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>>395933

“So where are we going?” Lize asks, repeating her question for what might be the third – or perhaps fifth – time. From the light tone of her voice, you get the impression that she doesn't really care about what the answer might be, or even whether or not she gets an answer. She's just happy to make conversation, to walk the streets and speak freely. With her darkened hair, cut short, and the thick, heavy coat, she looks a far cry from the noble girl whose picture adorns posters across the city.

You're going to see a friend, you tell her at last, a friend who knows things. If there's any news or gossip about this missing doctor going around, she'll be able to tell you. She's the kind of person who hears these things, no matter how secret they might be.

“You mean she's, like, a spy?” a note of excitement slips into Lize's voice, “Or secret police?”

Even better, you explain with a faint smile, she's a bartender.

-

Iosefka's bar, the Medicine Melancholy, is one of your favourite haunts. Not just for the information that can be learned there, or the excellent collection of spirits – the “good medicine” - that Iosefka keeps behind the bar, but for the simple atmosphere of the place. When the nights got lonely, you'd often spent the evening there, nursing a few glasses of beer and listening to the music, sombre tunes played by Iosefka's skilled young assistant. A home away from home, almost.

“She ain't drinking,” Iosefka announces straight away as you enter, pointing an accusing finger at Lize.

“Hey, I'm old enough!” Lize protests, “I'm... is it eighteen? I'm eighteen!”

“Sure, and I've got a seat on the high council, you ain't drinking,” letting out a derisive snort, Iosefka focusses her attention on polishing glasses for a moment before glancing back up to you, “Who is she, anyway? Not like you to bring a girl in, Henryk, not one that young at least.”

She's your kid sister, you reply coolly as Lize squirms.

“Funny,” a smirk touches Iosfeka's lips, “I don't remember you mentioning a kid sister.”

Funny, you shoot back, you don't remember her asking.

“Well, either way, it's none of my business,” setting down the glass, Iosfeka glances across to Lize and taps a finger to the side of her nose, “So anyway, what can I do for you?”

You've been hearing some interesting things, you begin, about a missing doctor. That something she knows anything about?

“Let me check my files,” with a slight wink, Iosefka draws back from the bar and nods towards a back room, “Anything specific you're looking for?”

>Nethe Eklund, the wife – where can I find her?
>Heard about any other disappearances lately?
>How much does the Ministry know about this?
>You ever meet Zolan Eklund?
>Other

>>395934
>>Nethe Eklund, the wife – where can I find her?
>>How much does the Ministry know about this?
Seem like the most interesting here.

Also, hi Moloch.

>>395934
>Nethe Eklund, the wife – where can I find her?
>You ever meet Zolan Eklund?

>>395934
>>Nethe Eklund, the wife – where can I find her?
>How much does the Ministry know about this?
>You ever meet Zolan Eklund?

>>395934
>>Nethe Eklund, the wife – where can I find her?
>Heard about any other disappearances lately?
>How much does the Ministry know about this?

You've got a list, you begin with a thin smile, but you'll start with the easy questions. For starters, you want to know where to find Nethe Eklund, the doctor's wife. It's the logical place to start your investigations, after all. Next, though, you'd be interested in hearing how much the Ministry has learned already. From what you've read in the newspaper, they seemed to be working blind. The Ministry would keep track of other disappearances as well, so has there been any of those? She's still got an ear inside the Ministry, you ask, right?

“I've got ears everywhere,” Iosefka allows herself a cool smile, “But don't ask me for more than that – confidential sources, you understand.”

Of course, you nod, trade secrets. One last question – has she ever met this Zolan Eklund in person?

“That one, I can answer here and now. Not ever,” her voice is firm, “Doctors these days, they don't want to be seen in grubby little pits like this. It's all about social clubs and fine dining. Sometimes, you know, I think this place might be a relic of the past.” Looking around her bar, Iosefka lets a wistful sigh escape her lips. The moment passes quickly, and soon she's back to her usual cold self. “Right, I think I can help you with that. You'll want something to drink while you wait, yes?”

Of course, you reply as you place some money down on the bar. Far more money that a few simple drinks should cost – but then, it's not a drink you're really buying.

-

“So how do you know her, anyway?” Lize asks as you're sitting down with a glass of dark beer, the table shrouded in shadow, “I mean, you sounded like old friends.”

It's been a while, you agree, she was a doctor once. First time you met, she was pushing your guts back in – that's the kind of meeting that makes an impression on a young man. When she retired from medicine and started up a bar, you helped her out with a few things. Since then, you've built up a pretty good working relationship.

“Huh,” Lize pauses, before lowering her voice a little, “Just a working one?”

You pretend not to hear that. Instead, you turn your eyes to the low stage. Iosefka's assistant, a girl – perhaps a few years younger than Lize – is drawing mournful notes from a curious instrument. Almost a cello, but of an older and more primitive style. It would have been large compared with a grown man, and it towers over the dark girl. Nevertheless, she plays it with haunting skill. Losing yourself in the music, it isn't long before Iosefka returns, sitting opposite you and Lize.

“You ask some interesting questions, Henryk,” she begins with a smirk, “And I've got some interesting answers for you.”

[1/2]

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>>395950

“So we'll start with the least interesting matters. Nethe Eklund. From what I know, they lived together in the noble quarter – moved there just recently, in fact. That's not cheap land, in case you didn't know, even for a doctor. Chances are, he'd need to borrow some serious capital just to get his foot in the door,” Iosefka raises an eyebrow, “Not the first time a man runs away from his debts.”

But that's not it, you decide, it doesn't feel like that.

“You're not wrong there. Still, that's what the Ministry is looking towards – I had a little songbird in here last night, sipping wine and whining about it. Seems like they're not taking this very seriously at all. Oh, they've been asking at the station and sending Zolon's picture around, but that's just a token effort. No, my “source” seemed to think it was all very simple. If you believe the rumours going around, old Zolon might have got his wife in a bit of trouble.”

And he skipped down, you guess, leaving her to deal with it.

“Seems like, if you're going off what the Ministry thinks. You know something, though?” with a faintly conspiratorial air, Iosefka leans a fraction closer, “They jumped to that conclusion very quickly, wouldn't you say? Normally, they'd be a little more open minded about things.”

Someone at the top might be shutting this down, you muse, keeping it from becoming a big deal.

“And that's not the only thing they're trying to hush up. You asked about disappearances? Well, the official figures definitely don't match up with the word on the street. I hear a fair few lowlifes have been vanishing lately – the kind of folk that nobody would normally miss, see? Only, a few of them were heard bragging about lucrative job opportunities not long before they went silent. You see where I'm going with this?”

A picture, you agree, is starting to take shape. Someone, or some group, has been indulging in illegal activities, the kind that calls for a good supply of disposable muscle. Once these dupes have stopped being useful, they get silenced – and you're not talking about being paid off. Sounds like something from a bad crime story.

“Like I said, you bring me interesting things to work with,” Iosefka stands, grimacing a little as her stiff knees straighten out, “Pleasure doing business with you, Henryk. Take care of yourself, won't you?”

Always, you lie. As you're standing as well, though, Lize speaks up.

“Hey, I just need to fetch some things from your place, okay?” she begins, “Can you wait for me?”

What things, you ask, and why?

“Just things,” Lize shrugs, “And, I mean, if we're going to be working together...”

>Who said we were working together?
>Fine, grab your things. Do it fast, though
>Absolutely not. Go home, and wait there until I get back
>Other

>>395957
>>Absolutely not. Go home, and wait there until I get back

>>395957
>Fine, grab your things. Do it fast, though

>>395957
>Fine, grab your things. Do it fast, though

>>395957
>No, you are absolutely not.
>Rather, I've got a lead for your own troubles: read up on the Giants. See if you can find out any old maps of the north that would lead to their ruins.

>>395957
>Fine, grab your things. Do it fast, though

>>395957
>Fine, grab your things. Do it fast, though
This is fine, but she ain't coming with on real hunts

>>395957
>Fine, grab your things. Do it fast, though

>>395963
Isn't her biggest wish to travel and see the world before she dies though? Seems kinda messed up to leave her behind at home every time

>>395961
This I feel is a good writein

Reminder that Artemis is our waifu, and that we have to stay pure until we've killed all those monsters for her.

>>395971
We'll see but she is going to have to bring that up.

>>395979
I'm thinking she could travel with us but she doesn't have to actually come with us during the hunt itself

Maybe bringing her here was a mistake, it's put ideas in her head. You just wanted her to know about another safe haven, a place she could retreat to in case your apartment became suddenly dangerous. You never intended her to interpret it this way. Then again, you reluctantly consider, this might work out. Bringing her on a real hunt is too much of a risk, for now at least, but this might be okay. This might just work out. So, with a heavy sigh, you hear yourself telling her to get these mysterious “things”. Do it quickly though, you warn her, you won't wait around forever.

“Thanks Henryk, I won't let you down!” filled with sudden determination, Lize nods firmly, “I'll be real quick, I promise!” As if emphasising just how quick she'll be, Lize leaps to her feet and scurries out, just barely slowing to heave the heavy bar door open. As she vanishes from sight, you indulge in another heavy sigh.

That girl, you think as you sit back down, is going to be trouble.

-

Still labouring under the weight of her ancient instrument, Iosefka's assistant fills the small bar with slow, bleak music. With little else to do, you watch her closely and think. You've never actually heard her speak before, you realise. That, and the dark cast to her features, reminds you of Esmeralda. Maybe you'll visit Nebel again sometime, when you've got some time off, go up and see if she's interested in-

“I'm back!” Lize interrupts your thoughts, dropping down into the seat next to you. Something, you notice, rattles a little when she sits. “Check this out,” she says, eager and only a little bit out of breath. Taking a rolled up strip of leather from her heavy coat, she unfolds the little parcel to reveal what you first take for jeweller's tools. No, that's not right – those are...

Lockpicks, you observe, she brought lockpicks.

“Hey, I figured they might be useful,” Lize shrugs, “You trying to tell me you've never had to pop open a lock before?”

Well, you admit, they could certainly come in handy. You won't ask too many questions about how, or why, she has a set of lockpicks – the answers, you suspect, are not anything you care to know.

“Alright, so where are we going first?” the girl looks fired up, eager to get started. A little too eager, perhaps.

Nethe Eklund, you decide, you'll start with her.

-

Your first impression of Nethe Eklund is a simple one – she's so far out of her depth that it seems cruel, utterly unfair that she's being put through this. She's exhausted, and her eyes red with recent tears. Even though you know the cause, the sight of her reddened eyes chills you a little. Numbly, she leads you through to a dimly lit parlour, mumbling an offer of drinks.

“Poor girl,” Lize whispers to herself.

[1/2]

>>395985

“We moved here so we'd be safer,” Nethe begins when you sit down, cradling a cup of tea close, as if the veil of steam will hide her blotchy, tired face, “The walls, you see...”

The high, solid walls that surround the noble quarter. Many times, the common men have called for a similar wall to surround the entire city, but those calls have always been ignored or refused. Too expensive, too much work, the same old excuses. Was there a reason for the decision, you ask carefully, anything that made them feel unsafe in their old home?

“No, but...” Nethe takes one hand from her cup and touches her midsection, at the faint swelling that has begun to press against her dress, “With the little one on the way, we didn't want to take any risks. In truth, I fear I pushed Zolon into it – I talked, day and night, about living in safety, and now... and now this. I have no trade, sir, and no real teaching – how will I raise the little one?”

And suddenly, you're the one who's out of his depth. You're supposed to offer comforting words here, aren't you?

“That's why we're trying to find your husband,” Lize chips in, “So you can be together again, just like before.” The lie trips easily off her tongue, a little too easily for your liking. Her words seem to calm Nethe a little, enough that a questioning light finds its ways into the grieving woman's eyes.

“You said you were here to help, but...” her voice sharpens a little, the numb shock retreating, “Who are you, exactly?”

Henryk Hanson, you tell her, you handle freelance work – whatever needs doing.

“Eliza Hanson,” Lize adds, “And don't worry, we're here to help - even if you can't pay us a single coin.”

You have to suppress a frown at that. Lize shouldn't be making such bold claims.

“Well, I... thank you,” Nethe bows her head low, “You see, my husband has been working very hard lately, to pay back the money we owe. He can't afford to turn down any work, so when he was called out during the storm, I didn't think it was anything out of the ordinary. Although, these days, I don't... I don't quite know what counts as “ordinary” any more. I know that we can't afford to be picky, but I wish he'd never met that man...”

What man, you ask, another doctor?

“Yes, exactly!” a slight hope enters Nethe's voice, “Do you know him? In all the times he came to our home, he never gave me his name. He would arrive, speak with Zolon in the study, and then they'd leave together. Zolon never told me any details about the work he was doing – he said it was confidential, something best kept between a doctor and his patient. I'm not sure what else I can tell you, but...”

>Can you describe this other doctor?
>Could I see this study?
>Has anything else out of the ordinary been going on?
>I had a question to ask you... (Write in)
>Other

>>396006
>Can you describe this other doctor?
>Could I see this study?

>>396006
>>Can you describe this other doctor?
>>Could I see this study?
Lize is super smooth, that silver tongue will come in handy.

>>396006
>Can you describe this other doctor?
>Could I see this study?
>Has anything else out of the ordinary been going on?
>I had a question to ask you... (Write in)
"Was your husband in a particular field if doctoring?"

>>396010
>if
of*

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>>395950
>Almost a cello, but of an older and more primitive style. It would have been large compared with a grown man, and it towers over the dark girl.

That a double bass? Or the even bigger Octobasse? Nice haunting sound anyway.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QupB4NN8fI0

>>396006
>Can you describe this other doctor?
>Could I see this study?
>Has anything else out of the ordinary been going on?
>I had a question to ask you...
How long has it been since your husband started to work with that other man?

>>396006
>How long has your husband been doing this?
>Can you describe this other doctor?
>Could I see this study?
>Is there any place your husband steered you NOT to go to? Felt it was too dangerous, suddenly?

You'd like to know a little more about Zolon, you ask, did he specialise in a particular field of medicine?

“Well, I don't know all that much about...” Nethe pauses, as if afraid to reveal the depths of her ignorance, “About his work. When I met him though, he was working in a hospital. My arm was broken, you see, and he put it right. He was... gentle. So, I don't know what you might call it, but he healed people.” Nethe pauses, and her eyes cloud, “Although, when he first took on this new job, he spent a long time trying to find some old papers of his – old research, from his time at the College. His work was something to do with... blood, I think. Impurities in the blood.”

Like parasites, you think dimly, like the Red Eye Sickness. Shaking off that grim thought, setting it aside for now, you move the discussion along. She mentioned that things had been out of the ordinary – what exactly did she mean by that?

“I suppose it's just an impression I got,” Nethe's delicate brow furrows as she tries to remember, “Zolon, his clothes would smell strange – like the rubbing alcohol they use in hospitals – and he was starting to drink more than normal. He was never a heavy drinker, so it came as a surprise when I found him one night, passed out in his study, the door wide open.”

Speaking of the study, you say, could you see it?

“I'm afraid not,” the corners of Nethe's lips dip slightly, “Zolon started locking the door ever since he started with this new work. There's only one key, and he kept it on him at all times. He wouldn't even let me in to clean it out.” She lets out a bitter, wavering laugh. “It must be such a state in there, Zolon barely knows how to clean up after himself...”

Locked. Lize seems to lean forwards a little at that, looking a little too keen to test her skills. “Ma'am, I may be able to open the door,” she offers, “With your permission, of course...”

“Yes, of course,” Nethe nods, before hesitating, “No, wait, you don't mean breaking the door down, do you?”

“I'll be the model of discretion, I assure you,” your young assistant promises. It's strange, hearing her slip into a polite, distinguished way of speaking – her natural voice, and a product of her noble upbringing. It certainly seems to impress Nethe, who just nods again.

You'll check the study later, you tell them both, you had a few more questions. When did Zolon start working with this new doctor?

“Let me think. It was... about a month ago,” Nethe frowns again, “Yes, we were already behind on a payment, and things were getting desperate. Then, Zolon came home with money – cash. He looked nervous, but he said I had nothing to worry about. I believed him, then.”

That, you think darkly, didn't last.

[1/2]

>>396029

Next, you ask, did Zolon ever try to keep her away from anywhere? Anywhere he might have called dangerous, or somewhere she shouldn't wander?

“I don't know about dangerous, but he told me not to go to any of those new clubs. Even when he was gone, and I was alone, he said I shouldn't go there. The other men, you see...” she swallows nervously, “Of course, I followed his instructions. We don't have the money to go to such places, after all. Oh, wait!” she holds up a finger, as if some idea had suddenly entered her mind. “Not long after he took this new job, he said that we'd be able to stay here, in the noble quarter, for good... only then, she said something I thought was odd. He said that I would never need to leave here, I'd never need to go outside the walls again. He was always a little possessive, perhaps, but that... that stuck in my mind.”

Perhaps he had a good reason to keep her from straying, you think, his dangerous work must be based somewhere outside the noble quarter. Bringing the discussion back to the topic of the new doctor, you ask Nethe if she could describe him. She might not have a name, but the details of a man's face can be just as useful.

“I can go one better,” Nethe appears depressingly pleased at this, “I have a portrait of the man. I'll fetch it for you, and you can see what he looks like with your own eyes.” She practically leaps up from her chair, so fast that she spills a few drops of cool tea, and hurries from the room.

A portrait, you murmur to Lize when she's gone, a photograph?

“More likely a painting,” Lize whispers back, “It's kinda trendy these days, for rich ladies to take up painting. Supposed to teach patience and delicacy, that kinda stuff. I tried it for a while, made a picture of my mother's face.”

Was she any good at it?

“You kidding? She looked like a tumour,” Lize's smile is bitter, humourless and too old for her face, “Nethe, I don't know – I reckon she might be better at it. Just a feeling I get.”

Well, you shrug, you just hope she doesn't have an abstract style.

-

The features you are presented with are sharp, hawkish and cruel. How much of that is real, and how much is artistic liberties is a mystery to you. Still, the cold eyes, high widow's peak and dagger-chin all make quite the impression – you could spot that man in a crowd, almost certainly. Nothing about his face, however, says “trustworthy”.

“Do you think it'll help?” Nethe asks, a faint desperation in her voice, “Do you think you can find the man with this?”

Perhaps so, you nod, now about that study door...

“Please, do what you can,” the distressed woman nods eagerly, “I don't what might be in there, but...”

“Leave this to us,” Lize - “Eliza” - swears, “If there's anything in there, we'll find it.”

[2/3]

>>396041

It's actually impressive, watching Lize work on the lock. With a few spare pins and probes hanging from her mouth like cigarettes, she fiddles around with the lock itself. Not long after she stooped down to examine it, a heavy clunk sounds from within. “Got it,” she mutters to you, quickly assembling her tools and packing the kit away. Rising to her feet, she pushes the door slowly open.

The study, you realise with dismay, is empty. Utterly barren, as if it had been cleared out recently. Zolon – or someone other than him – must have shifted everything to another location. Bookshelves stand empty, desk drawers hang open, and the single item of any note left behind – a coat – hands from a peg like a wet rag. Biting back a curse, you focus on what little is in the room. Papers can slip into the workings of a desk, after all, and lie forgotten for years. Some vital clue might have been hidden here...

Yet, a careful investigation reveals nothing – no loose papers, no forgotten documents. Frustration boils up inside you, and you have to fight back the urge to throw the coat – an old, musty thing – to the ground. Thinking of the coat, though, offers one final hiding place – the pockets. Methodically turning out each and every one reveals a lot of fluff, and a card. A new looking thing, well printed on good quality paper.

The card advertises an exclusive, members only club by the name of Club Curwen.

-

“I don't know anything about it!” Nethe swears, “Zolon always said he disliked those places, I don't know why he'd...” She falls silent, “Maybe... maybe he got it from the other doctor? A gift, perhaps?”

Maybe, you assure her, that might be the case. Privately, though, your mind is racing. If this other doctor frequently visits this social club, it might be a good place to visit. With this card, you'll have the chance to get inside. Standing, thanking Nethe for her time, you prepare to leave.

>Head to Club Curwen
>Send Lize away – this is getting too serious
>Ask a few more questions before leaving... (Write in)
>Other

>>396049
>Send Lize away – this is getting too serious
"Alright Eliza. Thank you for your help back there, seriously, but, things might get heated soon as I keep digging and I can't protect both of us from gunshots if someone decides I know too much."


>Head to Club Curwen

>>396049
>>Head to Club Curwen
Lets give Lize a warning and ask if she's gonna stick around. Though I can already imagine what the answer will be.

>>396049

>Head to Club Curwen

>>396049
>Head to Club Curwen

>>396049
>>Send Lize away – this is getting too serious
>Rather, I've got a lead for your own troubles: read up on the Giants. See if you can find out any old maps of the north that would lead to their ruins.

>>396049
Ask Nethe not to tell the ministry that you were there maybe? If there are higher-ups covering stuff up it might be worth tryinf to stay off radar.
Also if she knew how errythang had disappeared.

>>396049
>>Head to Club Curwen
ask her what type of club is it? and if we should dress fancy?

>>396049
>Go to Ministry, find that clerk and describe the doctor to him.
>Then go to the club

This is starting to get serious, serious enough that you might be putting Lize in danger by bringing her along. You know that – you've both known that this might be dangerous since the beginning, more or less, but still she chose to come with you. At the very least, you can let her decide. Sticking around, you tell her quietly, might get her into some serious trouble. You appreciate what she's done for you so far, the help she's given you, but you might not be able to keep her safe if she keeps digging. It's hard enough to keep one person safe, if the bullets start to fly. Besides – you've got something else she might be interested in following up. A lead of her own.

“Yeah?” Lize raises an eyebrow, “You're not just trying to get rid of me, are you?”

If you were, you assure her, she'd know about it. No, this time, you have something she might like to research – something that might relate to her family issues. The ancient Giants were said to have a deeper understanding of blood than anyone else, and left many of their secrets in the north. If she could find an old map of the Northern Hunting Grounds...

“Yeah, I get you...” Lize nods thoughtfully. Her initial defiance – as if she was prepared to fight for her right to stick with you – fades to a more thoughtful silence, “Alright Henryk, you win this one – but on one condition. I want to this club, first. I've been hearing things about them, and it's got my curiosity going. Deal?”

Well, you sigh, that seems fair enough.

-

Returning to Nethe, you decide to ask her a few extra questions. First of all, you'd like to ask for her discretion – you like to work without the Ministry's eyes following you everywhere, you explain, so it would be convenient if she kept this to herself.

“Yes, of course,” Nethe seems to take the request in stride – or perhaps she's just too tired to care about it. “You've been far more helpful than them already, so...”

Excellent. Next, you mention the lack of any of Zolon's belongings in his study, pointing out that it had been cleared out recently. Can she offer an explanation as to how that could have happened?

“I suppose... when I was sleeping? Zolon kept... keeps strange hours,” Nethe swallows painfully, “I try to stay up until he comes home, but sometimes I can't. If I was asleep, he might have been able to remove everything, especially if he had help.”

And you can guess who might have been helping. The same nameless doctor Zolon had been working with. Producing the card again, you ask if Nethe knows what sort of club it might be. Formal, perhaps?

“I think so,” she nods, “These things probably are. Zolon said that they offer a veneer of class, without any substance. Do you think that's right?”

You'll have to see for yourself, you decide, if they even let you in. It might be prudent to go home, and change into some of your better rags.

[1/2]

>>396106

On the way back to your apartment, a thought crosses your mind. Nils, over at the Ministry outpost, had been holding something back. At the time, you had no real leverage over him, nothing to try and prise the truth out. Now though, with a description of the nameless doctor, you might just be able to get some answers out of the man. Maybe, maybe not, but it's certainly worth trying. The outpost isn't much of a detour, after all, and you don't like the idea of leaving that thread hanging.

When Nils sees you coming through the front door, he looks as if the world is about to end. The conversation he was having with his colleague dies off, and his face pales. Murmuring some excuse, he shuffles to the other end of the desk and nods for you, looking like a man summoning his own executioner.

You have that effect on a lot of people. You don't know why.

“I don't want any trouble,” he says immediately, “Not here, not now, not ever.”

That's fine, you agree, you're not looking for trouble either – just answers. He happened to mention some doctors, a while back – maybe he can describe them for you, describe their faces?

“I can't, I don't remember,” Nils shakes his head, “Now, if that's all, you can-”

Cutting in, you rattle off a quick description of the nameless doctor, listing every one of his features. With each item on the list, Nils manages to go paler and paler, until his skin takes on a rather charmless grey tint. He doesn't even need to say anything to confirm your suspicions – you've got the right man.

“Okay, look, that sounds a little familiar, but I see a lot of people, every day,” finding some hidden reserves of stubbornness, Nils digs his heels in, “This doesn't mean anything.”

The other doctor was named Zolon Eklund, you tell him in a hard voice, he has a young wife and a kid on the way. You've already got one name, now you just want the other – the name of the man in charge. If he can't give you a name, you'll take anything he can give you.

Nils lets out a long, heavy sigh of disgust – disgust at himself, at the doctors, at the whole world for all you know. “You really think they'd give me their names?” he asks darkly, “I can't tell you who they are, where they are, anything, and that's already too much. They threatened me, okay? They said...” He swallows hard, his words dropping even lower, “The man in charge, he told me that beasts weren't the only thing I needed to be afraid of.”

And that's all?

“That's all,” Nils nods, “I swear.”

[2/3]

>>396135
So, Zolon was the one who left the place in a bodybag. This doesn't bid well for his family.

>>396135

Confirmation, you think as you're leaving your apartment, is better than nothing. Nils might not have given you a name, but he's given you a definite lead on the nameless doctor. With only Nethe's testimony, it was inconclusive – she was distressed, and she might have latched onto the first possible suspect – but two independent claims? Good enough for you. All that you've got to do now is find the man.

Which is what brings you to Club Curwen, a discrete little hole in the wall located deep in a wealthy part of the capital. Not quite the noble quarter, but far nicer than the streets you usually haunt. It took you a while to find something decent to wear – a black suit, back from when you had to meet Priscilla's family – but at least you look less like a hired killer now. Lize, on the other hand, had the opposite problem – it took her too long to narrow down what she'd wear. Apparently, she brought half her wardrobe with her when she left her home.

The guard at the door is so polite that it takes you a moment to realise that he IS a guard. He looks more like a servant bringing you the morning's mail. Just as soon as you produce the card, however, he vanishes back into the shadows of the doorway, one slender arm extended to invite you in. Fighting down a sudden twinge of apprehension, you descend into the upmarket club.

-

Actually, you think as you look around the place, Iosefka's place is nicer. Better music, and the decorations aren't nearly so pretentious. There's only so much velvet a man can see, before he starts to feel nauseous. The music isn't even live – it's coming from a gilded gramophone.

“I've never been more disappointed in my life,” Lize murmurs to you, “Not even a modest orgy in sight.”

You're not sure that this is that kind of club. Simply shaking your head at her comment, you lead her away to a booth in the darkest, dimmest corner of the club. Here, you should be able to see everyone who enters while remaining reasonably unseen. Now, all you have to do is wait – fine with you, this too is a part of being a Hunter.

“So if he shows,” Lize whispers, “What do we do?”

>Follow him, he'll lead us where we need to go
>Wait until he's alone, then we grab him and make him talk
>I think I'll have a word with him, nice and polite
>Other

>>396169
>Follow him, he'll lead us where we need to go
Tracking is our forte is it not?

>>396169
>Wait until he's alone, then we grab him and make him talk

>>396169
>>I think I'll have a word with him, nice and polite

>>396180
The only problem is whether Lize is coming along. I'm confident in our skills but she could very easily mess something up and give us away. She checked out the club so she should head home or after that giants lead.

>>396169
>Follow him, he'll lead us where we need to go

>>396186
We can probably mitigate it with our focus ability. You can take less risks in following someone if your senses are overclocked.

>>396193
Regardless, following him is like going straight for the big boss dungeon. Lize would be in some pretty big danger at that point, no need to go that far.

>>396197
Fair enough. Be sure to cast a vote though.

>>396197
I concur, let's send Lize off.

>>396197
>>396186

>For the sake of clarity, we'll be splitting up with Lize when we start to tackle this, whatever option we take.

>>396169
>>Follow him, he'll lead us where we need to go
And send Lize off home or on her lead, telling her to be careful.

When – if – he shows up, you'll follow him. He has to have somewhere in the city where he's working, toiling away at whatever tasks he has, and you need to find it. If you follow him, without straying into sight, he should lead you right to it. The only problem with this, is that she might blow your cover. Before, you gave her the choice, but now you're going to insist. Here, you part ways.

“Yeah, I understand,” Lize nods, “And I got some books to read. I hadn't forgotten about that. Hell, I might as well go now – nothing fun going on around here, anyway.”

You find yourself agreeing, looking around the club. It might be achingly trendy – partly because of how exclusive it claims to be – but nobody here actually seems to be enjoying themselves. You'd rather be in the Medicine any day of the week.

“So yeah, I'm heading out. I know a few libraries,” Lize whispers to you, “Don't work too hard, okay? Oh, and Henryk? Thanks – for giving me a shot, I mean. We make a good team.”

Maybe, you murmur, maybe you do.

-

It's about an hour – a long, boring hour spent nursing a sour tasting beer – before your target shows his face. Looking like a man coming from the funeral of his beloved, he enters the club, slumps down at the bar, and orders a drink. Something strong, by the looks of it, but he throws it back as soon as the glass arrives. Time passes slowly as you wait for him to either order another drink or leave, but he shows no sign of doing anything. Without even talking to the bartender, he simply sits and stares down at the bar. Finally, checking the ticking antique clock – or maybe a clock designed to look antique – he rises from his seat and shambles out. You give him a few seconds to build up a lead, and then you rise to follow.

All the while, you can't help but wonder to yourself, comparing the man before you to the image you've created in your head. His features are the same as Nethe's portrait, but his eyes – the short glimpse you got of them – are very different. Not the hard chips of ice you were expecting, but almost as tired as hers were.

Strange. You don't like this. Even as you get to following him – it seems uncommonly easy, as if he had nothing to hide or watch out for – you feel doubt forming in the pit of your stomach. Is this really the man you're looking for, the mastermind behind these strange events? He seems more like another dupe, following some greater plan.

But for now, all you can do is trace his steps, and hope that the truth will reveal itself soon.

[1/2]

>Sorry for the delay, I'm having a few minor issues today. Working on the next post now.

>>396245

Although your aged suit might have eased your passage into Club Curwen, it presented you with a whole other problem. Simply put, there was nowhere to hide anything you'd consider a “real” weapon. Your knife would have stuck out like a sore thumb, while your usual pistol would have left an uncouth outline beneath your jacket. Anything you'd normally trust your life with would have been too impractical to bring. That left you with two options, neither one particularly pleasant – go unarmed, or take something that left you as good as unarmed.

You chose the latter. Slipping into the cover of a shadowy alley – ahead of you, your nameless quarry stands still, gazing up at the sky like a man in a trance – you bring out the tiny gun. With less than ten bullets in the magazine, each one about a quarter of an inch in diameter, you wouldn't rely on this to kill vermin, let alone a beast. Still, having a gun gives you something to threaten with, should the situation demand it, and you like to take every advantage you can scrape together. As you return the tiny pistol to your pocket, the good doctor starts to walk again, this time with a certain forced resolve.

When the doctor stops outside a plain, utterly generic tenement block, you can't help but wonder if this is a trap, and you had slipped up somewhere along the line. Yet, he never looks around or gives any impression that he's spotted you – perhaps, you consider, this is just where he meant to go. When he enters, you pause for the length of three breaths, and then you follow him inside.

-

From the outside, it looked like an old tenement. Inside, the place is a tomb. Empty, abandoned and dilapidated, it's clear that no honest men have lived here in quite some time – years definitely, maybe even decades. Most of the doors have been smashed in, or have rotted through, but one remains distinct – a metal door, locked up tight. Growling under your breath, you give it a close look.

The door itself is solid enough to defeat any foot or shoulder, but the hinges – or the rotting wall around them - might just fall to a determined, and incredibly loud, attack. Break the door down, though, and you might as well shout your presence to the world.

With a bit of scavenging, though, you might be able to put together the tools to fumble the lock open. It would be easier with Lize's kit, but that's currently touring the city's libraries.

If those options fell flat, there is one last possibility – a building this old is likely to have holes littered everywhere. With time and patience, you might be able to find a way around the locked door. Time, though, might not be something you can afford to waste.

>Break the door down – you need to hurry
>Try to pick the lock – stealth is important
>Look for a way around
>Other

>>396306
>>Try to pick the lock – stealth is important

>>396306
>Break the door down – you need to hurry

>>396306
>Try to pick the lock – stealth is important

Might as well give this a shot first

>>396306
>Try to pick the lock – stealth is important
We do have a +5 to this. Not much but it's something.

>>396306
>Look for a way around
Like a window or fire stairs.

>>396306
>Look for a way around

>>396306
>>Break the door down – you need to hurry
y do all of you keep sending her away?
shes going to think we dont like her:P

>>396306
I think time is of the essence, but so is discretion.
>Try to pick the lock – stealth is important

>>396332
We don't want a child to trip over when things get rough.

You're not what you'd consider an expert in breaking and entering, but you have a certain degree of skill. Enough to know the basics, at least. With a few stiff pieces of metal, thin enough to slip into the lock itself, you might just be able to get it open. It's worth a try, after all – you can always resort to cruder methods later, if this fails.

For a moment, it begins to look like your attempt has failed before it's even started – just finding enough supplies to improvise a lockpick is hard. Scavengers, looking for anything that might be valuable – even just scrap metal – have near enough picked this place clean. Strange, then, that the door would still be locked and intact. It's an inconsistency – you don't like inconsistencies.

Still, your careful search eventually reveals the remains of a broken radio, its guts spilling out onto the grimy tiles. As you sit down to pick it apart and sort out the useful components, you hear something above you. A kind of scuttling maybe, like light and frantic footsteps. No, it couldn't be the sound of footsteps – not even a child has a step that delicate. This sounds more like rats, not an unlikely thing to find in a building as old as this. As long as they stay up there, well away from you, then you can coexist. If they start to swarm, though, you're burning this whole building down.

You don't much care for rats.

Lending a touch of haste to your work, you finish off the radio and look at what you've got to work with. The components should work, but age has left them delicate – easily broken. In all likelihood, you'll have one shot at this. One shot, and then you'll have to get creative. Returning to the locked door, you stoop down and start slipping the metal fragments into place. Biting your lip, you try to concentrate on the task at hand.

Now, if only those damn rats would shut up...

>Calling for crafting roll. That'll be 1D100+5, and this is aiming to beat 70. I'll take the highest of the first three rolls.

Rolled 2 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>396366

Rolled 28 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>396366

Rolled 16 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>396366

... I don't think they're rats, I think our doctor friend just burst into a swarm of parasites

Rolled 17 (1d100)

>>396366

Okay that didn't work. Look for another way in quickly.

>>396371
This is brutal, even with the bonus, we'll fail to meet the DC.

>>396374
>>396373
>>396368
>>396371
The hell is with our rolls?

The thing about biting down on your lip is, you don't need to worry about shouting out a vile, violent curse when things go terribly wrong. The worst part is, you almost had it. You were working, slowly but carefully, and you were nearly there. With sweat stinging in your eyes and nerves tingling in your fingertips, you were just making a few final adjustments, preparing to open the lock.

And then you saw it, a flash of movement in the corner of your eye, a flicker that could only be a scurrying creature. A rat... probably.

Whatever it is, it's enough to shatter your concentration and jerk you away from the lock. With a snapping sound so faint that your heartbeat nearly covers it up, the largest piece of your improvised pick breaks clean in half, a few other pieces twisting into useless deformities. So much for that approach.

Of course, when you look around for whatever vile creature disturbed you, it's nowhere to be seen. The sound of skittering claws, however, seems to be coming from all around you, muffled by the decaying plaster and crumbling stone of the walls.

Stepping back, you swallow heavily and focus, thinking about the next option. If this building is similar to your own, the next floor up should extend over the room you're trying to get into. If there's a suitable hole – or even just a weakened patch of floorboards – you might just be able to break through... if you can spare the time to search thoroughly. Or, you think as your eye falls upon a lump of debris, you could just break the hinges off.

>Look for a way around – discretion is best
>Break the door down – speed is more important
>Other

>>396432
>Break the door down – speed is more important

>>396432
>Break the door down – speed is more important

>>396432
>>Break the door down – speed is more important
Let finish up here, these critters sound creepy.

>>396432
>Break the door down – speed is more important

>>396432
>Break the door down – speed is more important

Fuckin parasites everywhere man, and us without our shotgun and buckshot

You've given discretion a fair try, and look how well that worked out for you. Now, it's time to try something that's more your style. Grabbing the rough lump of rock, you begin to pound away at the hinges, at the walls surrounding them. Every missed swipe pounds into the door, making it ring like a bell, and soon the tenement is echoing with the sounds of your frustrated blows.

At least they cover up the sound of your swearing, no less frustrated and violent. Yet, although the hinges quickly start to give way, your assault has a less desirable side-effect. That skittering sound that so haunted you has intensified, now coming in quicker and louder. It is as if your brutal tactics have stirred the nest, and now the rats – if that's what they truly are – are scattering madly.

With a final ringing crash the hinges split asunder, and the door tumbles forwards. Without wasting any time, you hop over it and move into the room beyond, casting a wild eye about as you look for what they were trying so carefully to hide. It looks like the door has led you into the landlord's quarters, a further door – this one thankfully open – leading the way to the maintenance tunnels. Slowing your pace, tempering haste with caution, you enter the tight, constricting corridor and creep down it, flakes of rust and thick cobwebs rubbing off onto your old suit. When the corridor finally widens out a little, you stand at a ladder, one leading down into deeper, darker tunnels.

If they truly wanted to hide something, you think bitterly as you begin to descend, they picked a good spot. Few people, even Ministry officials, have cause to venture beneath the city – there's just nothing down there but ancient catacombs and sewage tunnels.

You're not sure which one you prefer.

-

At least here, in this warren of dank stone tunnels, the skittering noise seems to have stopped. Whatever is making that noise, they seem to be confined to the building above – a small mercy, but not one you're about to take for granted.

With no flashlight, nothing that might light your way, all you can do is press forwards through the gloom, fixing your sights on the ground to avoid stepping on anything dangerous – traps, broken ground, anything. The few times you look up, you spot faint light ahead. You never look at that light for long, for fear of losing your night vision. Yet, as you get closer and closer, you know that it's only a matter of time before you'll have to enter that lit chamber. For a few seconds, at least, you'll be as good as blind. With your pistol at the ready, and fearing the worst, you step out into the light.

[1/2]

>>396550

“That suit looks absurd,” the voice that reaches you is rough, ragged and nearly devoid of hope, “It's at least three, no five, seasons out of date.”

It takes you a moment to realise that yes, he did just insult your suit. That's his opening gambit – a spiteful comment about your attire. At least it's less harmful than a bullet to the face. Blinking rapidly, trying to clear your eyes as best you can, you slowly get a good look at the figure who insulted you. It's him – your quarry. He has a gun in one hand, but he holds it without any real confidence. It's not even pointed at you in particular, just aimlessly wavering about the wide, domed chamber.

The room itself is cluttered with... things. You couldn't even begin to describe them, but your assumption is that they're all of a medical nature. That alone raises alarm bells – they couldn't get those down the ladder, there needed to be another way down here...

And then your eyes fall upon the third figure in the room, a man lying on a hospital bed – no, not lying there, tied there. Bound with thick leather straps so that he is denied even the slightest motion. His head – that swollen horror show of a head - can roll back and forth, but that is as much as he is permitted. Even sight has been taken from him, a wide strip of bandage covering his eyes. Somehow, though, you're glad of that bandage – you don't want to look into his eyes, for fear of what you might see there.

“Doctor Zolon Eklund,” the nameless doctor tell you, gesturing towards the bound man with his pistol. That alone, that shocking lack of care, angers you. “I suppose I owe you a name as well. Knowing that won't make much difference at this point,” he snorts out a bitter laugh, and you realise that the man is drunk, “Armin Brandr. Doctor Armin Brandr, no matter what those bastards say.”

On the bed, Zolon begins to stir – at least, as much as his bonds allow him to. He groans, and his grotesquely swollen skull begins to... to pulse. It can hardly be called a skull at this point, more of a misshapen sack of filth. Death, you realise with sudden revulsion, would be a mercy. For what could be thrashing sluggishly inside his head, but more of the parasites?

“This man needs an injection,” Brandr declares, casually throwing his pistol down on a desk and reaching for a syringe, “Will you permit me to treat him?”

>Do what you must, doctor
>Step away from the syringe, doctor. Don't make me shoot you
>You're not treating him, you're torturing him!
>Other

>>396609
Ask what's in the syringe

>>396609
>Do what you must, doctor
I don't trust this guy, but Zolon did seem pacified when we came in. We don't need him thrashing around when we start interrogating.

Keep the gun trained on them, so we can kill either in a moments notice.

>>396619
Seconding

Also I would like to ask whose portrait did we get from Zolon's wife? Armin's?

>>396609
Ask what he's trying to accomplish here

>>396609
>Do what you must, doctor
Play along for now.

>>396635

>Yes, we got Armin's portrait. I should have written in getting a photograph of Zolon or something, so we'd recognise him, but I flat out forgot. Apologies!

>>396609
>>Do what you must, doctor
Drunk guy with a needle, what could possibly go wrong? As long as Zolan stays nice and tied up and maybe if we can grab that gun of his, we're all good.

What's in that syringe, your voice is hard as you snap out the question, what will it do to him?

“This drug should suppress the growth of the parasites. You DO know what parasites are, don't you?” Brandr sneers a little, but you see a flash of his true feelings. Fear, guilt despair... all those are coiling up inside him, just barely hidden by the contemptuous mask he has donned. “If I don't give him an injection soon, he will die – this is not up for debate.”

Doesn't look like death would be that bad, you point out, he's not exactly living a happy life right now.

“You think purely in black and white. Cretin,” Brandr waves the syringe in you direction, and it's only with a great deal of care that you manage not to shoot him. “Alive, this man serves a purpose. Dead, he would be nothing. Now, if you're finished interfering, will you let me do my fucking job?”

Fine, you relent, do what he has to do. Then, maybe, you can talk about what's going on here. You're very interested in hearing his explanation for all this.

“As if you'd understand,” the doctor ambles over to his bound colleague and jabs the syringe into his throat. Pushing down on the plunger, Brandr watches carefully – with more care than you expected – as Zolon's struggles cease. With his eyes elsewhere, you take a few fluid steps forwards and swipe up the pistol. Ejecting the magazine, you empty the chamber and throw the gun away to the far side of the room. Brandr doesn't seem to care, simply turning to glare at you for making an unsightly noise.

Now then, you tell him, how about an explanation? What, exactly, is he trying to accomplish here?

“Oh, you've got enough patience to listen to an old man speak?” dropping the syringe with the usual lack of care, Brandr returns to the desk and slouches down into the seat, “You won't get bored and shoot me, halfway through? Not that it would matter much if you did – I knew I was finished the moment I heard you knocking at the door.”

And why, you ask, is that? He could have run, lost you in the tunnels and made a clean getaway. Instead, he stayed – why?

“I wasn't going to abandon Zolon, and nobody else knows about the drug, the dosages and timings,” waving a dismissive hand in the air, Brandr continues, “They're all the same, shoot first and ask questions never. They don't want to learn, they just want to maintain the status quo.”

This is not going anywhere fast. Keeping the gun on Brandr, you ask him to start again – from the beginning this time.

“The beginning. Fine,” Brandr pulls out a pair of glasses and a bottle of some dark, unknowable spirit. Filling both, he sets one in front of you and drains the other. “Do you know the name Bartzof?” he asks, “Professor Bartzof?”

It's familiar, you reply as you ignore the drink, but maybe he should enlighten you.

[1/2]

>>396729
>Ejecting the magazine, you empty the chamber and throw the gun away to the far side of the room
Oh. Well that's fine too. I guess I should have been clearer that I wanted to take it to replace our pea shooter.

>>396729


“Professor Bartzof was – IS – a genius. A man of refined skill and intellect, he was nevertheless flawed. He drank, for one thing, and he was arrogant,” grinning an ironic grin, Brandr snatches the drink he set in front of you up and empties the glass, “He studied the Red Eye Sickness in his early career, making bold claims about it's source. He was the first man to theorise it was the result of a parasite – a theory that I have now proven to be correct.”

And a theory that Artemis herself confirmed for you, you think to yourself, not that these scholarly fools would take that as evidence. Divine providence rarely stands up to rigorous questioning.

“Then, of course, he blew it, just as his star was in the ascendant. Drinking during an operation. Terrible business, blood everywhere. I was one of his students, at the time. It was a scandal,” a shudder runs through him at the memory, and Brandr takes a deep pull from the bottle, “There was a purge. We all lost our places in the College, and our League papers were revoked. Bartzof disappeared, and we were cast out into the wilderness.” He pauses, looking at you with a disgusted expression, as if reading your mind. “Not literally, you barbarian.”

So that's what this is about, you ask, trying to prove the old madman right?

“I know he's right, I don't need to prove it to men like you,” Brandr snaps, “No, I wanted his research to do some good. At first, I thought I'd done it – a drug that suppressed the parasite's growth, one injection twice a day. Then it became four times a day... every three hours... now hourly. The parasite adapts faster than I expected. Now, I fear, these experiments are doomed. I've done all I can, and it wasn't good enough.”

How did these experiments start, you ask, with beasts? What role did Zolon play in all this?

“Yes. I managed to acquire samples of blood – infected blood, carrying the parasite – from an expedition into the Northern Hunting Grounds. Using beasts as incubators, we tried to refine our attempts at a cure. Zolon... he was young and desperate, not disgraced as I am now. I wanted him to lend us an air of legitimate research. Of course, he needed the money – he was in no position to refuse. We would have been fine, if only one of our beasts hadn't escaped...”

On the night of that great storm, you guess, right?

“It was killed, and taken to the Ministry. We needed to be sure it was one of ours, so we examined it there and then. We were hasty, and Zolon...” another pause, and another shudder. Silence descends, and you decide to take control of the questioning.

>We're done here, I'm reporting this to the Ministry
>Someone must have been funding this. Who?
>Do you know where Bartzof is now?
>You weren't just using beasts, were you?
>Other

>>396830
>>Someone must have been funding this. Who?
>You weren't just using beasts, were you?

>>396830
>>Do you know where Bartzof is now?
>>You weren't just using beasts, were you?

>>396830
>Someone must have been funding this. Who?
>Do you know where Bartzof is now?
>You weren't just using beasts, were you?

>>396830
>Someone must have been funding this. Who?
>Do you know where Bartzof is now?
>You weren't just using beasts, were you?

>>396830
>Someone must have been funding this. Who?
>Do you know where Bartzof is now?
>You weren't just using beasts, were you?

>>396830
>>Someone must have been funding this. Who?
>You weren't just using beasts, were you?

>>396830
>Someone must have been funding this. Who?
>Do you know where Bartzof is now?
>You weren't just using beasts, were you?

>>396830
>Someone must have been funding this. Who?

>>396830
>>Someone must have been funding this. Who?
>>Do you know where Bartzof is now?
>>You weren't just using beasts, were you?

Iosfeka spoke of other missing people, thugs paid off shortly before vanishing. There's a connection here – you can smell it. He wasn't just using beasts in these experiments, you accuse, was he? He needed human subjects, men that wouldn't be missed.

Brandr is silent for a long time before he grunts out a curse and reaches for the bottle. Moving quicker, you take it and throw it against the far wall. The sound of shattering glass seems to focus his attention, at least, causing him to flinch back away from you. “I knew it,” he snaps, “You wouldn't understand. Do you really think we could get viable results, for human subjects, using beasts?”

He makes it sound so logical and pragmatic, you retort, was that his plan from the start?

“No, it came later. We hired thugs to capture beasts, but when one of our hirelings returned with an infected wound, we thought...” Brandr meets your eyes, bitterness darkening his face, “We saw it as an opportunity. That was how it started.”

And you've both seen how it ended up, you take a very deliberate look over at Zolon, very successful. Congratulations are in order. Before you can get too heavily invested in insulting him, however, a thought strikes you. This medical equipment, paying off Zolon, and now hiring thugs – someone had to be funding this. Who?

“If this research was successful, if we... if I found a way to strike the Red Eye Sickness dead, don't you think it would be a boon for the whole land? There are others who feel the same – men in lofty positions, men who understand the value of sacrifice,” Brandr scowls, and that scowl hints at a deep ignorance. He doesn't know, you realise, he doesn't even know who was funding his experiments.

Someone high up. High enough in the Ministry to cover this up. This time, you're the one to shudder. What about Bartzof, you ask once you've gathered your thoughts, could he be the one funding them? Does he even know where the old madman is?

“The stories say Bartzof went north, seeking some great secret that might redeem him in the eyes of the Ministry. I believe he's still alive, but nobody has spoken with him in years,” Brandr shakes his head, the alcohol beginning to slow his motions, “He won't die, not old Bartzof. Too stubborn. We'll all burn, and he'll come out without a scratch.”

You're not so sure about that. The north doesn't have much respect for weak men, and stubbornness gets a man killed as often as not.

“Whatever,” Brandr waves a dismissive hand at you, “I know what you're going to do now, so just get on with it. Shoot me, burn this place down, I don't care. Get it over with.”

>You're not getting out that easy. I'm taking you to the Ministry
>That's a fine idea. Make your peace, Brandr
>I'm going to walk out of here. What you do is up to you
>Other

>>397001
>You're not getting out that easy. I'm taking you to the Ministry

>>397001
>>You're not getting out that easy. I'm taking you to the Ministry
>But first you're going to make reparations to his wife.

>>397001
>>You're not getting out that easy. I'm taking you to the Ministry

>>397001
>>You're not getting out that easy. I'm taking you to the Ministry
We should burn the place down though. Those critters have me spooked.

>>397001
If there is a free press, take it there as well, maybe before the ministry.
But make sure Brandr starts cleaning his mess up before we got loose BERSERKER PLAGUE in our town.

>>397001
>Other
Ask him if he knows why this research is conducted in secret by a (fomerly) only two people? Why isn't it under the Ministy's official wing?

>>397001
>You're not getting out that easy. I'm taking you to the Ministry
>Other
"Where is the rest of the funds? Zolon's wife deserves something for you making her a widow."

Should we burn Zolon's body?

>>397001
>You're not getting out that easy. I'm taking you to the Ministry

But you're right, this place needs to burn

>>397037
Zolon is still alive (for a certain valueof the word)

>>397042
>But you're right, this place needs to burn
Don't you dare to burn the results they obtained! It's like a cure for cancer in the setting.

>>397116
More like malaria. Except it isn't a real cure, only a delay.

>>397017
>>397037
I second the sentiment here - separating a man from his waifu means there's hell to pay. Or money.

>>397116
We can find better cures via Artemis and the North where all this shit originates.

>>397128
It's still valuable data which we have no right to destroy

>>397142
So bring the data but burn the place. take a blood sample and save for further research at most. Contagion sucks.

He's not getting out that easily, you reply coldly, you're taking him in to the Ministry. They'll know what to do with him. Yet, even as you say that, you wonder if that's really something you can guarantee. His nameless patrons are, in all likelihood, buried deep within the Ministry. Turning him in might just be handing him over to his masters.

But then, what choice do you have? Killing him here, now, would be an unsanctioned execution – murder, in other words. That's not something you want to deal with, especially if he has powerful friends. Instead, you lower the gun a little and try to look peaceful. It's a little odd, you say, conducting this important research in secret. If it was really that vital, wouldn't it be an official Ministry project?

“The risk of contamination was considered far too great. Bringing the Red Eye Sickness into the heart of Thar Dreyse? Nobody would dare suggest it openly – it had to be secret,” Brandr shakes his head again, but he almost looks pacified, put at ease by your questioning – or, more likely, by the chance for him to show his knowledge. “If the Ministry knew about this – officially – they would have made me, everything here, disappear by midnight.”

And they'd have a damn good point. You heard the skittering up there, like rats in the walls – you know as well as the Ministry does that this building needs to be purged. For now, though, you want to bring this back to matters you understand – money. He has cash here, doesn't he? The money he was using to pay off thugs and buy Zolon's loyalty – where is it?

“So that's what this is about!” he cackles, “I knew it. You're no noble hero, you're just grubbing for your share! I should have-”

It's not for you, you snap, it's for Zolon's wife. She's up to her eyes in debt, and she's got a child on the way. Without Zolon, she'll be destitute – she deserves that money far more than anyone else. Perhaps your hard words take Brandr by surprise, because his mouth simply flaps open and closed for a moment before he nods, wordlessly agreeing with you. Jerking down to open a desk drawer, he pulls out a leather bag – one stuffed with crumpled paper currency.

“I don't know how much is there,” he tells you, his voice hollow, “But it should be enough to keep her going. Listen... take this to the Ministry as well.” Slipping a thin folder from the drawer, he throws it down on the desk, “Everything we found out, all our bloody results. Maybe someone else can pick up where we failed.”

Maybe, you agree, but with less wasted lives. At the mention of wasted lives, Zolon lets out a faint groan. What about him, you ask, he's beyond help.

“He is,” Brandr nods gravely, “Soon, the drug won't do a damn thing. At least let me put him out of his misery.” With a sullen face, he points towards the discarded pistol.

>Let him retrieve his gun
>Put Zolon out of his misery yourself
>Other

>>397171
>Put Zolon out of his misery yourself

>>397133
Unless Artemis goes "This disease is natural, it sifts out the weak, yadda-yadda", or something else. She doesn't seem very keen on eradicating it.

>>397171
>>Put Zolon out of his misery yourself

>>397171
>Put Zolon out of his misery yourself

>>397182
Well yeah she isn't altruistic. But she does have knowledge and leads like the ones she gave us about Dragon's Blood.

>>397171
>Put Zolon out of his misery yourself

>>397171
Also
>Other: skim through the result folder. Maybe there's something useful we can actually understand. It's thin anyway.

>>397171
>Put Zolon out of his misery yourself

From a safe distance in case he explodes into parasites, also draw Brandr away from him

>>397171
>Put Zolon out of his misery yourself
I still think we should get some of this intel to like some press-like things.

As if you're going to trust him with a gun.

Shaking your head, you deny Brandr's request. Instead, you reach over and scoop up the research folder, flipping through the pages and glancing at the few significant words you recognise. From what you understand, the parasite keeps its host alive as long as possible – as parasites typically do – while spreading out, slowly consuming the host from within. By the end, the host – Zolon – has little more than the basest requirements for life. Thought, human consciousness, everything that separates a man from a beast is eaten away, leaving only blind, mechanistic function. Eventually, even that is consumed.

“Zolon would have died – rather, he would have stopped functioning – long ago, if not for the drug therapy,” Brandr explains wearily, “Even so, he could barely be considered human at this point. He's more... more of an egg sac, a breeding ground for the parasite.”

And that's why he needs to die, you reply, but you'll be the one to pull the trigger.

“Just make it quick,” Brandr's shoulders slump, as if he had been expecting this, “I don't believe he can feel pain, but there's no sense in taking chances.”

That, at least, you can agree with. Taking Brandr a few paces away, just in case something breaks out of the body, you point your pistol at Zolon's deformed head. Then, you hesitate. Why the blindfold, you ask, what purpose does it serve if Zolon can't see or think?

“I didn't want to look at his eyes,” Brandr sounds sick, exhausted, and about ready to give in, “There was some... damage. Rupturing. I could take it off, if you want to-”

No, you grunt, no need. Turning your attention back to Zolon, to the pistol in your hand, you squeeze down on the trigger. A flat, hard bang, and the deed is done.

You're finished here, you say to nobody in particular, time to go. But first, you're burning this place to the ground.

>I think I'm going to end things here for tonight. I'll pick things up tomorrow, and I'll stick around for a while in case of any questions or comments
>Thanks for taking part today!

>>397300
Thanks for running Moloch.

Can we buy our own lockpicks like Lize? We might need em.

>>397300
Thanks for running Moloch.

>>397312

We'll be able to pick some up, yes. It's good to be prepared!

>>397300

Any bets on Brandr being infected? With the tired rheumy eyes being a symptom?

>>395934
>Medicine Melancholy.

I never thought our Moloch would know of such things. I blame Iosefka's picture.

>>398407
You didn't read his previous quest, did you?

>>399691
Sleeping gods? I had planned on reading it at some point but I seem to be short on time these days. I just need to finish playing DS2 so I can regain a few hours of my free time back so I can put it towards reading stuff.

>>399837
Read it man. It's worth the time.

Some cancers can be cut out. Others need to be burned out, no matter how much it scars the surrounding flesh. You've got some experience with the former – neatly excising a beast before it can do too much damage – but this is your first time seeing the latter.

Like a giant candle, the tenement block blazes away, collapsing, crumbling and scattering winking flickers of flame into the air. From the way Brandr lit it up, quickly and efficiently, you wonder how long he had been preparing for this moment, this eventuality. Maybe he had considered this outcome from the very start, planning for disaster with the ease of a natural born pessimist. It makes you wonder about the man's stability.

He watches the building burn with rapt attention, only breaking his gaze away to rub at his smoke-reddened eyes. You should go, leave before the authorities to come to put out the fire – already, you can hear alarm bells chiming in the distance. It wouldn't do to be caught here, standing and watching the tenement burn. Someone might think you were responsible. So, taking Brandr by the arm and practically dragging him away, you slip into the backstreets and vanish from sight.

-

Dragging Brandr along, only vaguely heading in the direction of the Ministry's central offices, your mind whirls with dark thoughts. Bringing him to the Ministry might very well just be delivering him to his masters, allowing them the chance to whisk him away to some uncertain fate – or, if they were displeased with his research, to silence him once and for all. Letting him go, however, is not an option you're willing to entertain. Not after what he's done. If only there was some way of making sure word got out, so that the Ministry couldn't cover the whole affair up...

The answer, when it comes to you, is so obvious that you want to curse your ignorance. It was an article in the newspaper that put you back onto this trail, so why not take the full story to the paper as well? The Ministry has an influence over what reaches print, that cannot be denied, but if they let the original article run then perhaps their influence – whoever “they” are – doesn't extend to the media.

A choice stands ahead of you. First, you could turn Brandr over to the Ministry like an obedient citizen, fully aware of what might happen. You could wash your hands of the whole affair that way, even if means you're complicit. Or, you could take Brandr to the press before doing anything else and spread the story as far and wide as possible. It's a risk – you could be making enemies in a very high place – but it would be an honest one. That has to count for something.

>Turn Brandr over to the Ministry
>Bring Brandr to the media before turning him in
>Other

>>399924
Tough call

>>399924
>>Turn Brandr over to the Ministry
Is our protagonist really ready to turn whistleblower? If the Ministry is responsible, it will hunt him down. If it's only corrupt people inside the Ministry, the leadership has to know and a media frenzy won't help.

>>399924
>Turn Brandr over to the Ministry
we aren't in a position of influence to really effect the whole Red Eye issue.

The best Other I could suggest is having pep talks with Brandr and setting him straight in the morals and "don't you fucking give up after getting this far" departments before turning him over to the Ministry.

But that would take time we might not have.

>>399924
>Bring Brandr to the media before turning him in

Easy call

>>399924
>>Turn Brandr over to the Ministry

>>399935
You make a good point. Hopefully it isn't the entire Ministry and we can encourage them to clean house a bit. Though the perpetrators might be so high up it won't matter.

>>399924
>Turn Brandr over to the Ministry
Gotta pick your battles. I think causing a big stir right now will only create more problems.

With no way of knowing who has been protecting Brandr and funding his research, you can't know what kind of enemies you'd be making by revealing these experiments. You're not afraid of a fight, but you also know when to pick your battles. This time, you're going to lie low and toe the line. If that means turning Brandr over, then so be it. This dirty business, all double dealings and shadow play, isn't something you're properly suited to. Leave this kind of backstabbing to the nobility.

As you drag Brandr steadily onwards, though, you start to wonder if he'd really continue the experiments, if he was ordered to. He might be bitter, but there's a trace of remorse in him. He got carried away – both him and Zolon – and lost sight of what he was really doing. As for his paymasters within the Ministry, well, perhaps you can convince the higher ups to do a little cleaning. Assuming, of course, it's just a rogue faction working within the bounds of the Ministry.

You wish you could be a little more certain of that.

-

Hey, you call out to Brandr as he begins to lag, keep up.

“Coming, I'm coming,” the doctor grumbles, picking at his face – his eyes – as he shambles a little closer. You had hoped the cold air would sober him up a little, but it seems to have had the opposite effect entirely. He looks like he could pass out at any minute, and you really don't feel like carrying him the rest of the way. Best to keep him talking, so he doesn't fall asleep here in an alleyway.

If he got the chance to continue his tests, you ask, to continue them in utter secrecy – would he do it?

“I don't know for sure,” Brandr shakes his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts, “Do I have a gun pressed to my head, in this scenario?”

Pretend he doesn't, you explain, he's being given an offer with no strings attached. Unlimited funds and total discretion – would he keep the experiments going?

“No,” he answers eventually, “I've had my fill of research. Let someone else take on my burden. I don't care if you believe me or not, but Zolon was a friend – sharing secrets and sins makes for a firm bond, after all. He was my last patient, my last chance to find a cure. I failed, and I won't dirty my hands again.”

He's the most eloquent drunk you've ever listened to, you think, but his words have a certain naked honesty to them. The honesty of a confession, perhaps. His eyes, red and filmy, are earnest. Nodding, wordlessly accepting his answer, you turn and continue towards the Ministry.

[1/2]

>>399977
goddamnit Moloch, stop mentioning Brandr's eyes are red

You and your damn death flags.

>>399977

There's quite the fuss when you bring Brandr in, several of the lower ranking Ministry clerks gathering around to stare in awe.

It's not often that a Hunter brings in live prey, after all.

Explaining the situation at the front desk, using terms that are as vague as possible, you report that Brandr is under arrest. With multiple breaches of hygiene laws and charges of unlicensed experimentation, it's little wonder that he is formally arrested on the spot, whisked away to a cell in the basement. Before he is dragged away, he turns to give you a look – the churn of emotions in his eyes so mixed as to be almost unrecognisable. Regret, guilt, gratitude and resignation all mingle there, struggling for dominance over his expression. You don't get to see what wins out, for he is soon dragged down to the lower levels. His fate, from this point on, is out of your hands.

“Sir,” a clerk stops you before you can leave, “Master Sokolov wishes to see you, regarding your recent... actions.

Anton Sokolov, your employer. Not your direct employer either, but the head of the Ministry. The man at the top of the chain of command, in other words. You've met him once before, very briefly, but it wasn't a personal meeting. Usually, your orders come from someone less important, and rarely delivered face to face. Still, these are hardly common circumstances, so this irregularity is, perhaps, to be expected. Nodding to the clerk's request, you allow him to lead you upstairs.

-

Everyone who has met the man says the same things about Sokolov – he takes his job very seriously, and he doesn't suffer fools gladly. He's exactly the kind of man to shoulder the burden of his position. Well respected, and known for coming down hard on even the slightest breach of the law. He wouldn't have allowed these experiments to proceed for so long, not beneath the streets of Thar Dreyse, not with the Red Eye Sickness.

At least, that's what you hope.

[2/3]

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>>400004

“Explain. Omit nothing,” he says simply, “Tell me everything that went into this... investigation.”

By your guess, you make it two minutes before the first omission creeps into your statement. You make no mention of Lize, or her role – really, she was just there to force a lock, so it's not a big lie. As you go along, though, you start to leave out more and more. The money goes unmentioned, and so does the research documents. Even the idea of a rogue faction within the Ministry vanishes. You'll decide how much of that to reveal later.

“All in all, diligent work,” Sokolov nods approvingly when you're finished giving him the bones of your story, “Many men would not have brought Brandr in alive. Now, before I write this up in an official report, do you have anything else to add?”

Off the record, you ask, unofficially?

“If that's what you want,” a very faint smile, utterly humorous, touches Sokolov's lips.

Well then. Time to decide how much to reveal.

>Brandr had a significant amount of cash on hand. I wanted to give it to Zolon's wife
>I believe Brandr and Zolon were working with a faction inside the Ministry
>Bradnr's research is all recorded in this document. Someone might make good use of it
>Nothing more to add, sir
>Other

>>400005
>Brandr had a significant amount of cash on hand. I wanted to give it to Zolon's wife
>Brandr said he and Zolon were working with a faction inside the Ministry. No idea if he was lying or not but it what it is.

>>400005
>>Brandr had a significant amount of cash on hand. I wanted to give it to Zolon's wife
>>I believe Brandr and Zolon were working with a faction inside the Ministry
>>Bradnr's research is all recorded in this document. Someone might make good use of it

I'd tell him all of it, altough I'm not sure regarding the faction. One, these things could come back to bite us.
Two, the money will probably noticed anyway. And the research... well, even if he's corrupt, or working with them, what they do is not bad, and Brandr should be an excelent example as to why the how was wrong.

>>400005
>>I believe Brandr and Zolon were working with a faction inside the Ministry
>Bradnr's research is all recorded in this document. Someone might make good use of it

>>400005
>>Bradnr's research is all recorded in this document. Someone might make good use of it
It just feels like too big a bomb to drop to mention the rogue faction and the money isn't that important.

>>400005
>Bradnr's research is all recorded in this document. Someone might make good use of it
>I believe Brandr and Zolon were working with a faction inside the Ministry
>....is this even part of my job? Am I just "a concerned citizen" with regards to this investigation?

>>400005
>Brandr had a significant amount of cash on hand. I wanted to give it to Zolon's wife
>I believe Brandr and Zolon were working with a faction inside the Ministry
>Bradnr's research is all recorded in this document. Someone might make good use of it

>>400005
>I believe Brandr and Zolon were working with a faction inside the Ministry
"That's what he implied when I asked where is funding came from."

Let's not bring up the money. I don't want it confiscated. Let's just give to Zolon's wife on our way back.

>>400020
Wait no. I take back my vote for revealing the faction. It'll show we know too much.

he dosnt need to know about the money give it to the wife
and we should take some as well just a lttle bit to buy new things

>>400024
Just enough for a decent lockpicking kit.

>>400005
>I believe Brandr and Zolon were working with a faction inside the Ministry
Zolon wanted to make good but got caught up in the maelstrom, now his wife is destitute and their unborn child is a victim of circumstance. Something needs to be done to help them live a comfortable life.

>>400005
>Bradnr's research is all recorded in this document. Someone might make good use of it

No need to mention the money for Zolon's wife and mentioning the possibility of a rogue faction might bring too much scrutiny on us.

>>400027
yup thats all we need

Alright let's talk about this for a minute.

If we don't tell about the faction whoever did this is just going to start again when the heat cools down. Nothing changes, status quo.

If we do tell Sokolov might try and do something about it, but there is the risk he is involved. If he isn't involved all the 'scrutiny' as you guys called it will be on him, not us. We are just the messenger boy.

>>400041
>We are just the messenger boy.
Isn't that like the worst position to be in? No one wants to bring bad news like that. What about in character thinking, would Henryk speak up like that?

>>400027
and a drink

>>400048
Let's take a step back for a second.

What was the point of all this? Was it just satisfying our curiosity, nothing more? If we don't say anything here we didn't really accomplish anything. Research is just going to start again, maybe even more subtle now.

So why did we do this in the first place?

>>400005
>I believe Brandr and Zolon were working with a faction inside the Ministry

>>400041
>>400050
Yeah, ok, Moloch.

>>400053
Oh god the Velo meme is spreading to other quests.

>>400050
Because we killed a beast and decide to follow the trail back to where it lead to. Turning Brandr in would be one way to end the trail and drop it. The other option would be to pursue the higher ups running things.

>>400054
>meme
Good excuse, Moloch.

>>400064
Velo detected

>>400071
No John you are the velo

>>400005
Tell all
>Brandr had a significant amount of cash on hand. I wanted to give it to Zolon's wife

>I believe Brandr and Zolon were working with a faction inside the Ministry

Might as well get the intrigue started - We haven't used our soc rolls much at all, and if Sokolov is involved, we can be savvy and ask for hush money, considering the difficulty inherent in "disposing" of us.

>Bradnr's research is all recorded in this document. Someone might make good use of it

>>400050
because Red Eye disease is serious business. But it has ALSO gone beyond just hunting beasts, and we're out of our depth. Does that mean we can entrust it to someone else? Well, regular citizens certainly do, on a daily basis....

>>400071
Only Velo would accuse someone of being Velo.

>>400075
>and we're out of our depth. Does that mean we can entrust it to someone else?

Well if we are out of our depth why shouldn't we pass the buck to someone more qualified? Isn't that what chain of command is?

You take your time, considering your words carefully before answering. Brandr and Zolon may have been working with a faction within the Ministry, you begin carefully, but you only have Brandr's word for it. It's possible that he was misleading you, or trying to shift the blame, but the possibility of a rogue faction exists.

“Interesting,” in contrast with his words, Sokolov reacts without much obvious interest. His eyes, though, seem to sharpen a little at the mention of it. “To be clear, you have no proof of this?”

Nothing solid, you confirm, but they were getting some fairly serious funding from somewhere. They had medical equipment, and it all seemed reasonably new – it wouldn't have been cheap. That alone seems to lend some credibility to the idea.

“It does, doesn't it?” Sokolov picks up a pen, tapping out a tinny rhythm on his desk, “I'll bear that in mind. If someone has been using the Ministry – MY Ministry – as cover for their operations, that cannot be forgiven. Even if there had been no risk of contamination, misusing resources in this way is a breach of League regulations. That aside, tell me – did this research produce any results at all?”

A drug, you explain, capable of temporarily suppressing the Red Eye Sickness. It didn't work for long, though – the parasite responsible quickly developed a resistance to the drug. All the details were recorded, written down in a document. Taking the file out, you set it down on Sokolov's desk. He picks it up, and slowly leafs through the pages.

“I see. Surprisingly thorough work. His ethics are questionable, but this Doctor Brandr is clearly a capable researcher,” allowing himself a sigh, Sokolov sets down the file, “Was there anything else?”

You recovered a certain amount of cash from the scene, you admit, you were planning to give it to Zolon's wife. She's desperate, you explain after a moment, and she deserves it as much as anyone. This affair took her husband, after all. Judging by the hard look that crosses Sokolov's face, you half expect him to confiscate the back of cash – technically, it's evidence – but then his eyes soften slightly.

“There was no money recovered,” he says eventually, “If there was any left, it would have been lost in the fire. That will be the official version of events.”

Surprised, you fumble for a moment before thanking Sokolov. An unexpected mercy, from a man known for his harsh judgement. There's just one last thing you wanted to ask him. This isn't exactly part of your job description – this is more Ministry work – so how are you going to be recorded? A concerned citizen?

“That will be the official version of events, yes,” Sokolov nods, “This will not appear on your professional record, if that was something concerning you.” Looking at the report again, Sokolov speaks without looking up at you. “You're dismissed.”

[1/2]

>>400101

As you're rising to leave, though, the old man speaks once more. “As you say, this is Ministry work,” he pauses, “Should you hear anything more about this matter – or any similar matters - I would ask that you bring it to me before taking matters into your own hands. You seem to be a flexible man, and that might prove useful... when appropriately directed, of course.”

Of course. Just as you wield a knife, so too does Sokolov wield the Ministry and it's members – as a weapon. Understood, you tell him before you leave, you'll keep that in mind for the future.

You might even follow through on that promise.

-

Leaving the Ministry with a heavy bag hanging from your shoulder – heavy with cash – you feel somewhat like you're walking through some strange dream. You've never been dirt poor, but you've never really been rich either. Casually strolling into the streets with so much money has the air of unreality to you, as if your bag was stuffed with newspapers instead. Best to get rid of it soon, you decide, before you go mad with power. You do make a small subtraction, though – just enough to buy a few small pieces of equipment. Good lockpicks, say.

Call it a business expense.

Waving your papers to get into the noble quarter, you track down the Eklund family home and knock lightly at the door. When you do, though, the door swings ever so slightly inwards. With a chill forming at the base of your spine, you slowly enter the house and look for anything out of the ordinary. Signs of a struggle, say, or any suggestion that Nethe has been “silenced”. She's not in any of the first rooms you check , but then you see the study door hanging open. She sits inside, ignoring the chair and sitting hunched in the middle of the floor.

You don't feel the ground, the soft carpet, beneath your feet as you approach, and neither do you feel the firm wood against your knuckles when you knock on the open door. Clumsily, Nethe turns to look at you, her eyes still raw with recent tears. Seeing the empty study, you realise, must have hit her hard. Swallowing a sudden nervous rush, you ask if she's alright.

“I'm... fine,” she manages as she rises, pressing a hand to the swell in her stomach, “The little ones are moving. Did you find...”

This, you've known all along, is going to be bitter news to break.

>Nethe, your husband is dead. I'm sorry
>There was an accident at his new job, and Zolon passed away. I have this for you, as compensation
>I've looked, but there's no sign of Zolon. I think he may have fled the city
>Other

>>400125
>>There was an accident at his new job, and Zolon passed away. I have this for you, as compensation

>>400125
>There was an accident at his new job, and Zolon passed away. I have this for you, as compensation

>>400125
>>There was an accident at his new job, and Zolon passed away. I have this for you, as compensation

>>400125
>>There was an accident at his new job, and Zolon passed away. I have this for you, as compensation

>>400125
>There was an accident at his new job, and Zolon passed away. I have this for you, as compensation
"I'm sorry I couldn't do anything more."


>The little ones are moving.
>ones
Damn she is having twins as a widow. It's going to be rough.

>>400136
This meme has to die right now.

Best to keep this vague, but not cruel. It's a hard time for her, and knowing the truth – the exact circumstances behind her husband's death – could only make things worse. There's no comforting version of events, but you can spare her the worst of it.

There was an accident at Zolon's new job, you begin slowly, and he passed away. You're sorry that you couldn't do more for him, but you can at least give her this. Taking the bag from your shoulder, you kneel down and set it in front of her. Compensation, you explain, to help her get by without her husband. It won't last forever, but it should help her while she's grieving.

“Money?” Nethe looks at the bag for a long time before opening it, staring at the contents as if she'd never seen paper money before. Not just that much money in one place, but as if the entire concept was an alien one. “Yes, I see,” she manages, “There are bills to pay, debts to manage. This is... good, helpful. Thank you for this. Ah, your reward...”

No reward needed, you're quick to insist. After all, you've already taken some money from the bag, taking more from Nethe would leave you feeling guilty. Sensing an awkward distance forming between you and the widow, you start to make your exit. Before you do, though, you make one final comment. You didn't think too carefully about it, the words just spilled from your tongue.

She said “little ones”, you point out, you didn't realise she was having twins.

“I don't know...” Nethe's voice is barely a whisper, her hand moving protectively to her stomach, “I don't know how many...”

You don't know much about pregnancy, but that doesn't sound quite right to you...

“Excuse me,” Nethe stands, rising to unsteady legs, “I would like to be alone now. I need to make some arrangements. Zolon's family will have to be informed. His parents...”

Of course, you shake off the doubts – she's in shock, a few odd statements are excusable – and offer Nethe your hand. She shakes it limply, her skin clammy and cold, and then you leave her to her grief. You've done all you can for her – the rest, she'll have to handle on her own.

-

With vague and formless doubt circling you like vultures, you head back to your tenement. Lize might be back soon, with her research into the ancient giants. You just hope she didn't attract too much attention, going about the city's libraries all by herself. Or, at least, if she did attract the wrong kind of attention, you have to hope she didn't bring it back to your door. Nobody is waiting to club you over the head when you enter the building, so you'll call that a good start.

Stopping to check the mail, you find a note from Vasily. He'll be drinking in the Medicine tonight, his note says, if you wanted to join him. Not an uncommon off for him to make. Pocketing the note, you head on upstairs.

[1/2]

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>>400183
>She said “little ones”, you point out, you didn't realise she was having twins.

>“I don't know...” Nethe's voice is barely a whisper, her hand moving protectively to her stomach, “I don't know how many...”

>You don't know much about pregnancy, but that doesn't sound quite right to you...

Did anyone else just get some ominous feeling? Might just be my overactive imagination.

>>400183

Lize, when you enter your apartment, is lying on the couch and staring up at the ceiling. The radio drones away in the background, playing a scratchy record. You don't see a thick stack of notes with her, or a rolled up map, so you've got to assume that her efforts were met with failure.

“You're back then,” she greets you, “How was-” looking round, she spots the look on your face and swallows the rest of that sentence. “Okay, so it was pretty bad,” she guesses, “But it's over now, at least?”

It's someone else's problem now, you grunt, and that's the best you could have hoped for. Whether the matter is finished or not, that's not something you're in the position to say. Sitting down at the table, you take your turn staring up at the ceiling. What about her, you ask, how was her day?

“You know, there's more about the Giants out there than I expected,” Lize informs you, “Just a shame that so much of it is just... speculation. Fairy tales, and people making crap up. If there's a single genuine fact out there, I'll be pretty bloody surprised.”

Fairy tales, you reply carefully as you recall the book in her family library, are often rooted in the truth. If the genuine history is lost, a fanciful telling of events might be the only other option.

“I guess...” Lize kicks her feet in the air as she sits upright, “Anyway, from what I read, the Giants fled the southern lands. Meaning here, I reckon. They went pretty far north – I mean, further north than people have ever gone. They weren't driven away or anything, they just left on their own. I guess maybe they got bored of life here? Oh, there was one cool thing – one story I read, it said that they kept a garden in the northern lands, and some Giants would go there and let themselves turn into trees. Kinda spooky, right?”

Spooky, you agree, but it might be worth looking into. This story didn't mention where the garden was, did it?

“Not even slightly,” Lize's answer is cheery, undeterred, “I can't even find any decent maps – old maps, I mean. I did ask, and the librarian said I should try the College archives, over in, uh...”

Petrovar, you think to yourself, is not too far away. Take the train to Port Daud, a short ferry ride to Sophita and then onto the College city itself. You could be done in two days, and your League papers would speed things along. Still, there was that invitation Vas sent you...

>How about a trip up to Petrovar?
>I'm busy tonight, but we could go there tomorrow
>I won't stop you if you want to go, but I'm too busy to come with you
>Other

>>400207
Remind me, what was the invitation about?

>>400207
>I'm busy tonight, but we could go there tomorrow

>>400207
>>I'm busy tonight, but we could go there tomorrow
I feel like a bit of rest an distraction might be appropriate after that.

>>400211
Stopping to check the mail, you find a note from Vasily. He'll be drinking in the Medicine tonight, his note says, if you wanted to join him.

>>400207
>>I'm busy tonight, but we could go there tomorrow

>>400207
>I'm busy tonight, but we could go there tomorrow

>>400207
>How about a trip up to Petrovar?

>>400207
>>I'm busy tonight, but we could go there tomorrow
We can check out what Vas wants and have a quick rest to end the day. Unless she's like dying to head out, then I guess we could tag along.

>>400193
M8 our boss is fuckin Anton Sokolov. The other dude is death flaggin hard as fuck with "red eyes," so the fact that others might be infected is not a surprise.

>>400224
But potentially pregnant with parasites? Jesus Christ. At least that's where my mind went after our talk with her.

>>400231
That's what I assumed as well. I wonder if rothers know about the pregnancy...

You're going to be busy tonight, you tell Lize as you decide to take Vas up on his invitation, but you could both head up to Petrovar tomorrow. Of course, if she was that desperate to go right away, you can't exactly stop her from going alone...

“Nah, I can wait,” Lize's smile falters, coming back a moment later with forced levity, “I've got a few years still ahead of me, I wager I can spare an evening.”

For some reason, some reason you don't much care to dwell on, those kinds of joke always struck you as rather distasteful. Putting that aside, though, you explain your plans to Lize. As you talk about travelling to Petrovar, you find yourself warming to the idea. It might be nice to get away from the city for a bit. You've not been here long, and it's already starting to feel like too long. Petrovar is largely unfamiliar territory, so it''ll make for a nice change of scenery. Has she ever been, you ask, to the College?

“Hmm, no,” the girl shakes her head, dyed hair flopping from side to side, “I had some lessons from the scholars there, but they always came here. My folks, they liked to keep me from wandering too far from home, y'know? I know they were caring for me and all, but it kinda felt more like they were protecting an investment. So, I always wanted to see it for myself.”

And she'll get her chance, you can't help but smile a little, tomorrow.

For a moment, it looks as though she's about to hug you. Then, thankfully, sanity prevails and she settles for giving you a bright, genuine smile. That's good enough for you. Before you head out though, you mention, you just wanted to ask her something.

“Shoot,” Lize tilts her head a little, waiting for your answer, “I'll answer anything I can.”

Where, you ask, would a man buy a good pair of lockpicks?

-

With your new purchase making a faint lump in your pocket – you changed, before leaving, into your usual clothes – you push open the door to the Medicine Melancholy. Vas is already sitting at the bar, sullenly staring into a glass of beer. Sliding onto the stool next to him, you nod a greeting to Iosefka and order a drink of your own. Your stomach rumbles, so you add a light meal to your order.

“Wasn't sure if you'd show,” Vas begins, tipping his glass to his lips and taking a deep drink, “Glad you did though.”

What's this about, you ask him, something to do with that Hebona woman?

“Later,” he mutters, before raising his voice to speak normally, “I hear there's to be a good show tonight. A rare performance. I thought you'd like to watch, then maybe we can go back to mine and go over a few things.”

Meaning, he'd rather discuss it in private.

[1/2]

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>>400280

The performance Vas mentioned turns out to be a duet, Iosefka and her young assistant both taking up instruments to play a long, winding set. An unbroken piece of music from start to finish, Iosefka keeps time on a piano while her assistant drags her usual mournful notes out of the grand string instrument she favours. Watching it, you nearly lose yourself in the music. Still, you have enough sense to glance across as Vas every now and then. He doesn't seem to notice the music, focussing instead on drinking the place dry.

He's really hitting it hard tonight, even compared with his usual habits.

When the show is over, you wait around just long enough to thank Iosefka for her show before dragging Vas from the bar. Out in the streets, he groans at the cold air.

“Had to get drunk for this,” he mutters to you, “Got an excuse for telling you. Secrets, shit like that, you know?”

You're familiar with the concept, you reply with a faint smile, you've got a few secrets of your own. His secrets – he wants to share them with you?

“Not here,” Vas shakes his head, “Inside. My place.”

-

Vas lives in a tenement not unlike yours, but his apartment is larger. A family home, with no evidence of anyone other than him living there. He's never offered an explanation for that, and you've never asked for one.

Slumping down in an overstuffed chair, Vas glares at an empty wall for a while before speaking up. “You know I don't have a ship,” he grunts, “Because some bastards sank it.”

You recall, you tell him, you were there.

“Well, might be I've got another one in the works. Got a fair few strings attached, though. This is top secret, official business I'm telling you, Henryk. If anyone asks, I'm saying that you got me drunk and forced me to talk,” Vas grimaces, “They're going after him. The White bloody Tyrant. Ministry's putting some ships together, and they were looking for captains. Said I could keep the ship if we brought him down.”

This is bold, you murmur, a big move. A lot of men could die if it went wrong. Hell, men would die even if everything goes to plan.

“Yeah, they got some hotshot noble calling the shots,” Vas snorts, “As if they know anything about anything. Least they knew to look for experienced men. So what I'm asking is...”

Yes, you press as Vas falls silent, what's he asking for?

“I need good men at my side, and I figure you might be out for revenge,” a hard light enters his bleary eyes, “You in, Henryk? Won't be tomorrow, might not even be soon, but it's gonna happen eventually. When it does, can I count on you?”

>You can count on me, Vas
>I need to think about it. Don't worry, I'll keep this secret
>I've escaped one sinking ship already, I don't want to try my luck again. Count me out
>Other

>>400307
>>You can count on me, Vas
Damn right we want some revenge. Lets just hope it doesn't get set up immediately, I want to help Lize out a bit first.

>>400307
>You can count on me, Vas

>>400307
>>You can count on me, Vas

>>400307
>>You can count on me, Vas

>>400307
>I need to think about it. Don't worry, I'll keep this secret

>>400307
>>You can count on me, Vas
How else are we going to chat with the giants?

>>400307
>You can count on me, Vas

Revenge? Damn right you want revenge. It doesn't take you long at all to reach your decision. Leaning forwards, you clap a hand on his shoulder. He can count on you, you promise, you'll be at his side for as long as it takes – no matter what the world, the north, or anything else throws at you.

“I knew you'd be up for it!” Vas grins, his sullen mood retreating for a moment before it comes crashing back down, “Ah, but I have to apologise. Now you've got a secret to keep as well, and it's a heavy one. The Ministry thinks that there are spies everywhere, and I find myself agreeing. You'll watch who you speak with, won't you?”

Always, you swear, you're always careful.

“Can't trust anyone these days,” he mutters, looking about the room as if there might be witches preparing to leap out of every drawer and cupboard, “Witches, saboteurs, beasts... it's a fucking mess.”

Well, you attempt to console him, you've got the last one of those under control.

“Yeah, well...” Vas grumbles to himself, “Keep yourself safe, friend. Sorry I had to drag you out here. Appreciate you humouring an old man like me.”

Like you said, you repeat as you rise to leave, he can count on you. You'll help him when the time comes, and you'll keep his secret safe.

Vas doesn't reply to that. Silence descends for a moment, and then he lets out a long, slow snore.

You take that as your cue to leave.

>I think that's a reasonable place to end, even though I started late. I'll get back to this tomorrow, hopefully a little earlier, and I can stick around to answer any questions
>Thanks for playing along today!

>>400357
Thanks for running!

>>400357
Thanks for running Moloch

>>400357
I'm definitely on to you Moloch, trying to get us to leave town like this. Shits gonna be nuts when we get back, almost guaranteed.

>>400391
Yeah, awful lot of foreshadow going around.

>>400397
We'll need to take Lize along.

>>400391
>>400397

We'll be gone two days maximum, it'll be FINE.

>>400391
My money is on Nethe 'having her babies'.

>>400412
Uh huh~

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>>400412

>>400413
yer i almost dont wana know about her babys
i fell bad for her thinging shes got the worms or somethign littles ones and i dont know how many:(
>>400412
we?? is there more then one of you?

Thick smokes hangs heavily in the sky over Port Daud, while the factories and foundries that fill this industrial city belch more and more of that filth into the air. It's worse than normal, as if the pounding machines have been driven into a frenzy, churning out steel and bullets faster than ever before. As the sky is dark, so too is your mood, dimmed by the memory of what Vasily told you last night, what lies ahead in the future.

Revenge. The thought of evening the score warms your heart a little – a bitter warmth – but the risks cannot be denied. Nevertheless, you've given Vas your word, and when the time comes, you'll fight by his side. Until that day comes, all you need to do is keep your eyes on the path ahead – and now, that means hitting the books and doing some research.

It'll make a nice change from something trying to kill you, at least.

-

Cold wind, heavy with the scent of salt, cuts into your bare face as the ferry sluggishly crawls towards Sophita, Port Daud retreating into the distance behind you. Perhaps because of that breeze, the upper deck is close to empty, with only you and Lize enduring the chill. She stands at the railings, gazing northwards as if trying to fix the image – the open waters, the ice rising high in the distance, the freedom of it all - into her mind. She doesn't look around when you cross the deck to stand beside her, but she speaks up.

“You know, my grandfather killed himself,” she begins, as if this was a simple fact to state, “Shot himself, I guess. My folks told me that he died in his sleep, all peaceful like, but I overheard them talking about it later. I didn't know why he did it then, or for a long time. When my grandmother started to, you know, decline – that's when I first guessed.”

The Dragon's Blood, you guess, right?

“Right. At first, I thought our family was cursed,” Lize lets out a bitter little laugh, “Like, ten generations ago or something, my ancestor said something rude to a witch, and that was that. Maybe that's what I wanted to believe – with a curse, maybe you can find some way to make amends and break it, you know? If I was born into this, though...”

All men, you think to yourself, are born with a clock counting down until their end. Some have long lives, some short. Every time you go out on a hunt, you play the odds and risk a violent death, a sudden end. That's something you came to accept long ago – to relish, even, in a sick kind of way – but it was a fate you chose for yourself. Lize didn't choose to be born with the Dragon's Blood, any more than she could have chosen to be born at all. Perhaps that's why you've taken her under your wing – in protest against this injustice.

[1/2]

>>404093

“You really think we'll find an answer here?” she asks suddenly, nodding towards the approaching island, “I mean, in dusty tomes and old legends? I don't know, I kinda feel like someone must have tried already – better minds than either of us, I mean. Do you really think we've got a chance, if they failed?”

That's not something you can answer. Would honesty really be better than false reassurances? In truth, you've come to wonder the same thing – the College is old, and the subjects studied within beyond diverse. If the answers you seek were really here, would a Hunter and a runaway noble really be the ones to uncover them? Yet, it's worth a try – perhaps your new perspective will grant you greater success than the generations of scholarly minds to precede you. Before you can give Lize your answer – vague and non-committal as it is – she speaks up again.

“Nah, that's not fair,” she shakes her head, “I mean, I can't ask you something like that, not when you've done so much for me already. We'll try our best, and that's good enough for me. Anything's better than just moping around and waiting. And hey, at least this way I finally get to see the College with my own eyes!”

You wish you could share her optimism, even if it is forced and fake.

-

Sophita is nothing, little more than a bridge between Petrovar and the rest of the Free States. Leaving the ferry behind, you need only walk a single street before you arrive at the ancient bus, diesel fumes tainting the air around it as the engine chugs. A light snow has begun to fall, leaving the faintest of hazes in the air and causing the distant lights of the College to blur together.

The College itself is a vast, grand assembly – a sprawling maze of classrooms, libraries, laboratories and surgical theatres. The mood in the air is impossible to accurately describe, the initial sense of chaos that reaches you when you arrive originating from no particular source. It feels like there should be people racing around in a panic, but the few faces you see are all cold and composed – as though indignity was a worse fate than death.

A receptionist meets you at the front desk, taking your League papers and scrutinising them carefully. “A Hunter, is it?” he asks, “Hmm, we don't many of your kind up here. Well, I won't complain, it might be good to have-” Cutting himself off here, he clears his throat. “Tell me, what purpose do you have here today?”

>Do you have need of a Hunter?
>We're here to do some research. Can you show us to the archives?
>My business is my own. Good day
>Other

>>404094
>Do you have need of a Hunter?
G'morn, Moloch

>>404094
>Do you have need of a Hunter?

>>404094
>>Do you have need of a Hunter?
>>We're here to do some research. Can you show us to the archives?
I wonder if we should make a death flag bingo board.

>>404094
>>Do you have need of a Hunter?
>>We're here to do some research. Can you show us to the archives?
We're here for Lize first, any hunting business can come when we run into danger or after we finish up. Still wouldn't hurt to ask though, just to be on the safe side and know what to expect.

>>404094
>>Do you have need of a Hunter?
>>We're here to do some research. Can you show us to the archives?

So much for nothing trying to kill you, you think with an inward sigh. Then, assuming an expression of polite neutrality, you ask if they have need of a Hunter. His grudging relief upon seeing your papers certainly seemed to suggest that.

“Well, I wouldn't say we have a need for a Hunter,” the man pauses, biting his lip as his thoughts war with one another. There seems to be something else on the tip of his tongue, only he can't quite decide whether or not to give voice to it. Finally, he relents and adds one final word - “Yet.”

So they DO need a Hunter.

“We don't know yet!” the receptionist protests, quickly lowering his voice to a hiss, “There's been no formal request for aid, and I don't know if there will be one. I've been hearing dark rumours ever since this morning, however. A delivery was due today, a ship coming from the Northern Hunting Grounds, but it's failed to appear. It should have been carrying... specimens.”

Beasts, you guess, for their studies.

“Cadavers, never live samples!” he stresses, “Only... apparently, we can't make contact with the ship. It should be within radio range now, if it's on schedule, but nobody has been able to reach them. As you might expect, there's a lot of bad talk going around. You've heard what sailor say – the kind of nonsense they spread among each other – but it's not just them that are whispering. This time, even educated men are starting to talk.”

“Hey, I heard a story kinda like this, heard a few guys talking about it when we were coming back from Port Steyr,” Lize speaks up, without any indication that she thought her words through before opening her mouth, “They said, it's pretty tricky to keep a dead body in good condition that long. Easier to take live samples and just kill them closer to time. You think maybe one of them could have gotten loose?”

The receptionist pales at her words, as if she had just put a voice to his worst fears. Before he can faint, or burst into fearful tears – either seems like a reasonable possibility – you clear your throat. Regardless, you announce, you're here to do some research. Could he point the way to the archives?

“Yes, yes of course,” swallowing hard, the receptionist points to a corridor behind him, “Head down that way, and follow the signs. If you're looking for the master of the archives, ask for Kessler. If you want anything practical done, ask for Mirrah.”

You've got directions, and some names to ask after – that's all you need. Thanking him, you start to lead Lize away when he speaks up once more.

“Ah, will you be sticking around for a while, Hunter?” he asks, feigning a casual disinterest, “Just... just in case, you understand.”

You'll be around, you reply with a shrug, but not for too long.

[1/2]

>Minor technical problems, excuse the delay.

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>>404119

“So Henryk, what do you think?” Lize asks as you're vanishing down the indicated corridor, “You really think there's a ship full of live beasts out there?”

Doubtful, you reply, you don't buy that story of hers. Even with the difficulty of keeping a corpse in good condition for a week or so, keeping a beast alive that long would be far more inconvenient. They'd need to catch the thing alive, for one – not a particularly easy feat. No, chances are, this is just paranoid speculation. The ice might be uncommonly thick, the radio might be down, there are countless other possibilities. Maybe even northern barbarians, the same kind that sunk Vas' ship.

“I guess,” Lize almost sounds disappointed, “You're probably right. I mean, you're the expert, right?”

Right, you nod as you pat your bag, but you've got this just in case there IS a problem.

“Luggage?” the girl gives your bag a funny look, “I didn't think we'd be staying here long enough to-” She falls silent as you open the bag a little to reveal the shotgun, a fat leather pouch of shells strapped to the side. “Oh, I see,” she clears her throat, “Yeah, I wager that would do it.”

Exactly so.

-

Mirrah and Kessler, the archive's twin attendants, are easy to find – both are in the entrance, quietly debating over some scholarly matter. The best way of organising things, perhaps. Kessler is an old man – perhaps the oldest living man you've ever seen – while Mirrah is a fresh faced apprentice. While the venerable scholar frowns down at a long list of records – his eyes have the filmy look of approaching blindness – Mirrah hurries to meet you.

“Hello, good day,” she nods a greeting, her voice utterly professional, “Welcome to the Colledge archives. Can I assist you with anything?”

There's a matter you're looking to research, you tell her, the ancient Giants and the their northern territories. Is that something-

“Aisle six, section four,” Kessler says immediately, without looking up, “Forgive the dust – conditions here are...” he trails off, fumbling for the right word until finally giving up, a sigh escaping him.

“We don't often get a chance to clean things here,” Mirrah apologises, “I'll show you the way. The Giants, you know, they're something of an interest of mine. Can I ask if you're looking for anything in particular?”

>Maps of their territories, if you have any
>I heard that they had some kind of garden. Do you know anything about that?
>I'd rather check for myself, if you don't mind
>I wanted to ask you something about them... (Write in)
>Other

>>404123
>>Maps of their territories, if you have any
>>I heard that they had some kind of garden. Do you know anything about that?

>>404123
>>Maps of their territories, if you have any
>>I heard that they had some kind of garden. Do you know anything about that?
"It might stray into the 'legend' territory'

>>404123
>>Maps of their territories, if you have any
>>I heard that they had some kind of garden. Do you know anything about that?
legends, ruins, maybe potential forts. Make it sound like we're wondering if the northern barbarians are hiding there.

>>404123
>Maps of their territories, if you have any
>>I heard that they had some kind of garden. Do you know anything about that?

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First of all, you'd like to see a map of their territories if possible – the northernmost lands they fled to.

“Does something like that even exist?” Lize adds, “I mean, I couldn't find any mention of a map back in the capital.”

“Complete maps are very hard to come by,” Mirrah nods, “In fact, we don't have anything that the Giants themselves left behind. We do have some very old maps of the Northern Hunting Grounds, however – rather, we have modern reproductions of them. For the most part, the further north you travel, the less well charted the territories become. There are several theories behind that, actually.” Mirrah pauses at the entrance to one aisle, a brass place with the number six engraved into it marking this as your destination. “The cold, for one thing. Some theories state that the northern lands have been getting colder, so much so that men just can't survive past a certain point. Not for long, at least. For that reason, most journeys into the Northern Hunting Grounds stay close to Port Steyr. Ah, but I'm rambling again...”

Young or old, you think to yourself, scholars are all the same. Brushing a few errant strands of cobweb aside, you follow Mirrah into the aisle, watching closely as she bends to take out a few books. Are there any old ruins in the northern lands, you ask her, old forts where men might hide out? Barbarians, for example...

“There's Port Tyrant – I hear that's what people are calling it these days,” Mirrah spreads out a map on a low table, tapping it with her finger, “Word is, the White Tyrant took it for himself, made a fortress out of it. As for other old buildings, there's the old university, up here.” She touches the upper left of the map.

You've never heard of a university that far north, you mention, it's abandoned?

“It was all before my time,” an apologetic smile touches Mirrah's lips, “But it was quite the disaster. A costly waste of time, resources...” she clears her throat discretely, “Lives.”

“What were they studying, though?” Lize asks, “Snow and ice?”

“The same thing you are, actually – the ancient Giants,” Mirrah licks her lips, “They say that someone else built the university in the first place – the College just reclaimed it – but we never got the chance to study it properly. The first expedition up there was lost, no survivors. Every so often, someone will propose a new expedition, but...” a shrug, as if dismissing the matter as suicide.

You heard once that the Giants had a garden. It might just be a legend, but does she know anything about it?

“Nobody's ever seen it with their own eyes, but I've heard theories about its location,” Mirrah stabs a finger to the map, the upper right corner, “There.”

[1/2]

>>404145
left and right wraparound, right?

.....right?

>>404149

>So we'd have an easier time of it? Of course not!

>>404154
well ain't that dandy?

>>404145

But what is it, you ask, is it really a garden?

“It's... not really something we have a suitable word for,” Mirrah frowns faintly, “The few sources that mention it make it sound like a religious site – something with aspects of a graveyard, a temple, even a sacrificial altar. One theory has it that the Giants never died, but they would grow tired of living – at that point, they would travel to their garden and allow themselves to petrify. Of course, without the chance to study it, these are all just legends and stories. Regardless, we have enough different accounts to piece together a possible location.”

“Hey, what's this?” Lize points a little south of the garden, “Ghruul's Eye? That doesn't sound very friendly...”

“It's said to be a great whirlpool, capable of consuming any ship that passes near it. Of course, you also have more fanciful legends – some say it's a pit down into Hell itself,” Mirrah lets out a nervous chuckle, “I couldn't say for sure, but I'm reasonably certain that's an exaggeration.”

But not totally sure.

“Until it's been objectively proven one way or another, we must leave room for doubt,” Mirrah scolds, “If we start making assumptions and relying on wild guesses, we're no better than the barbarians themselves. I...” she pauses, clearing her throat awkwardly, “Excuse me, I apologise for getting carried away. Ah... did you have anything else you were looking for?”

>Do you happen to know the name “Artemis”?
>I think we're done here. Do you have a copy of this map I could take?
>I had a question for you... (Write in)
>Other

>>404157
>>Do you happen to know the name “Artemis”?

>>404157
>Do you happen to know the name “Artemis”?

>>404157
>>Do you happen to know the name “Artemis”?
Make sure Lize doesn't have any more questions before we leave.

>>404157
>Do you happen to know the name “Artemis”?
>What about any gods unique to the northern areas? Ones that sound like beasts, perhaps?

>>404167
Oh and a copy of the map would be great.

>>404157
>Do you happen to know the name “Artemis”?
>Do you have a copy of this map I could take?

A thought strikes you. Does she recognise the name “Artemis” at all, you ask, has she ever seen it used in legends or stories?

“Artemis? Let me think, Artemis...” Mirrah taps a finger on her lips as she considers your question. Just as you're about to give up and let the issue drop, she snaps her fingers. “There's a temple of Artemis just off the southern tip of the mainland,” she offers, “I've never been, and I've never heard of anyone taking worship there, so I couldn't tell you if it's still active or not. The name itself, though, I'm sure there's something about it that I can't quite recall. Uh, sorry, but I'm not sure how much else I can tell you. Was there something important you wanted to know about it?”

It was just a passing thought, you say with a shrug. Though, it raises another question – does she know anything about gods specific to the northern lands, maybe ones with a connection to beasts?

“The northern gods go without names. Their beliefs state that when something has a name, it becomes fixed in form – and it can be killed. While the northern gods remain nameless, they are eternal and immortal, and yet their powers cannot necessarily be attributed to them. Being nameless has side-effects, yes?” Mirrah's eyes widen, “Ah, but... yes! Wait here, please, just wait!”

You'll wait, you start to say. Before you can get halfway through the first word, though, Mirrah has already dashed off to some other corner of the archive. When she returns, she has a book under her arm, a thick leather-bound tome.

“Funny you should mention Artemis, and then beasts. I knew there was something I couldn't remember,” placing the book down, Mirrah flips to a specific section and reveals a faded image. The picture depicts a leprous human body, with the head and feet replaced by those of a vulture. One of those claw feet, you realise, is stained pure red. “This is a depiction of a spirit – different to a god, although the exact difference eludes me – by the name of Arktis. Said to be a cruel patron of both men and beasts, it tested their strength and devoured the weak. The name Arktis, I think it shares a root with Artemis – our language and the northern tongue aren't too different, you see.”

This spirit, this Arktis – is it evil?

“By the standards of civilised men? I think so, yes,” Mirrah frowns, “It destroyed the weak, but exalted the strong. The northern barbarians might not see it as evil – I'm not convinced they understand the concept of morality – but I see no place in the modern age for a spirit like this. Let it stay in the history books, as far as I'm concerned.”

That's... an interesting viewpoint. You decide not to say much more than that, only speaking up again to ask for a copy of the map she showed you.

“Of course,” Mirrah nods, “We have a great number of copies, so you're free to take one. I'll fetch one for you.” Then she rushes off again, leaving you to think.

[1/2]

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>>404202

When Mirrah returns to you, looking somewhat out of breath from all this running back and forth, she has a sheet of crisp, new paper in her hands. “The map,” she announces as she hands it over, “It might not have as much detail as the larger version, but it should point the way easily enough. I hope that's helped.”

It has, you assure her, it's been very helpful. You glance around at Lize and ask, just to be sure, if she has any questions.

“Uh, I might have one,” Lize pauses, biting her lip as she thinks, “I heard that noble families are living shorter these days. Is that... true?”

“I don't think anyone's done a formal study on it,” Mirrah almost appears reluctant to answer, “But I have seen certain... trends. I wouldn't place too much faith in anything I can tell you here and now, but...”

“But they are,” Lize concludes, “Right?”

Looking increasingly uncertain, Mirrah just nods. Stepping in to try and diffuse the cold, deathly atmosphere, you thank Mirrah for her help again, making a vague gesture to indicate the end of the conversation. The glum mood persists as you say your goodbyes, and even as you're leaving the archives behind you.

Despite her earlier optimism, Lize keeps up a sullen silence as you both return to the College entrance. You can understand her frustration. You've got two possible places to search – one rooted in science, the other in inhuman mysticism – and both are out of reach for now. Maybe when Vas gets his hands on a ship, you can explore freely, but until then...

“Hunter, Mister Hanson!” a panicked voice calls your name. Confusion reigns for a moment, before you remember handing your papers over. The receptionist must have remembered your name. “Sir, we have a situation,” at least he has the good sense to lower his voice as he says this, “The ship, it's... it's appeared. Please, follow me, Professor Wehrlain will want to speak with you.”

You'll hear this Wehrlain out, you warn him, but you're not promising anything.

“Good enough!” the receptionist whines, turning and rushing off, leaving you to follow in his tracks.

-

“I'll keep this brief,” Professor Wehrlain, one of the top minds in the whole College – his claim, not yours – tells you carefully, “Our missing ship has been sighted, drifting without power or any signs of life. I have a few men I trust with this, but if a beast should be involved, having a Hunter on hand would make the process go a lot smoother. If you're willing to go, I can have a boat prepared to take you out.”

Sounds like a real mess, you think, but at least you came prepared.

“Can I rely on you to do your duty?” Wehrlain asks, waiting for your response.

>You can rely on me
>I'm not here officially, you'll have to send a formal request
>I want to ask you about this missing ship... (Write in)
>Other

>>404222
>>You can rely on me

>>404222
>Get your men ready. I want to see a filled out format request ready to be filed when we head out.

>>404222
>You can rely on me
>I want to ask you about this missing ship... (Write in)
All the details about the ship. How much crew they have, what they are supposed to be carrying, etc.

>>404222

>You can rely on me
We are a Hunter, and thus, we do Hunters work.

>>404222
>>404228
This

>>404222
Press him a little, see if we can sneak something out. But assure him you'll do it according to >>404228
>I'm not here officially, you'll have to send a formal request

>>404222
>>I want to ask you about this missing ship
The purpose of it's mission for starter

>>404231
>>404228
These 2

You're going to need some details, you begin, everything he can tell you about this ship. How many crew were on board, for one thing, and what kind of cadaver were they supposed to be transporting?

“I'm given to understand that the ship in question had a dozen men on board – armed men,” Wehrlain grimaces a little, as if talk of men and guns displeases him, “Their cargo was a single dead beast, lupine in form. We require such specimens regularly, for dissection and study, but I've never encountered a problem like this. The ship must have made it through the pack ice sealing the northern passage, only to fall silent soon after. A live beast wouldn't have been able to plan this carefully.”

Very well, you decide, you'll do your duty. There's just one condition – you want a formal request ready by the time his men are ready and you need to leave. You want this kept on the record.

“I understand,” Wehrlain looks perversely pleased by that, eager to fill out some forms, “It is important to follow proper procedure, after all.” Rummaging in a desk drawer for a moment, he produces a form and a quill – as archaic and foppish as the rest of his outfit – and prepares to get started.

You'll take that as a hint – it's time to get ready.

-

Lize makes this one easy for you. When you give her the explanation of what you're going to be doing, her response is both brief and blunt. “I ain't going,” she says with a firm shake of her head, “That doesn't even sound slightly safe.”

You're inclined to agree with her, and the three men that Wehrlain was able to assemble – three paltry men, armed with rifles and nervous expressions – don't look like they're about to argue either. At least you're not going to have to convince her to stay behind this time.

“I trust everything is in order?” Wehrlain asks as he hands over a fully detailed request for assistance, “I've sent word ahead to Sophita, and there should be a ship waiting for when you arrive. I eagerly await your return, and whatever news you bring. Oh, and if possible...”

Yes, you ask with vague dismay, what else?

“Returning the specimen intact would be ideal,” a thin smile touches Wehrlain's lips, “If it's not too much trouble.”

Scholars. They're all the same.

-

The bus journey passes in silence, save for the chugging of the struggling engine. The three armed men betray their inexperience with every nervous look and awkward shuffle, and you start to wonder if they'll be any help at all. Maybe they'll be more of a hindrance than anything else, getting in your way and tripping over their own feet.

Amateurs, you think as you recall Nero Zelkova, you hate dealing with amateurs.

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