Malaroth the Miserable, Malaroth the Mad

[Malaroth]

He twisted and turned in his uneasy slumber. Long, slender fingers curled into the bedsheets with the courage of a young child who sought protection under the magical "covers." The faces of contemptuous gypsies and winged distortions of humanity whispered venom into his ear and caused him to toss and turn, snaring himself ever tighter amongst the sheets.

The darkness beneath his eyelids occasionally bled into visions. At one moment he stood with his back to the temple in the port city of Sidgar, ready to lay down blade and blood to protect the civillians huddling within. The next he found his fingers curled around a silver dagger and plunging it into the back of a black-cloaked figure who stood at the edge of a bottomless chasm of flame.

As the cloaked figure plummeted to his fiery doom, Malaroth risked another glimpse to his hands and found that they were not his own. The fiery pit bellowed its raw heat and bright, crimson fury upon the walls lined with towering statues of inhuman figures. Its light bled over hands that were blackened and skeletal. His lips, trembling, slowly part as he slowly curls one finger, and the next, watching the blasted remnants flex and convulse beneath the torn remnants of black gloves...

And he awoke. His eyes tore open and stared blankly at the dull, wood-brown of the bedroom's interior illuminated only by whatever strangled sunlight crept through the drapes. He greedily gulped down air as the chalk taste fled his throat and noticed his white-knuckled hands curled into the depths of his pillow. A mournful whimper escapes him as he slumps down, turning onto his back and staring up at the ceiling - momentarily glaring at a slender blond strand of hair that mildly obscures his vision. His pale chest steadies as he gorges himself upon simply breathing, his left side aching with muscular tension that he briefly kneads out with practiced fingertips.

"I felt more rested when I enjoyed roots for pillows," he mutters.

HIs cerulean gaze wanders across the breadth of his modest accomodations, and he scowls at the vase containing a handful of long-stemmed blue-and-black petaled roses. He had parted with one of the rarities last night at the tea party, a welcome enough gesture on his part, but the sight reminded him of that cur of a gypsy-wench. Her sharp reprimand for his desperation and subsequent threats to his reputation and safety galled him and his heart quickens, for a moment, coiling like a snake to strike at a foe he might never see again. Still, the humiliation haunted him and set his blood to a low simmer. Perhaps, he considered, he yielded ground to quickly. Perhaps Treadwell might have spoken well for him should she have dared make good on her slanderous boasts.

"Let it go," his mentor's voice bid, unsummoned, within his mind. "Let it go and get on with what is important."

Truth, Malaroth considered, was important. It was what drove him here - at least the potential to unmask it. If it could be found. If it didn't drive him mad. WIth a grunt he climbed to his feet and began to pull his clothes onto himself. As he cinches the belt about his lean waist, he regards the suit of scarred platemail in the corner of his room, perched upon a stout wooden stand. Centered upon the breastplate was engraved his coat-of-arms: a sword crossed at the hilt by two weeping, wilting roses. That symbol had also earned him the moniker "Knight of the Weeping Rose" amongst the common-folk of Zachea, and he fondly recalled their waves and smiles of farewell as he rode out with the soldiers to defend their northeastern borders against elf-bandits.

Elf-bandits that dwelled amongst the wild, untamed Mul Wastes. The great expanse, dominated only by Cloud Peak at its center, was rumored to have been plucked out of the endless layers of the Abyss; an attempt to explain the parching, hungry winds and endless blue sand. He strode over to a small mirror he had set up beside the Mul-Roses, which grew along the borders of Zachea and the Mul Wastes. Malaroth beheld his bloodshot eyes with a long-suffering sigh and buttoned his black vest adorn with silver threads that outline rosepetals.

Could the child-doll, whose name he still did not know, be right? Her and that.. thing... with the scabbed wings that crowed out the impossibility of his memories being only dreams. He fixes his collar quickly and adjusts the thick black belt, the minutiae of dressing himself a poor attempt at disciplining his mind - at diverting it from nightmares to useful, constructive courses of potential action.

Firstly, he had to look into the rumors of this obsidian circlet, or somesuch, as well as Ms. Silverwind and her attempt to hold back undead that had evidently worn others' guises and caused trouble for the inn. There was also the matter of the diamond that might fit onto the opposite side of his blade's hilt. He regarded the weapon for a moment and allowed himself a rueful smirk - why hadn't he brought it to defend himself from that insolent wench?

"Let it go, Mal," he muttered to himself. "Let it go and go on."

He regarded himself once more in the mirror, running over his fact-finding errands in his head a final time before slipping out. His shadow, however, lingered but a moment upon the Zachean Mul-Roses and he didn't notice that, after the breath of his shadow had passed, the petals began to twist and drift towards the floor.

[Malaroth]

Malaroth sneezed again and pulled the tattered black cloak tighter about his long, lean frame. The water dribbled down his angular features and dripped from his budding moustache and beard. It left his long hair lank and plastered to the sides of his face and also caused the skin there to itch in irritation. To make matters worse the weaponsmith had been unable to provide any worthwhile information to help him in his search.

It was a miserable day.

With a ragged sigh he pulled the hood up and felt the water leak through a small hole and down his neck, along the musculature of his back. He groaned, stumbled through a puddle, and asked the gods for strength and patience. They knew he needed it. Some of the villagers agreed also, and a handful offered some spare change as the apparent begger made his way amongst the streets that were steadily depopulating as the day, and the rain, wore on. Malaroth stared at the latest offer, tossed his way by a portly young woman accompanied by two nagging brats. Her gift, a small jingling pouch, fell short and had soon become nearly lost in the muck of the road.

It wasn't all that long ago, he remembered, when instead of throwing money people would throw flowers. The Zacheans made it a point to welcome home their defenders - who else would protect them from elven bandits or their enemies to the north? Who else stood vigilant against the burning blue sands of the Mul Wastes? The ghost of a smile touched his lips as his mind wandered homeward, to the broad, cobblestone avenues of Sidgar crowded with the cheering commonfolk who wore their finest clothes and put their best foot forward on the days celebrating victory. The temple bells tolled out the promise of the future, the peace of the present, and the sacrifice of the past in one simple but moving symphony and, if only for that day, all was right winth Zachia.

Malaroth stopped as he realized all was not right anymore.

From nearby alleys, a handful of figures emerged. They moved with an easy, boastful swagger. Each was clad in heavy brown and green cloaks and all either wore or brandished short-bladed weapons with a casual and easy hostility. THe shortest among the hungry pack, his thick hand grasping a long-bladed dagger, stepped to the forefront and shook his shaved head in dismay.

"You're the easiest mark we've ever had," he began in a coarse voice. His comment drew several chuckles from the rest. "All we have to do is follow you around to pick up the money that people throw your way." His sentence halted with a broad, yellow grin that suddenly broke as he pressed the dagger-tip against the base of Malaroth's throat.

"I've seen your type before. Used to be rich but down on your luck," he continued, punctuating his last sentiment by spitting at Malaroth's feet. Trying to pretend you're not as bad off as you really are, or look. Too good, too proper, to accept money from anyone. I've half a mind to take you away and let you loose every month or so in town. All we have to do is follow the money trail!" The brigands once more erupted into coarse, rumbling laughter.

"But you're just too pitiful to keep around, princeling," he muttered while shaking his head in disgust. "You should thank us. We're about to put you out of your misery..."

Malaroth's hand darted for his sword as he took a step back, feeling the cold, reassuring press of his sword's handle against his palm as he attempted to tear the weapon free. The highwayman snorted and lunged forward with his dagger, while the rest of the band pressed in around the two. Malaroth's eyes darted towards the heavens, the clouds, pregnant with rain, blotted out the sun as if the sky itself had been bruised. He wished he were back home. He wished he were anywhere else...

***

Blood on the sword. A steady stream of it trickled from the base of his sword to the tip, disturbed by an occasional swollen droplet of crimson life. His hands were frozen and he could feel, and count, all the bones in his body. Even the steady rain seemed muted, although it provided the only sound to let him know he was still alive. He inhaled once, and again, catching the coppery scent of blood and death on the damp afternoon air.

The bandits lay all around him. The rain, in its foresight, had begun to provide enough mud for their shallow graves. For them, the veil between life and death was but a thin veil of blood that hovered in the growing puddles just above all of their bodies and disturbed only by the grotesque mask of fear into which each countenance had been wrecklessly twisted.

He dropped his sword.

"Not again," Malaroth whispered into the rain. Risking a quick glance around the apparently deserted streets, he turned and fled; each footfall a throbbing drum of denial.

[Malaroth]

The rains left the heavy, perfumed scent of spring on the air. It tickled Malaroth's nose with every careful step he took around several large puddles along the roadside. He tugged the hood tighter about his features and allowed himself the small pleasure of a warm smile as he watched children leaping into the puddles or roughhousing in the muck to the chagrin of their mothers. Their playful shrieks teased the smile out further against his pale features.

One small child scurried between the puddles on the tips of his toes, peering over his shoulder while a great mop of wild brown curls flopped with every heavy footfall. The cloud of his own bright giggling flit about him until a wrong step twisted his ankle and, throwing his tiny hands out to catch himself, the child toward the ground...

Only to find himself in Malaroth's hands, one rebellious curl painting the ground with a few droplets of sweat. He felt the child's heart pulsing rapidly, the chest heaving for air and stutter in preperation for the fall.

"Easy, little one," he murmured softly and positioned the boy squarely on his feet. As the child peered up at him, Malaroth winked and smiled playfully, which was met with a vacant, confused stare before he sped off to rejoin his friends. The weaponless swordsman watched the child go and shook his head, noting that if he kept on as he had been then the child would soon have a far more bloody spill. Turning on his heel, he proceeded further into town.

Some time later, Malaroth found himself staring across the street at the constable's office. Treadwell's assurances drifted about his ears and eased the tension that had begun to coil about his heart and bleed a dead weight into his limbs. He peered down at the empty scabbard at his side and shook his head in disdain. Concern, for what his family might think for losing the blade, crawled across his brow and set about his lips - twisting them into a pained, sour expression. He risked a glance skyward, noting the diminishing clouds and the brilliant sun glaring down upon him like some forboding, displeased king. He quickly looked away and sighed bitterly.

A band of armored men, clad in leathers and carrying staves, paraded about the side of the building to the harsh barking of their drillmaster. Malaroth watched them a moment before conjuring his courage and making his way across the street. He made a mental note not to mention the whispers and dreams that had called him here to Myrken in order to avoid suspicion. Whatever else happened, he told himself, they must not suspect whatever is wrong with you.

He pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside.

[Cinnabar]

In his office, High Constable Calomel glances up from his desk - from the well-wrought blade that lies across it on the sackcloth that had been used to wrap it - to the young Detective Constable who stands waiting. Michel. Anders Michel. Son of a merchant trader. Excelled at the observation exercises, numerate, and good handwriting too.

"And you say it was found at the scene?"

"Yes sir." Michel nods. "Dropped in the mud, bloodied up to the hilt. Damned shame, a good blade like that." He watches as his commanding officer carefully turns the weapon over to inspect the traces of blood and street-muck that still cling to the weapon. "From what was left of the bodies, we're fairly sure that's the weapon used. Wounds match those from a long blade - some of 'em run through, couple of limbs taken off. One poor bugger filleted from belly to breastbone, neat as you like." He pulls a face at the memory of several hours spent squelching around in the gory mud, noting down the positions of the bodies while Street Constables kept curious locals at a distance.

Cinnabar looks back to Michel. "You say the killing weapon, Detective. Only the one?"

"We think there was just the one man, sir. At least, only eyewitness we've got says she saw a man running down Westfarthing Street away from the scene just after the time it must've happened. Dark cloak, long hair. Scruffy-looking. Not much more than that." He shrugs. "It's a bad area, honest folks don't tend to go there if they can avoid it. From the look of things, the, uh, the deceased surrounded him, got in close - maybe trying to rob him - and he butchered the lot of them. Easily, too - didn't find any blood on the other weapons at the scene, though every one of them had a blade drawn."

Huh. Impressive. "Very well. Still, try and find any other witnesses if you can. Maybe even survivors who got away. A bloodbath of this scale, someone must've heard something, one man against twenty or no."

"We've got a couple of men asking round the taphouses in the area, sir. Most people know about the incident by now, but no one's got any idea what actually happened. Some say it's vampires, others say it's monsters. You know how folks talk. Given the looks on the dead blokes' faces, I'm not surprised."

The High Constable nods, frowning slightly. "Indeed. That's something that'll need looking into. Also, ask around the local leechmongers and sawbones, too - if any of them got away injured, they'd probably need fixing up." His attention drifts back to the blade once more, grey eyes studious as he regards the elegant weapon. "Any progress with identifying the dead?" Slender fingers trace over the sword's hilt, touching upon the empty socket where a jewel might sit. Expensive work, certainly. He can't help but pick it up, absently testing the weight and balance.

"Some, sir. A few locals - rough types, mostly. Some of the others we think might be bandits who've been troubling travellers on the northern road. We're checking with the Brotherhood on that."

"Very good." For a moment it is uncertain whether Cinnabar speaks of the investigative efforts or the blade, but presently the weapon is set down again and he offers a brief grin. "Excellent work so far, Detective, keep going. Try and put together a list of the victims soon as you can." He carefully replaces the sackcloth wrapping about the sword, handing it to the detective to be stowed in the evidence room. "And ask around about this blade. It's the only clue we've got so far, but it's a damn good one. Find the owner, and I'd wager we've found the killer."

--

In the front lobby, a ruddy-faced constable behind the duty officer's desk looks up from his paperwork to eye Malaroth suspiciously, taking in his ragged cloak and bedraggled appearance.

"Can I 'elp you, sir?"

[Malaroth]

He hesitated a moment after stepping inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darker surroundings. For but a moment he saw everything painted in muted, shaded tones of grey before his gaze flickered, as if someone waved a branch covered with leaves before him, and everything returned to normal. Normal, that is, save for the memory of the incident. He felt the hairs along the back of his neck rise and he gnashed his teeth together in frustration.

As Malaroth stood in the lobbey, wrestling with his odd sensations and watching the conflict between his own senses, he grumbled to himself. Apparently ignoring the constable, he tugged the tattered black cloak tighter about his tall, lean frame as if to ward off some chill that clung to his bones and nestled between his joints. Yet, despite his pale features, he seemed otherwise healthy.

He fixed the constable with cobalt-blue eyes, their color hued as if by a sea-storm brewing in their depths. Long blond hair drifted in the wisp of a halo about angular features and over his shoulders. Shadows nested in the hollow of his jaw and beneath the dark rings that laired beneath his eyes. Dark brown wool pants bore the wear of long travel, and a collared, dark purple shirt rested in wrinkled disarray upon his torso.

"Greetings, Sir Constable," he began in a haggard, mildly deep voice. He took a moment to clear his throat before continuing. "I am here to claim something that was stolen from me... something, I have heard, that was found at the scene of a murder."

His eyes flit about their surroundings and he shifted uncomfortably beneath the cloak, as if he bore a thick yoke across his shoulders. The gesture revealed the black vest worn over his shirt, decorated with rosepetals outlined in silver thread. "It is a long-bladed sword. The hilt bears a missing socket where one might set a jewel or other such ornamentation. It is finely made, well-balanced, and of a make foreign to these parts. "

He hesitated a moment and glanced towards the floor. He recalled what Treadwell had said concerning proper Myrken procedure and bit his lower lip. He heard his mentor's voice echoing out of the dark recesses of his mind, cramped with the cobwebs of memory, urging him to own up to the truth, and drawing his brow together into a furrow.

"Councilor Treadwell told me I need merely inform you of the theft and I would be able to reclaim the weapon. Although, given the circumstances under which it was found, I would be happy to answer a few questions if they might assist you in your investigation."

[Cinnabar]

The desk constable listens carefully, brows drawing together as he regards the curious fellow, striving to project an air of Authority and Seriousness.

"Hay sword, sir? Stolen? Bit careless, that. An' a murder, eh? One moment." He shuffles papers on his desk for a moment, unearthing a weighty ledger of the sort used by record keepers and clerks. Opening it at the bookmark, he runs a stout finger down rows of scratchy writing before stopping, then nodding to himself.

"You'll be wanting to talk to Detective Constable Michel, sir. 'E's the only one hinvestigating a murder case at the moment." The desk constable nods towards a sturdy wooden bench against the wall of the lobby. "Take a seat, sir, I'll let 'im know you're 'ere." Leaning forward to peer through a doorway that once led into a warehouse building but now apparently leads to the general constabulary office space, he shouts to one of his colleagues.

"Hoy, Penney! Gentleman 'ere to see Detective Michel! 'S about a sword!"

In a quieter voice to Malaroth. "'E'll be out shortly, sir." A thought strikes him, and he digs out another ledger from the papers on his desk and reaches for a pen.

"Hin the meantime, sir, might I take down your name an' such? Got to log these things, y'see. Proper procedure." He dips the pen and pauses, nib hovering over a fresh line in the ledger.

[Malaroth]

"Malaroth," he responds to the constable's request. "Malaroth of Zachea." He frowns thoughtfully, wondering if his homeland meant anything to this constable, or to anyone else around here. He turns slowly, and regards the bench before claiming it as his own.

"I arrived about two weeks ago on... " he pauses in consideration, and a sly smirk takes his lips as he considers spilling the entire truth for his visit if only for the entertainment of this man's reaction. "... on personal business."

His hips creak and groan with the burden of several more winters than he had actually seen and, once again, his vision melted into indistinct grey lines. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he propts one elbow upon his knee, and his chin upon his fist in a precariously balanced chain. Slender fingers on his other hand absently drifted over the top of an empty scabbard at his side that occasionally grated against the coarse, stout wood.

"If it matters, the weapon was stolen from my room at the Broken Dagger," he offers without preamble.

[Cinnabar]

"Ma-la-roth... of... Zah-kay-ah." The constable's pen scratches over the page, noting down the pertinent details. "Currently hin residence at the Broken Dagger, sir?" What he might think of people who willingly choose to reside at an inn with such a... colourful reputation is apparent in his tone, if not in as many actual words.

A different voice interrupts from the doorway, softer and slightly more well-spoken.

"Did you report the theft to anyone at the time, sir? The Brotherhood, maybe, if not to us?"

The desk constable looks over at the dark-haired young man who must be Detective Constable Anders Michel, and nods in greeting. Michel returns the nod and looks back to Malaroth, clearly taking in the details of his dress and appearance. For his part, the detective's clothing is understated, smart as befits the job, but not particularly fine, and his features are pleasant, though not particularly striking. He could be a clerk or scribe in any of Myrkentown's merchant offices, from the looks of him. He steps forward, offering a hand in greeting.

"Detective Michel. If you don't mind, I'll need to ask you a few questions." His tone implies that whether Malaroth minds or not, questions are going to be asked.

[Malaroth]

He regards Detective Michel for a few moments in silence following the lawman's query that, in all honesty, was not a query at all but rather a statement of fact. Malaroth grunted and climbed to his feet, laying a steadying hand against the wall as he felt his blood run cold with the strain of climbing to his feet. For all the world he looked to be a man in his prime, yet he shivered and tugged the cloak tightly about his lean features once again.

"I understand that we must follow correct procedure," he began in a voice rough with exhaustion. He spared a glance to the empty scabbard at his side before turning back to face Michel. "I will answer your questions to the best of my ability."

He cleared his throat and rubbed a palm slick with cool sweat over the swell of his adam's apple. At the query concerning his own procedural steps, his brow furrows in confusion. "I know not of this Brotherhood you speak of. And no, to be honest, I did not report the theft to anyone."

He felt his cheeks begin to burn with his lie. Whether his face revealed any such awkwardness he knew not and, laying hold of the inside of his mouth with his teeth, Malaroth chewed out his inner conflict upon his own flesh. "I did not report the theft out of foolish pride, Constable. Perhaps... Perhaps, if I had, maybe whoever had done this would have been loathe to wield a weapon known to be stolen..."

[Cinnabar]

Michel nods as Malaroth agrees to hear his questions. "Thank you, sir." He tilts his head at the explanation of why the theft was not reported, then shrugs lightly.

"The Brotherhood of Janeiro has served as the town guard prior to the establishment of the Constabulary. Sort of outside their remit, considering they were actually employed to protect Myrken from threats of a more military nature. But no matter. If you made no report to them, you can make one now. If you'll step this way, sir?" He indicates for Malaroth to follow him, leading the way along a short corridor and up some stairs to a simple but well-lit interview room, two chairs facing one another across a desk. He retrieves a few sheets of paper from a cabinet in one corner, along with a pen and inkpot. Methodical, businesslike, he sets these out in front of one of the chairs, and waves at the other.

"Please, have a seat. This shouldn't take too long. I just need to ask you a few questions about your sword and the circumstances of the theft. We have reason to believe that your weapon may have been used in a murder case, so it's important that we find out where it's been and who's been using it since it was stolen." A glance to Malaroth, and a slight frown of concern as he notes how unwell the fellow appears. "Can I get you something to drink, sir? Tea? Water? I think we have some pastries hanging around the place, if you'd like something to eat?"

[Malaroth]

Malaroth ascends the stairs slowly and, coming into the well-lit room, takes the measure of his surroundings through narrowed eyes. He then moves towards the offer chair. One hand falls upon its back and he stares at his digits, glimpsing the bones that lay beneath his pale flesh, for only a moment, as if they were blackened by fire. As a small shudder races down his spine, he eases himself onto the chair with a mildly beleagured sigh.

The offer of pastries reminds him of the plump Councilor, and he declines with a pleasant smile upon haggard, lean features. "No, thank you Constable."

"I arrived at the Broken Dagger on personal business about two weeks ago or so," he begins, taking the measure of each word before letting them slip out between his lips. "During my brief stay I had limited contact with Councilor Treadwell, as well as with some gypsy scoundrel whose name I don't know. I had taken to leaving the blade in my inn room as I seemed to have no need of it here."

He pauses a moment to consider, gently massaging one temple with the pad of his index finger. "Now that I think about it, I stopped carrying my sword on me beginning with the evening of the tea party at the tea house. The governer attended. That's also when I had my unfortunate run-in with the gypsy. A few days after that, I awoke to find my blade missing. A few days following that incident, I hear people muttering about a weapon left at the scene of a rather gruesome murder not far from the marketplace."

Malaroth rolls his story around in his head and tries to commit it to memory so as not to contradict himself when the Constable asks his follow-up questions.

"Was there anything else you needed to know?"

[Cinnabar]

The detective writes as Malaroth speaks, noting down the particulars, the details and dates. Most fastidious. "Might I trouble you for a description of the, ah, gypsy gentleman?" He seems to be accepting Malaroth's account for the time being, though perhaps with some reservations. Or perhaps he just finds scribing to be tiresome, hence the slight frown that creases his brow. He finishes writing for the moment, then glances up to regard the man thoughtfully.

"You left the weapon unsheathed in your room, sir?" Dark eyes flick down to where the empty scabbard hangs at Malaroth's belt, then back to his face, watching his reaction.

[Malaroth]

He remains perfectly still at the question. He considered that the answer to that seemingly suspicious question could shatter his credibility. Whatever the constable asked, Malaroth told himself, you must adhere to the lie. He cleared his throat.

"Yes." Malaroth turned his gaze evenly upon the constable. "It is bad for the sword to store it, for long periods of time, in a scabbard. It causes the blade to rust." He trailed his fingertips over the empty scabbard and leaned forward in his seat.

"I kept it wrapped in my cloak. Yes," he adds, "The one I am wearing. Given that I was staying indoors, my cloak sufficed. It allows the steel to breathe as well, thus preventing moisture and therefore rust from building. As to the gypsy.," Malaroth's gaze hardens from a simmering storm-blue to all the warmth of a forest of icicles.

"It was a woman. She was dressed..." Again he hesitates, his brow furrowing in thought. "I... I don't recall, to be honest, Constable. Given how she cheated me," he spits the word venemously as he briefly recounts his encounter with her, "I guess I was so angry over my encounter with her I don't recall all that much. She is a friend of the Duke, and she arrived quite late. Perhaps the last arrival that evening."

[Cinnabar]

"I... see." Michel is evidently not overly impressed with the near-total lack of useful details regarding the alleged gypsy-woman. Still, he continues to write his notes, the stuff about the cloak, and so on. That done, he looks up at Malaroth, watching him very closely indeed.

"One last thing, sir: Can you tell me where you were on the day of the murders? And is there anyone who can vouch for you being somewhere other than Tannerback Lane at the time a score of men were being murdered with your sword?"

[Malaroth]

Malaroth sits quietly as the constablee's disdain concerning the lack of detail washes over him. His mild scowl lightens as he returns to the truth, actually being unaware to recall much other than wishing to drive his sword between her shoulder blades. He unfolds his fingers against his knee and shifts once more upon the uncomfortable chair.

One last lie, he considered. A half-truth and this could all finally be over with. He turned his gaze upon the constable once more.

"I was visiting the local weaponsmith, constable," he began in half-truth. He actually had visited the craftsman, only he had left shortly before the murders took place - due to the simple fact that he had, indeed, killed said men. "I was inquiring about local legends concerning a certain sword. A sword named Deliverance that is rumored to have been brought here a little less than a decade ago. As to whether or not the smithy lies on Tannerback Lane I don't know. I do recall getting somewhat lost after I left the smithy. It comes from being new, I suppose."

His expression turns sheepish as his eyes trickle, naturally, to the floor under the gravity of his lies. This, he considered, was the moment of truth, which struck him as somewhat ironic.