𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐔𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐈𝐀𝐒 | 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆
The noise was constant, a slow-rocking ache of the sea swelling up to lap at the edges of the docks. The water was hungry for the touch, savoring it in each roll up to soak the wood before ebbing back away to regain composure. It was ever an endless indulgence, the rush to delight in touch, in drenching through and staining away at the man-made harbor while forever working to slowly, with time, wear it down. Gently it lapped, the chorus of subtle knocks and groaning sighs of the wood fashioned into normalcy. If fixed with structure bore by hands and purpose, the sea would find it’s way to soak through its ire and adoration to play endlessly, persistently so.
It ignored the scuffle earlier, the gentle curse of a figure working rounds to check in the shipments now housed on the docks, and it would ignore what would follow — first the silence, to fetch the proper bodies to deal with what was discovered, and all else in the wake of such. The toils of folk meant nothing to the waters, though the same could not be said for what lurked within them.
Heels of boots thudded their way across the docks, the sound of the pairs subtle, quieter than the hushed tones murmured between those they guided. A half-shorn head was dipped down, gloved hand reaching up to pull over the hood at the urgency of the other beside him — ‘for your own good, sir’ — to maintain a sense of discretion. The interjection of the request fell away quickly as the slighter figure went on, the words drifting together as the done dipped lower still. Oft any sort of commotion would proceed through the ranks, to be reported to an appropriate set of Eyes to handle, but the events of late had spurred the necessity for a more personal touch.
Reports of the sigil had been scarce enough through ages prior that it was nothing more than a distant, if nagging curiosity. Here and there nothing more than a ghost, a shape with nothing else to affix it to, no pattern and no solid link of sense that strung any of the instances together — aside from the fact that it was always towards them. Repetition eradicated the notion of it being happenstance or accident, however the lack of consistency spoke of a strange detachment which stilled any idea of unraveling and making concrete sense of it all. Time stretched between each occurrence, eroding away at the concern and curiosity between each sighting much like the waters ate away into bluffs to reform coasts to their liking. It nearly ebbed into some bizarre understanding of normalcy, knowing that at some point, at some time, the sight of such a marking would become present once more.
That, too, did not stick to any supposed schedule.
Within the past sevenday that had been undone. Too quick and too numerous, marked at the corner of letters of correspondence, scrawled into the packing slips of completed shipments, turning up simply, without hesitation, between notes passed into hands bearing their mark. Why, there had been one confidently carved into the frame of the door to operations settled within Upton Borough. The frequency stirred a gentle alarm, each sighting drawing tight a new string to draw together the web around the operations the Sect conducted, but still it was sterile — no fingerprints to put a body to the act, no motive to suggest reason or purpose, and no action to disrupt anything at all. Concern waited with baited breath, blooming finally with the words tripping over to explain the incident at the docks.
The messenger was excused for the night, comfort and release given in warm bedding and gratitude. Keenmourn and his ever-present shadow slipped to handle the matter, the fragile tension of severity now taut given the attention it garnered. A note was prepared back at his office as the deluge of information came from the underling, fixed to the attention to the Hand as he dealt with the matter himself. There, with hand pressed against the beam of the storage, the Head had no reason to suspect foul play given the manner in which events had unfolded thus far. The quiet drip of over-saturated structure welcomed the shadowed pair, the docks again sounding under the attentions of the dark seas.
A hand pressed against Braern’s shoulder, two fingers against the right held down and released with a quick pair of taps. The motion understood, footfalls drawing the Head and his shade down the length of containers. The smattering at their end contained their wares, and continued down for rows. Two crates remained between the pair and the damp wood of the wall, and stopped there the void-bright gaze of the man fixed on the crate in suspect. By the books, the shipment had no qualms. Cured leather, hides, and an assortment of raw materials worked through the port ready to be divided out and sent on their way across the seas. All documents were in place, every signature gained and product accounted for. This was a curiosity, the extra crate.
The count boarding the ship and unloading had grown by one single crate.
Burned into the corner of the wood was their own symbol, the Sect’s insignia driven right through with one of the nails that kept the lid closed down. That was not how their goods were marked. Braern knew that, and he knew that whoever did the work to inlay it there knew so as well. Curiosity lingered as gloved fingers rubbed over it, as if the touch could be haunted by the action that manifested its existence. Another tap pressed against the Head’s shoulder, right, one finger, followed by two, finished with a firm press. Keenmourn held out his hand expectantly, and fitted into his grasp from his shade was the tool needed. They could not do with an extra container, not before the rest were set out to be counted and divided onto various ships once the morning broke.
This one wasn’t meant to join those. This one was meant for them.
The crate protested, nails drawing squeaking cries as they were pried off with the leverage needed to pop open one corner. The action was repeated three times over, until what remained tacked down was loose enough to pull away given the remainder of the panel. The top was slid off to the neighboring crate, where at once the Head’s shadow went to work chipping the corner that bore their own marking and pocketing it safely away within the folds of dark fabric. Within the crate, the layer of leather did the job of covering what was pocketed beneath, and once removed and folded to the side, a familiar face was met.
Open eyes stared up locked in a wide, awestruck gaze, the clouding in them too perfect and too absolute. Mouth hung agape, stuffed full and overflowing with the heavily scented florals that, too, left the crate brimming full around the figure. Contorted within the crate, lined with fragrant flowers, with limbs folded over and huddled down as if crouching and bracing from above, was one of their own members —Flesh of the Sect’s Body. Braern frowned, curse muttered from his mouth as he reached out. No hesitation borne of fear or repulsion paused his motions as he cupped the face in attempt to tilt it upwards. Too firm and too rigid, the figure was not pliable to shift.
“Quel’dorei?” The shadow spoke up, tapping the edge of the crate. “Morrowsworn. Flesh.” Sureness threaded through Braern’s words. “Ah, fiscal.” Understanding colored itself in the slighter figure, a confirmation of the unlucky identity certain. A gloved hand reached into the flowers, petals clinging to the fabric as he plucked from the depths of the crate a folded parchment. “Unfortunate.” With shadow unfurling the note to glean what it can from it, Keenmourn kept his attention on the unfortunate figure. Carefully he went about the work, pulling away the flora to uncover more of the grisly gift — for this very much was a gift.
“Compromised.” Disappointment heavily coated the word muffled through the cowl his companion wore, the green of their gaze scouring through the found note. “Deeply so. Playing too many sides and playing them well.”
“Not well enough, apparently.” Braern cooed the words as he continued his steady work, no ire kicking up in the wake of the taste of betrayal — he had no scope of such yet, and a lost temper was wasteful enough, especially on one that could no longer deal with the consequences of such. The silver stubble of hair was uncovered, once-long locks haphazardly cut short against the skull of the elf. The hushed flutter of the paper turning over in his associate’s hands caused him to still his motions and cut his gaze across to the other.
“No name. No origin. No seal. Can’t assume it’s connected, not yet.” “I believe we can. Take a look at this.” The murmur of the words paired with hand skirting around the crown of the shaven head, seared into the flesh there the now-familiar sigil. Too easily could it be confused for filigree, the twisting, looping design akin to a flourish one might affix to ornate lettering, and there it was, just as delicately laid into the scalp set within a bouquet of a crate. Braern pushed himself from the crate then, hands clapping against leather-clad thighs as he rid the fragments of petals that clung to him.
“I’ll get a pair down here, we’ll need to dispose of it all after we get essentials.” A heavy exhale paired unsettingly with another slow groan from the docks, earning the ren’dorei’s gaze to briefly fix itself across the room. A gift, packaged and perfumed with care, manifesting on a ship mid-route to land itself in this harbor and this time. Gooseflesh briefly raised across covered forearms, and earned a shiver that wormed through the span of his shoulders. Good. His hands went to his belt, a simple, small blade pulled from its place there. “Letter, scalp, a sample of what’s in there, the flowers, and anything else tucked away.” “The eyes — they’ve been set with glass.” Curiosity piqued itself from the shade. “Those too. And the hand — protocol.”
