this a suicide as the note might imply. Peculiar. And the eyes left there on the table, rather than being taken away for whatever unspeakable use the cult put them to. It was a murder, certainly, and thus warranted the Constabulary's investigation. But the details were wrong; close enough that it might seem to be another Order murder, but only on casual consideration.

It didn't fit.

And this mention of the dead girl - as if that narrowed it down, with new deaths and slayings and murders coming to light almost daily. The "dead girl" could be any one of half-a-dozen murders currently unsolved, or even one that has yet to be discovered, another decaying body to be found abandoned in a ditch or secreted in some disused cellar or bloating at the bottom of the river. The High Constable hisses out a breath of frustration, and reaches to refill his cup with tea. A few moments later his pen touches to paper, elegant script issuing instructions and directions to the detective in charge of the case.

See if any link can be made between the deceased and any murders of young females that remain unsolved; also cross-reference with reports of missing persons. Report back any further developments to my office.

- C.

That done he moves the report from one stack to another, and reaches for the next sheaf of papers demanding his attention. More tea will be required before the day is done; a great deal more tea, no doubt.