Malaroth the Miserable, Malaroth the Mad

[Cinnabar]

"Hm." Quiet consideration, the detective's dark eyes not leaving Malaroth's features for the space of several heartbeats. Almost inviting him to keep speaking, to keep explaining - to keep weaving more lies, perhaps? Does the constable suspect? Hard to say, behind that mask of scrutiny. Finally he looks back to his notes again, dipping his pen one more time.

"Do you have the name or approximate address of this weaponsmith? I can have a constable go to confirm you were there at the time, and once that's done I imagine you should be able to reclaim your blade." A thin smile at that, a pretence at friendly agreeability. "I appreciate that this is not as immediate as might be liked, but I hope you can understand why we need to check these things." I mean, imagine the trouble I'd be in if I accepted your story without validating it, and you actually turned out to be the murderer! How embarrassing! "Shouldn't take too long."

[Malaroth]

Malaroth turns the question over in his head for several moments. Doubt begins to gnaw away at his heart which threatens to skip a few beats in its accelerated rhythm. He turns his gaze out the window and recalls what he had told himself: to stand by the lie.

Did the constable suspect? Was it just his own suspicion that made him jump at shadows and whispers? He breathed a sigh of relief as he tried to compel himself to buy into the second conclusion. Until he considered the possibility that there might be a repeat incident of what happened near the marketplace here in this very building... in this very hour...?

"Y-Yes, of course," he murmurs at length. HIs brow furrows, marking his concentration, as he recalls the address and the name. He offers both in a gentle, even tone.

"No need to explain the wait to me, constable," he offers a genuinely friendly smile. While not a constable himself he appreciates the finer points of such a job. "In my homeland I am bound to serve the law and the King, and I understand that you must learn all that you can. I would be happy to wait."

The smith, he considered, would validate that he was there when he had told the constable. However, the question remained if the constable would find that time to be close enough to excuse him from being a suspect, or close enough to condemn him for murder?

[Cinnabar]

The detective's pen scratches across the paper, adding the weaponsmith's address to his notes; the information is also copied onto another slip of paper, presumably for the benefit of the constable who will be sent to check things out. Finally it's done, and Michel is carefully waving the paper back and forth to dry the ink as he looks to Malaroth once more.

"Really, sir? In what sort of capacity?" Ink dried, his notes are straightened with a tap of the paper's edges to the tabletop, and slipped into a wallet of card for safekeeping. The tidying away of the writing implements might imply that the this is now casual banter rather than formal interview, honest curiosity on Michel's part. He glances to the window as if to gauge the time of day, then gestures to the door.

"I'll have a constable dispatched presently. You can wait here if you prefer - the offer of tea still stands, incidentally - or if you'd like to return in maybe an hour or two we can deal with the last of the paperwork and finish things up?"

[Malaroth]

"I'll wait here, if it is all the same to you. And no thank you - I require no refreshments." It was best not to be overly friendly he considered. Otherwiese he might let his guard down and stumble into a potentially lethal mistake.

Malaroth's thoughts turned homeward to the great port-city of Sidgar and the capital Emen; both ringed by black pine forests. He recalled the sickly-sweet tang every spring, especially at his manor-house along the northeastern border where the forests gave way to hills and, ultimately, the blue-sanded Mul wastes.

"I am a knight in service to Zachea's King-Priest," he responded curtly. The memory of King Malcom II brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He was a man who had spoiled the office with his cowardice. WHy the gods had ever chosen him to rule Malaroth would never know.

"Most of my work is that of watching the borders and defending them from elven bandits who dwell in the neighboring wastelands." He glances towards the constable. "The elves there are a sorcerous, barberous people ruled by a council of semi-nomadic warlords who are mostly interested in sating their own appetites. I have also, on occasion, served in a more diplomatic fashion to Leshgaul, the nation on our northern border."

However, he considered, he also remembered the black, towering spires of some blackened fortress in a desolate wasteland. He remembered a ruined, lonely church squatting atop a hill amongst the ancient ruins of a village. He remembered... things that he had not seen in his lifetime.

Malaroth forced a smile to his lips. The last thing he needed was the constable to suspect whatever it was he struggled with.

[SinVraal]

Sin'Vraal ducked beneath the low hood as he made his way down Tannerback Lane. The tang of bloodied steel still lingered along the avenue and spoke to him like unquiet spirits about the murders. Poor, predictable Malaroth.. and whoever else had decided to make the miserable knight into a home.. had led a telltale trail of carnage and death. Twenty men, he considered, if he had been able to parse through the rumors correctly; twenty men was no small number. And the horrid masks their faces had become spoke of a dark night indeed.

While apparently a seedier side of town, Vraal hid himself beneath yet another cloak and hood to avoid suspicion. Malaroth's life, after all, might depend upon it. The young, beleagured swordsman had no idea of how close he had veered to death. And while he would certainly die, and soon, it could not be by the constable's noose.

The explosive sound of a door closing brought his attention back to the moment. He glanced about and, spying the weaponsmith's sign, briskly approached. Without sparing a knock he shoved the door open and swept inside to the consternation of a startled craftsman who afixed him with grim eyes and a readied hammer in a taut arm.

Enough skulking, Vraal thought as he threw off the heavy cloak. Let the man know fear.

The weaponsmith's eyes widened and he dropped the hammer that struck the floor with mute thunder. The black velvet wrapped his pale figure in darkness while a high collar and dark, ebon waves framed an angular visage in a beshadowed halo. Upon his smooth brow glittered an intricate black brand that throbbed with a perverse life of its own matched only by the glittering ruby eyes of the bangle on his elbow forged into the likeness of a coiled serpent.

As the craftsman began to force a strangled whisper of challenge, Vraal raised a hand sheathed in black leather. His authority swept away what resistance the smithy could muster and, in but a moment, he stood dumb before the latest visitor. A slow, cruel smile played momentarily over Vraal's thin lips as he basked in the raw display of his own power. There was not much time, however, and he relished it for but a moment longer before pressing on to business.

"A poor young knight, from a distant land, came here the day of the Tannerback murders," he began in a smooth, commanding voice. Each syllable simmered with ancient authority and rolled off his tongue in a linguistic carress. "Malaroth by name. He, in fact, bore only an empty scabbard... and complained to you that some time ago the sword, of Zachean make and missing a gem ornamentation, had been stolen from his quarters at the Broken Dagger."

He paused and beheld the smithy's diluted pupils and slack jaw. He shook his head and sighed as he wondered how long Galacia had been deprived of wielding her power to its full extent. A single, errant strand of onyx hair tumbled between obsidian eyes that glittered with a thousand silver motes which had snared the poor craftsman's will and set it to dance to his own whims.

"Malaroth also confided in you that he found it easy to get lost amongst the town's streets and he feared he was being followed. In fact, he had been briefly accosted earlier that same day. You wished him luck in his wanderings to find personal fulfillment."

Ironic, Vraal considered, that Malaroth's life, or what remained of it, would likely serve only for Vraal's fulfillment. With the smile still sharpeneing his already angular features, he worked the last of his magic to smooth over the smithy's memories.

"As for myself," he concluded as he reluctantly took up the heavy black cloak again and began to hide himself within its tumultuous folds. "I was here merely to see to sharpening an old sword that belonged to my father so that I might pawn the heirloom. Quite unfortunate, that." His smile blossomed into a wicked grin before he added. "And, of course, I have no such mark upon my brow nor jewelry upon my elbow. You will recall me only as a shorter, stooped man."

He paused a moment and watched the smithy nod his acquiesence. The constable would likely be by soon and it was a good thing that Malaroth, distracted as he was, took no notice of who followed him or why. What else could the peasant do Vraal considered as he pulled the dark hood down to hide the brand upon his forehead. With a sigh he departed, confident in his merciful errand and also confident that soon he would no longer need to creep about the muck of the cattle as one of them. Bromn, Helstone, Heath or Myrken... the bloodshed over the course of the riot painted only a portait of futility and meaninglessness.

After all, he mused as the sunlight fell over him; what did a lion care if the ants in its den were red or black?

[Cinnabar]

It takes a few hours for a Constable to be dispatched, the weaponsmith interviewed and the information brought back to the station; in the interim Malaroth is permitted to enjoy the minimal comfort of the bench in the lobby, and is offered tea three more times by various different people - the Constabulary seems to run on the stuff.

Eventually, however, Michel returns from the office area bearing a long bundle of sackcloth and a few slips of paper.

"We've checked with the weaponsmith, sir, and he confirms your story. I'd like you to remain contactable in town for the time being, as we may need to check a few details with you as our investigation progresses - and I'd also like you to get in touch with us as soon as possible if you have any more information about the theft of your sword." He sets the bundle down on the front desk, and checks the papers.

"Just to confirm, sir, could you describe your sword in as much detail as you can? Any identifying features that might mark it out as yours? To make sure we're handing it over to the right chap, you understand."

[Malaroth]

"I'm not going anywhere," Malaroth quickly began to hide his elated surprise that the weaponsmith had verified his story to the apparent satisfaction of the constable. The worms of doubt gnawing their way into his heart began to perish in the face of the constable's claims - until they spasmed with life at another thought - if this were just the way the constable might lower Malaroth's guard to cause him to stumble.

Just remain calm he told himself.

"I will be either at the Broken Dagger... or the Priory," he adds at length. The admission of being at the priory leaves him with a distasteful sneer. "As to the sword..."

He paused and recollected its polished length and simply wrought but finely balanced blade. It was a weapon of legacy, having been wielded by great heroes before him - such as the mythical Trevellyan Penroll. He remembered how his mentor had bestowed it to him with such pride and how he had taken up in the defense of his homeland. It was a simple of his loyal service...

Service...

Malaroth scowled darkly and shifted once again. He tugged the cloak about him once more to ward off some unfelt chill before muttering, "The blade is perhaps three feet or so long, tempered steel, with a pronged, silver hilt and black leather grip. The pommel ends in a squared-off skull, half the size of my thumb. It is very well balanced and otherwise in fine condition."

"It also never quite seems to go dull," he mechanically adds. The thought, as if dawning upon him for the first time, creased his brow. "I guess," he began, raising his gaze upon the constable," hearing myself describe it.. it sounds like a ghoulish weapon. Nevertheless, it has served me well."

Malaroth peered furtively at the sackcloth and feels a quiver in his stomach. Could that be the weapon? Would he, indeed, get his sword back? His excitement withered at that moment as, at the same time, a dark, macabre rose blossomed in his heart - thorns and all - and teased his mind, momentarily, with dark thoughts and dreams.

"I believe," he began with a sharp inhalation as he attempted to banish the unbidden thoughts, "that describes it in full. And I will certainly be in touch if I recall anything else regarding the theft."

"Was there anything else?"

[Cinnabar]

The Constable checks his notes as Malaroth lists the details of his sword, then finally nods.

"That seems to be in order, sir." He tugs at the twine holding the bundle closed, and unwraps it sufficiently for Malaroth to see the hilt, details as described.

"That's your sword, then, unless I'm very much mistaken. If you'd care to sign this chit here?" He proffers one of the pieces of paper, pointing to a dotted line near the bottom. Some sort of receipt or accounting-type document, for keeping track of things. "Just to confirm you've received it, and all." He retrieves a quill and inkwell from the front desk and steps aside so that Malaroth can sign. It all seems to be a matter of paperwork now, and very nearly completed paperwork at that.

"I'd recommend keeping it somewhere safer in future, sir. Tavern rooms aren't exactly the most secure place to store things, especially not valuables."

[Malaroth]

His eyes lit up with a genuine smile - a spark of sunlight through his clouded and storm-rattled gaze. He clambored to his feet and, accepting the quill, dipped it into the ink and scratched his name onto the parchment with quick, jabbing motions.

Malaroth caught the constable's advice with a grim smile and he nodded in agreement. "I would do well to remember that. Perhaps my travel over the sea lulled me into a false sense of security and, unfortunately, left me there."

He took hold of the sword and, after running his eyes down the length of the blade, slid it into the olive scabbard with a metallic hiss. His hand fell upon it and rested comfortably.

"Many thanks constable," he offered warmly. "Let me know if I can be of any further assistance." Malaroth offered a curt nod and began to make his way from the chamber. On his way out, however, the thought gnawing upon his mind settled into the furrows on his pale brow: the thought that somehow the smithy must have corroborated that his weapon was missing before it actually had been.