Maria De León. She had been no older than fifty, considered in the community of other Succubi to be young with the whole of existence before her. A ravishing smile, a confident and playful personality that so many were attracted to. With a contagious laugh that could hush a room full of voices, just so they could listen too. The red-light block had found itself a precious person to promote their work, and Maria did it shamelessly.

Her corner is fought over frequently now, an opening for a new person to take her place. Her death had also left a hole in the red-light community, reminding not just the humans that worked there, but also the supernatural, that they were all vulnerable and at any given moment could go missing. It drove them into a silent uproar, because what could the degenerate community do to be heard by a City with so many devoted to this one religious sect. Sinners, fallen souls, no one would stand up for them. They would have to protect themselves, to be more wary of who they took on as clients.

Coldiron thigh-high heels struck cobblestone with a metallic crack, a notorious sound to those who lived in the red-light block. The vast multitude of species here expanded from Human to Undead, Devils, children born with animal attributes that were highly sought for as servants or pets, even while illegal. Those of them outside on this summer day watched the figure with a respectable distance between themselves and she, whispering amongst themselves about her in reverence, fear, and desire. Wearing the adornments of a long raven-fur cloak, even in this heat, no jewelry evident on or in their flesh. They cross between carriages and head straight for the Headquarters of the red-light block, not bothering to knock as they enter the old heavy wooden door and let it close behind themselves naturally. Coming to a stop in the foyer, her gaze travels along the intimate decorations, dim lighting, a thin haze of smoke, bodies in the shadows of workers dressed in near nothing. The place reeked of perfume, fermented tabacco, and sex, for her she easily dismisses the strong scents.

“Madam Sheiro.” The Mistress of the establishment, Vivica, a Dark Elf that finishes the money count of her most recent customer, addresses the woman.

“I did not expect you.” Vivica waited for the woman to make some form of demand but found the look in Sheiro’s feral eyes to be telling.

“What is it?” Vivica grows tense, the other workers in the area straightening up with looks between themselves, and their Mistress, waiting expectantly in silence.

“She is dead.” Sheiro’s voice carries the burden of honesty to weigh upon the shoulders of those in the room, a sob heard among them, murmurs of pain with it.

Vivica lowers her gaze to the unbuffed hardwood floors, red eyes brimming with anger but she does not lash out. Instead, she comes around the counter towards Sheiro, “And?” The Dark Elf narrows her eyes at the woman with an assertive tone, an obvious want to hear anything else at all. Dark Elves were quite foolish when it came to predators, seeing them less likely as frightening, and instead a potential adrenalin rush in a fight. Even if it meant an imminent death.

“The one who put her down is dead.” Sheiro’s words are apathetic. Rarely did this woman show any of them much emotion, but on occasion they could get her to smile, which is a reward in itself.

Vivica stands strong, fists balling at her sides. She looks to her workers who are stunned, that after all this time, they finally had an answer, and no longer a vague assumption. Vivica swallows down her pride and bows before the woman, a flick of her wrist and her workers move to mirror the respect, weeping still heard, the pain in the room stifling. “Thank you.” Vivica speaks for them, as one voice for so many others.

Sheiro watches, impassive vision traveling along the bowed bodies, and kneeling flesh, able to clearly sense their grief. The woman turns to leave but Vivica raises up, “Madam. I know Maria was close to you, would you care to have her possessions?” It felt only right to give it to this woman who had spent so much time with Maria. Sheiro takes pause at the door, her back to them all. “Maria had no family to speak of. Her inheritance should be a contribution to those here. Use your judgement to whom what goes to.” The declaration in the beings' accentuated tongue has Vivica nodding, “Yes, Madam.”

Leaving the business, the woman found the stewing of sorrow hidden deep within beginning to swelter now that this is done. None knew that the emotions she experienced were far more potent than their own. In her years as a grub, it caused such devastation, enacted upon without thought. Now? She micromanaged what she could, walking now instead of taking a carriage to expend some of the burdensome emotions. Maria had laid with her on many nights, and she listened to the Succubus talk endlessly about her life, where she came from, what men she pined for after laying with them. Maria had intended to ask one of her more special clients on a serious date, to which Sheiro encouraged her. The world does not wait, and Marias’ chance to do this had been stolen from her. The man she pined for would now find out where her disappearance had taken her. His grief would be etched into his soul.

The Church would attempt to investigate further into what Father Thiago had possibly confronted. Father Thiago’s journals were eventually unearthed, a memo having been sent to the Precinct rather than the Church. Think it a love letter of spite. The Priest who laid in critical care to dream of her. He would either die, end his career, or this event would encourage him to rise up in the ranks of the church, thinking he could find revenge for his fallen predecessor. As for the ink with her magic? Over time it faded its potency, leaving a vague magical residue that the Church would be incapable of using effectively.

The Detective would be left alone, the woman had no interest in them. They had gone as far as they could go, and would not delve deeper into the supernatural. They did begin an investigation on the church with the journals as evidence. The Church would be a scandal, coins would be offered in exchange to attempt to silence any journalism. To the woman’s surprise, the newspapers would have their next big headline, and the authorities denied the Church's bribery. Detective Safaryan had promise, intelligent and detail oriented. The fact he recognized her magic as ancient is quite interesting, so many here in this city were far below the totem of wisdom for what even qualified as ancient magics. There were Great Mages in the Kingdom, they did not speak of such old magic and most advanced users did not even recognize it, or feared dabbling with it at the least. Old magic is too wild, unpredictable, and could spiral them into madness.

Lifting her face towards the sky, the woman slows in her walk to observe the sparse clouds laggard overhead. Having spent months doing her own investigating, it took time to follow the tracks of missing persons, to ask for information from sewer dwellers and homeless. It had been by chance that she found a Witch with the ability to speak with the dead, where Maria’s last words to Sheiro were the Priests name. The woman would have given the Witch anything to hear Maria’s laughter just one more time, but the séance had its limits.

Sheiro had lost count of how many of her chose were taken by the true death, caused by an individual. Yet another to add to the tapestry of spirits she did not want to forget. Lovers, friends. Immortality, she reasons, is suffering. An equivalent exchange for eternity, your happiness revoked just so you may be there to watch worlds crumble over the eons. This is why some immortals lost their minds. That day Sheiro would go to a stonemason and have Maria made a glamorous headstone. It would be placed in the small park near the red-light Headquarters, where Maria enjoyed taking walks. A network of vines with flowers of the color of Maria’s hair would grow around its edges, eternally blossoming, as Maria should have been.

The scandal of the Church placed a black mark on its history. However, to the disgust of the supernatural community, the people most devout to the Church would not be deterred by the murders. Some did excommunicate themselves, but not many. Those that stayed felt Maria and the others killed by Father Thiago had been blasphemers first and foremost, forsaken creatures that deserved to be executed and returned to the pits they had come from. In the following days the Church would find its community had grown in number, overfilling its pews during mass. Tithe flooded in, and while the Bishops’ felt relieved by the rise in popularity, it did beg the question: What kind of people were now seated in their house of God?

The journals were locked within the precinct. The Chief made sure that the evidence would be held with strict rules over who may pull the documents. If the Church had someone on the inside, the Chief imagined they would attempt to destroy the evidence in favor of the Church. The events leading up to the conclusion of Father Thiago’s death had Detective Safaryan wondering just who the anonymous tip had come from? A Priest from the inside? A partner that Father Thiago had not named in his documents? And what of the magic at the mansion, the monster that had killed him. Had it been not a coincidence, but done in a way the Father would be drawn in?

Safaryan, lost in thought, vision unfocusing as his mind continued to repeat all the evidence he knew of that case. How Roche had left the gala, alone. The gala event holder, a Mister Worscha, having not witnessed Roche leave that night. He could have been with someone. Murdered in his home and left with the ink spiked with magic, and not just any magic. Safaryan tries to regroup his thoughts, and the focal point of his gaze is unconsciously set on to the end of his quill. Hovering above parchment, having been in mid sentence. The ink, he’s fixated upon it, unable to look away as he felt his head gradually starting to feel hazy, the world muffled in his ears as the ink forms a bead of black at its tip.

He begins lowering the quill to the parchment, watching the ink immediately spread outward on contact and be drawn into the dehydrated paper. It formed through fibers, like veins blackening from their starch white, to something more sinister. His heart began to beat faster, the white fading to that empty darkness, the smell of burning flesh returning to his nostrils, twined together with noxious residual smells. He’s strangling the quill in his fingers then, knuckles paling as his mind suddenly, and with such clarity could hear someone say, “Found you.”

Lurching back in his seat, the raking of wooden chair legs shrieking out, his breath lost as he tries to pull air in while his eyes veer about in panic. A few other officers at their desks are looking at him confused, “You alright there, bud?” One of them checks, Safaryan looking sharply to his desk, seeing his quill not in his hand. It’s in the inkwell, and the form he had been filling out is set aside neatly, already completed. What the hell?

“Yeah,” Catching his breath, “Yeah, I think I just fell asleep.” Smoothing out his shirt, he rises up, “I’m heading out. If Louis is looking for me, tell him I took an early day.” Taking his hat from the coat rack beside the entrance door, he adjusts it on his head, thankful it would collect the sweat that had gathered along his brow. He sets out into the city, unnerved, and a little paranoid.

Who found him? Had he been dreaming?

The Kingdom of Coldfalls has been a melting pot of a variety of species for many generations. Their King, Gaurav Ironjaw the III, a Dragonborn whose' fathers-father had warred in this land, and won its valuable resources. The landscape is one of mountain ranges and deep forests, and in those mountains are their two most sought after materials, coal, and oil. Electricity is something they harvest through the severe storms that pass through summer and spring seasons, a large factory holds the beating heart of energy that keeps these stone buildings alive.

From these are crafted ‘horseless’ drawn carriages, one of which Safaryan watches pass by toting a lovely couple that uses such transport just to flaunt their wealth. Most likely they belong to the Kings Court, a group made up of a singular person from each racial sect. They believed this would help with racial strain, for that person to represent the needs of their race, and fight for their rights. In Marias’ case, a Demon on the council is now drilling away at the rest of the Court about what had happened and how to prevent it from happening again.

There are also the more questionable parts of the Kingdom, where a Blackmarket sold illegal items, but had yet to be located successfully. Someone powerful gave it life, and were able to avoid being investigated for very long. It moved around the city, never in one place for too long. Safaryan could only guess that it might have a ‘back door’ to get in, a place marked with a rune to transport people through a gateway. No rune or symbol had been identified to confirm this.

Hunting, fishing, farming all contributed to the lives of the people here. Trading can be done in the markets, whether with coin or bartering. Liquor is expensive, having to be imported from two other Kingdoms located around the world. Safaryan enjoyed this Kingdom, he had grown up here, and while his parents had passed on, and him the eldest son of two other sisters who lived outside the Kingdom, he had made long lasting friendships. Unwed, no children, his free time is spent at bars to bring home nice company, or loitering around the Mage’s libraries to learn more about the magic written throughout history. Magic enthralled him. He did not give himself credit that the ability to feel, sense, even determine types of magic may just be that. Magic. No, he would rather chalk himself up as a lecherous brute Detective who’s hobbies were questionably dull. What’s the purpose in learning about magic if he could not wield it, after all.

A few paces is all it took and he reached the closest bar to the precinct. A glass of watered down booze might not be ideal for most, but after what he thought he just heard, saw, and the case closed, he felt like he earned the mild buzz. Seating himself at the bar, his hat removed and fingers combing back his ill kept brown hair, he set the hat on the empty stool next to himself. Itching at the stubble along his jaw, fidgeting, the bartender takes his order and sets out a line of shots. One after another is downed with a visible cringe, not at the strength, just the sour aftertaste that came with cheaper liquor.

“Sorry, Detective. Unless you got the extra silver to spare, you’re just goin’ to have ta’ brave it.” The bartender, a large balled orc, grins lopsided at him. Making jokes.

“Couldn’t be as bad as the shit you called ‘moonshine’ that you served me the other day.” Safaryan parries, causing the orc to glare at him, slamming his meaty greenish gray fist on the countertop, rattling the dishware from the hint of strength behind it.

“Tha’ was homemade, ya pissant!” The orc growls in offense, Safaryan unable to help but grin from his outburst.

Safaryan raises his hands, still grinning but showing he is defenseless, “I’m joking, Mog!”

The orc snorts, turning away from him to dry something, “Me ma’ made it.” Safaryan can hear the orc mutter. He has to struggle not to burst out laughing, and likely lose his teeth in a punch to the face.

Leaning into the bar Safaryan tries to relax, arms folded on the counter with his thoughts like poison seeping back into questioning the incident. He had to let it go. The Church more than likely would go questioning the red-light block about the girl that had been abducted, to see if they knew any powerful magic users that could be suspects. They did not have the authority to question anyone against their will, and Safaryan overheard the Chief tell the Bishop over the phone that any suspicious activity or information that came to light would need to be brought to precinct immediately.

Thumb and fingers rub together, staring off as his thoughts return to the ink once again. He never obsessed like this, he could be a hard worker but nothing stood out to him like this had. The magic in the ink, the way it felt that day, like a hand had reached out through the ink to mirror against his own hand. Radiating with power, angry-violent magic. Looking at his hand, he could not use his experience to ask Mages about what it could be. Ink magic alone seemed unlikely, it had just been a conduit. Something to use as a disguise for something more malevolent.

Tapped on his shoulder, Safaryan swore he could feel his bones try to leap from his skin. Sharply turning to see a lovely mature woman beside him, an avian-person, she grins and wags her feathery fingers, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!” Safaryan smiles at her, not one to discriminate; he invites the woman for a drink, then eventually a walk to his place. An apartment on the top floor of a livable complex, the owner at least repaired things. It might have been done with clay and a prayer, but they did their best.

He indulged his base interests that night, and waited for her to fall asleep before getting up to take a seat at his kitchen table, still in just his skin. Having hoped this would take his mind off things, a nice distraction, and she really had been, but it seemed to not be enough to quail his growing infatuation with the case. Rolling up a cigarette with tobacco, he draws his tongue along the paper to seal the cigarette.

“Did you find what you’re looking for?”

As plain as day he heard that voice again. It hurt his mind to hear, a dull blade cutting into his skull. Dropping the cigarette he unsheathed a kitchen knife immediately, wielding it while darting his vision around. “Who are you?” Nothing is out of sorts, the windows were open because of the summer heat but there is no one else here. Moving to the one window in his living room, he reaches out to close the panels and stops short. Down on the streets below someone is staring up at him, wearing a cloak with their cowl drawn. He could not make out their face in the dark.

“Hey!” Safaryan shouted down to them, “Who the fuck are you!?”

“Davit?” The avian-woman’s voice pulls his attention for only a second, seeing her in the doorway staring at the knife in his hand, he looks immediately back outside to the street below but the person is gone. Just, gone. Is he losing his mind?

“Yeah, uh…” Closing the window panels, lowering the knife, he looks to the woman, “Everythings fine, just some damn kid throwing rocks.” Making up an excuse so she wouldn’t have to worry.

“And the knife is for...?” Skepticism in her voice, not looking convinced, instead she seemed a little nervous and for good reason, but Safaryan grins reassuringly at her. Using his charm to distract her.

“I was getting ready to make something to eat. Are you hungry?” His stomach turns over at the thought of food, the anxiety in him fills him enough, while simultaneously eating at his insides. It worked though, to his relief, the woman headed into the kitchen to talk while he made them both something to eat. She had been good company, staying up until morning. She left when the sun started to rise, never having given him her name. Not that he could blame her.