(Follow-up to my Day 3 post. I've always had a soft spot for classic police procedurals and watching through Skip Intro's Copaganda series has had it on my mind, both good and bad. If you find this, hope you enjoy <3)
“Open up!”
Fists slammed against the grand door, leaving splattered blood with each strike. “Open th’ ffuhkin’ door n’ lemme a’ tha’ bitch!”
“Hesterlynn!”
Zelion met her at the foot of the entry stairs before she could reach the door, still dressed in his thick shop apron and tight work gloves. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his fine raven hair pulled back in a tight knot. He was cross, to be certain, at having his work interrupted. What surprised her though was the panic. It whistled off him like a kettle.
“Zelion, where are the guards? What’s going–”
“Dead! Sh’gunna fuhkin’--I’mma–open up! Th’ law!”
“Upstairs. Quickly.”
“But–”
“Please.”
It was as much a command as the first. Such was Zelion’s way; polite to a fault, the perfect gentleman but every stunted inch of him ten times the Lord his father was… or so he strived to be.
Hester fled as she was bidden, lurking like a ghost by the upper banister in her shapeless, white dressing gown. She crouched at the rail and peered through the ornately turned bars at the floor below.
Zelion shooed the house staff back to their rooms below stairs, drew a sharp breath, and standing safely to the side, flung the door wide.
Caught off guard, the assailant fell through the entry in a rumpled heap on the marble floor.
“Larin,” Zelion greeted dryly as he shut the door with a heavy thud followed by the hefty click of the lock. “This is a surprise.”
“Zuh… Zels…?” Disoriented, the elf struggled to find his footing, pressing up onto his hands and knees. Blood dripped from his busted nose, soiling his shirt and speckling the floor. He reeked of piss and beer. “Whurr… whurr isshe?! Yer wife, th’--th’ fuckin’ whore–!”
“I heard what happened, Larin,” the rabbit pitch of Zelion’s heart didn’t reach past his neck; his expression was cool and his timber colder. He made no motion to assist. “The reversed sentences?”
Larin coughed and spat on the tile.
“Your badge and rank stripped for shoddy work–”
“Th’ fuhkin’ city… want’d resultsh–”
This fucking city…
“Of course it did,” Zelion agreed, bending his knees to crouch closer to the ex-investigative officer unraveling on his floor. “An unprecedented case: a pile of five noblemen dead outside a brothel, all stabbed once through the heart–”
“--op’n ‘n sh…sshut!”
“Open and shut,” Zelion parroted cleanly. “Despite the varying ages of decay? A left-handed stab and a right-handed perpetrator?”
The lord rested his gloved hands upon his knees to lean in further. Larin coughed and choked on the bite of formaldehyde mixed with his own stink.
“You didn’t even have a murder weapon, Larin.”
“Th’... th’ shcity want’d… th’ fffam’lies…no time t’ dub’le scheck–”
“And Miss Mourningvale offered you a lot of money too, did she not?”
The unruly groaning and growling of Larin quieted at the accusation, bleary eyes leveling on the stoic regard a scientist reserves for a specimen.
“You’re quite lucky Hesterlynn didn’t uncover that part,” Zelion stood back up to his full height as Larin made his way upright with the aid of an end table. “Treason carries a heftier price.”
“...ffuhck you, Zels–”
“You’re right, Larin. It was a gross and baseless accusation,” the lord soothed but only just. “I know you’re familiar with them.”
Larin coughed and spat once more before dragging his sleeve roughly across his nose and mouth. A thick swallow returned bile to his gut. “I did… I did wha th’ shcity wanted.”
“Of this I have no doubt,” Zelion agreed. “But you understand, I can’t have you storming into my home threatening to harm my wife–”
“She ruined me!” It was the clearest he had been. He shouted it so loud Hester trembled. So loud that the servants eavesdropping at the doorjams drew back. So loud that Zelion may have spared him a precious moment of pity.
“Come then,” the lord gestured to the door of his study; a formidable slab of ironwood banded with saronite fittings and locks to deter even the most curious. “Let’s see if we can fix you.”
Been in a bit of an art funk lately and this is the first thing beyond a gesture or a doodle I’ve managed in a while. I’ve always found something very threatening about this particular priest set... So naturally, its a perfect fit for an elf inquisitor.
Zelion was nonplussed when he carefully rose back up to his feet, slow and steady, lest he further frighten the pitiful creature whose greatest shield and security was held carefully between the hefty leather mitts that guarded the inquisitor from a great many things… though most of all the potential frostbite of the stiletto blades concealed beneath his raiment, so readily brought to a frightful chill. No, clairvoyance and a gentle touch was not how the lord obtained his secrets...
...for there was no sport if there was not a scream!
---
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