Closed [Scarred Wolf] Family Tree Roots (Fallon)

[Orin Fenix]

53rd of Summer, 517AV

It was rare for Orin to find himself in the second tier of Riverfall. This tier had a lot of wonderful places to visit, for sure, but since the chef didn't really find himself going out that much, there wasn't much reason for him to descend the steps into the city below. In fact, Orin could count the locations he typically visited on the fingers of one hand: The Almond Blossom, the Azurite Watchtower, the Kendoka and Tuvya Sasarans, and the Valkalah Library. Sure, that seemed like a limited number of options but Orin wasn't the type of person who found himself needing luxuries. He'd grown up in a farming community after all and lived in Syliras after that, so simply to have an apartment of his own and access to the open air was enough for the chef. So, the reason for his current visit to the lower level of the city was quite unusual.

Orin had overheard Korana talking about a newly opened business, some sort of investigative services. Apparently the reason it had come to her attention was because a human woman owned it, an anomaly in a city of Akalaks. Korana was all for more women starting shops, but Orin’s boss was worried about the new business having trouble finding customers. At that, an idea started percolating in the chef’s mind. He'd done a bit of snooping of his own, but didn't manage to find out all that much, probably a testament to his own lack of skills in the investigative arts. All he'd managed to discover was that it was called Scarred Wolf Investigations and that you could make appointments. When Orin had decided to take a chance and go to the shop in person before his own work at The Almond Blossom the day before, he'd discovered that it was locked, but people had left notes in a basket by the door. Orin didn't hear anyone inside, so he'd left a note in the basic himself, asking for an appointment for today. He'd return at a more reasonable hour of the day. As both a chef and a former farmer Orin was used to keeping long hours that got him up before most people and got him to sleep later than most people.

Hoping that whoever this woman was she'd actually have time to see him today, Orin made his way to the location of her shop. He'd asked for and received the day off from Korana, who had seemed surprised by the request. Usually the issue was keeping Orin out of the kitchen, and Orin didn't know if he'd actually asked for a day off before. However, the questions in Orin’s mind needed answers.

The chef had unconsciously chosen to dress in his old brown shirt, brown pants and plain boots, remnants from his days in Syliras. His knives were strapped to his hips, although he'd left his throwing knives at home, as it was unlikely he'd need them here. His mother’s carving knife was tucked into the pack he'd brought along. It was Orin’s only link to his family and family was what brought him out here today. After seeing an image, or apparition of his father earlier this season, Orin had found himself plagued with thoughts of his past. He'd had an unhappy childhood that had translated into an unhappy life, although nowadays his circumstances were much improved and he could get through a day without breaking down. Still, seeing his father had been a shock and had brought back unpleasant memories.

It had also made Orin come to a crucial realization. The chef knew nothing about his family. He'd always assumed that his father was an only child but he didn't even know that. His mother had died giving birth to him, and her loss had so shattered Orin’s father that the man had taken it out on the person who stole her away, namely, Orin. So Orin’s family history was a complete mystery to him, and he'd never asked about it before. In fact, it had almost been drilled into him that his mother was not to be mentioned, and that training had apparently carried over into adulthood. Well, Orin was tired of letting his abusive and bitter father dictate his actions. He'd find out more about his mother by whatever means necessary.

Approaching the door, Orin saw once again the knocker, a wolf, of course, and the plaque. As he had yesterday, the chef shivered. Wolf. Livestock’s bane. Apparently you could take the child out of the farming community but not the farming community out of the man. It didn't seem like a good portent for the upcoming search for Orin’s family, but the chef was trying to withhold judgement until he'd actually met with the investigator.

Pushing inside, Orin had to let his eyes adjust from the bright sunlight to the slightly dimmer light inside. It gave him a chance to examine the office. The walls were bare, polished, and smooth save for a few sconces strategically placed for warmth and light. There were two chairs, with a small table between them. Further on was a rug, leading up to a massive desk, one of the largest Orin had ever seen. It dominated the room, its carved legs leading to clawed feet. Dimly, Orin noticed more furnishings, shelves and whatnot, but with his eyes still dazzled by the sunlight and the sheer presence of the desk the chef wasn't really paying attention to much else.

Orin stopped just inside the doorway, uncertainty gripping him. “Ah, hello? M’name’s Orin Fenix.” His hesitance came only slightly from the New and different surroundings. Half of Orin was unsure that he really wanted to go down this path. He wasn't sure what secrets it would uncover, and since his past had already come back to hurt him this season, the chef wasn't sure that he would be able to recover from more. Still, this investigator would take a great deal of time to find anything, if there was anything to find, which would give Orin ample time to prepare for the worst. “I think I have an appointment? I mean, I left one of those notes in the basket yesterday but I don't know if you have time now or if you saw it or if that was the right thing to do.” The chef shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other, half ready to bolt out the door at a moment’s notice. “I can come back at a later date?” he offered tentatively.

[Fallon]

There was a quiet sifting through notes, pages being shuffled and her brow creased in calculation. The basket had proven effective, of a sort, allowing the leaving of letters within. A small networking of information bloomed from them, allowing her to piece together the very nature of the city itself. The fact that a majority of the missives left were in turn advertisement was another matter all together. Courses that would be running come the autumn, notices of celebrations late into the season, even of performances that would be occurring a popular locations. Riverfall was indeed a city rich in culture and tastes, enjoying a keen mind and one which could experience all manner of flavours. Most of these however would end up destroyed. She was unsure yet if she could dedicate time to such, a shame in some regards but that was the nature of work.

Still, it did not mean she would let Salara suffer the same fate. The woman may have been an apprentice, but she was also entitled to fun.

After the adverts came the letters. One was signed by a representative of merchants, requesting to book an appointment some time in the future. She briefly scanned the outline of the contents, noting the names, before nodding to herself. It was tied to a string of thefts within the bazar, relatively straight forward she imagined. Gather evidence, work alongside the authority. If her time of doing so in Zeltiva was any indicator, then such would prove constructive to her position and improve standing.

The other letter was written in scrawled ink. Her eyes blinked a few times as she tried to piece her way around it. Investigation request once more, though highly unspecified in nature. A name was left, one Orin Fenix – certainly did not sound like an Akalak name. Fallon paused, fingers drumming upon the desk with her mind working through what she did know. The lacking context suggested it was personal in nature, something wanting to be avoided in written word. Perhaps it was a disgruntled lover, or suspecting cheating. Dishonesty was always possible, more so in a city with significantly more men. The inspector licked her lips, shifting and pulling her notebook before her. She turned to a fresh page, scrawling the date at the top, a name quickly underneath. There the quill was lowered, and the inspector was left hunched over. She folded the letter, marking the page in her notebook before drinking from her cup. It was nothing more than water, the pitcher in the corner filled with the same liquid – she had yet to decide upon the other drinks of the city.

Shifting, Fallon eased herself out of the office chair and to the window it backed upon. Hands grasped behind her back, she listened to the distant sound of rushing water, the gaze looking out to the plunge pool and then the ocean. She was dressed in her usual attire, tunic featuring a collection of knotwork, kukri at her waist, gloves covering her hands. Order and cleanliness was a requirement – more so to maintain an air of professionalism. The fact she maintained and continued to look like a foreigner was another issue all together. Not that she allowed herself to dwell upon it, she enjoyed the novelty and it made it a talking point. Information would spread about the outsider who owned a business, the one who claimed her Kuvan status with speed. Her wrist gave an uncomfortable itch, before she heard the door click.

Fallon did not look back, instead she continued focusing her gaze forward. Whoever it was did not knock, and part of that made her twitch. She licked her lips, hearing the voice – Sylirian, Male, Young adult? – sheepishly announce itself. Introduction quickly informed her of who it was, her mind trickling back to the note that was left. The faith tells in voice only continued to make him sound nervous, clearly feeling his way around the situation and the somewhat intimidating office. It was her symbol of power, her lair, while she was the wolf who lingered within. Her thumb and forefinger grasped upon the bridge of her nose, before she gave a small tilt of the head back to look at him.

Scruffy. Has good on him. All his worldly possessions? exhaling she let the rolling lilt of her voice escape, ”Please knock next time, Mister Fenix. This is a place of business and you may not be the only client I am attending to at any given time.”

She pivoted on her heel, boots squeaking on stone. Her hand gestured for him to take one of the chairs, while she herself stood standing, ”But, you are in luck and I am available for this meeting. Sit, make yourself comfy, we shall discuss that which needs to be.” Her eyes glanced down to the letter, mind working its way through the process, ”You were vague in what exactly your needs were. Is it wrong to presume it is something of a more personal nature?” she approached the desk, fingers tracing the surface, ”I am a believer of client confidentiality, Mister Fenix. I will keep almost more information quiet where possible, unless it involves illegal activities – then it is my right to report them. You understand this of course?” A small drum, she cleared her throat to continue, ”So, how may I, inspector Skylar of the Scarred Wolf Investigations be of service to you today?” She paused, blinked and looked to the pitcher, ”And forgive manners, but drink? Though, all I have available here is water presently. Other drinks are… absent from me at present.”

[Orin Fenix]

A woman finally came into view, and Orin was shocked that he’d missed her before. Her presence filled the office, and the chef found himself taking a moment simply to examine her. She was shorter than he was, but still tall for a woman and looked human. She appeared to be about his age, or perhaps even younger, which surprised him, as it was unusual enough for a woman to be running a business here, let alone one so young. She had pale skin to match his, although her hair was lighter and wilder, even though she obviously attempted to keep it tamed. A knotwork tunic couldn’t hide her athletic, if slim frame. A strange blade hung at her waist. Her hands were gloved and sharp, professional looking boots completed the ensemble. Everything about her screamed that she cared deeply about appearances and Orin regretted that he hadn’t spent more time on his own grooming.

Even though this woman was smaller than Orin, she seemed to loom larger than life, and Orin found himself shrinking down, shoulders hunch, afraid of her retribution. He’d already messed this process up, as he was half afraid he would. “My apologies,” he offered, voice shaky. “I didn’t realize about the, ah, procedure. Or protocol. However you want to call it. Although I really should’ve, y’know what with the giant door knocker and all that. I can be careless that way. Next, time, for sure, I promise and I’m aware that your other customers obviously take priority.” If there even was a next time, that was. Orin didn’t know if he could willingly make himself come back here unless it was for a very good reason. He was beginning to regret it immensely, but he’d come out all this way, and he didn’t want to waste any more of this woman’s time unless he absolutely had to. Beyond that, the chef knew that his request was probably a silly one, of a personal nature, and unlikely to bear fruit at that. Still, he knew that he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he walked out that door and didn’t even try to find out more about his family’s past. For that to happen, though, he should probably stop babbling. It was hard though, as simply being in this woman’s presence caused shivers to go down his spine, and if felt as if he wanted to flee, or, if backed into a corner, fight.

The woman gestured him forward and Orin forced himself to enter into the office which he was increasingly beginning to think of as her lair. “Thanks for taking the time to see me. I’m sure you’re busy? How’re you settling in? Do you need anything?” The chef was nervous, and when he was nervous it translated into him making awkward small talk, although he was genuinely curious as to this woman’s adjustment to Riverfall. Despite the time he’d spent here, Orin still felt like an outsider most of the time, although it had gotten better since he’d become a Kuvan. The woman, who bore her own tattoo, would have an even harder time, as her lilting accent which the chef couldn’t quite place marked her clearly as a foreigner. Of course, Orin still sounded like one too, but women were treated oddly in Riverfall.

The chef remained standing, not wanting to sit before she did, and also wanting to leave himself freedom of movement, not entirely comfortable in her presence yet. “Lucky guess,” he responded, chuckling to release some of the tension he felt. “Yes, it’s a silly personal request. I’m sorry, as I said I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I can write it down for you if that would be easier. I mean, it’s probably a bit complicated to explain.” Orin rubbed his hands together. Perhaps not all of his discomfort stemmed from her. Just thinking about the past was painful, and he’d spent most of his life avoiding it. So actively talking about it was always tough and seeking to learn more was perhaps more daunting than he’d realized it would be. “Whichever mode of communication you prefer, I suppose.”

When she brought up client confidentiality and illegal activities the chef actually laughed. “I’m about the least likely person to break the law. I don’t even go anywhere much beyond work and my home – although I’ve been spending more time at the Sasarans and the Library lately – so I don’t even know which laws I would break. Which…is irrelevant. I’m sorry. I tend to talk too much, nervous habit that I’ve never been able to break. It’s good to know my secrets are safe with you.” It was him that Orin was worried about, as he was getting closer to a breakdown and only sheer force of will was preventing it.

She was continuing to ask him how she could help and Orin kept feeling the words die on his lips. He was a coward, that was it, one who was not willing to confront even the smallest notion of his past. It was pathetic, really, and no doubt this inspector was already feeling the need to get rid of him. “It’s nice to meet you, Inspector Fallon.” His words came automatically, the polite response drilled into by years of fear and pain. If he was impolite, he was beaten, after all, or left without food. So, above all, the chef sought not to make people mad, even at the expense of his own sanity.

As Fallon apologized for not having a better selection of drinks, Orin focused on her, brightening up a little. This was a safe, neutral topic that he was actually probably well versed in, something of a rarity. “Water is fine for me, but I have to ask: what do you usually drink? Is it wine? Or tea? If it’s tea we can go out and get some and I can boil some water, surely. Or are you a beer drinker.” Realizing that he’d never actually explained why he was asking, Orin decided to backtrack in his inquiry. “I’m a chef, see, by trade so I have some experience with where you can get various food and drink around the city. And since you’re new I thought I could help you. Especially if you’re helping me, it seems fair.” The chef shrugged. “Of course, I’ll pay you as well.” He didn’t know how much it would be but his seasons at The Almond Blossom had finally paid off.

[Fallon]

Work always called for a professional look. A sign of competence in the field of study. There was something reassuring she found about dressing crisply and smartly, it instilled an air of reassurance to the client. For victims however it created insecurity, a threat, and something not to be tangled with.

Outside the work place and a time of her own leisure however was an entirely different matter.

There was a long, drawn out silence. The orbs of the inspector moved, narrowing and focusing as they studied the aspects of his face. The rest of her did not move, outwardly at least. No inside the machinations were coming together, analytical and relentless in their motions. She had put him on the back foot with ease, no strain of effort with her direct manner of speaking. And so, she would continue to adopt such throughout this meeting. Her gaze followed him as he took a seat, but did not take her own. No, she was far too amused by him stumbling over his words and attempts at small talk. Not that she showed that in her ever neutral mask.

A few well placed steps and she was around the other side of the desk. She leaned against it, hands planted firmly on the surface before she began to answer his questions, ”I am occupied, but not busy. My cases are few. But that is to be expected given circumstance. I am, after all, a stranger in town.” Her gaze slid to the pitcher of water on her desk and the collection of small iron tumblers. Taking both up she closed the distance, offering him the empty cup before promptly filling it. She returned quickly to her point of lurking at the desk, ”I believe I am settling in well enough. A season or two and I shall be truly in the motions of it all. Anything? No. Not presently. I have the necessary resources at my disposal. Time however will tell otherwise.” With that she offered a shrug followed by a low chuckle, ”For one who wishes for a service you advertise your own a lot. But, I shall divulge for a moment.”

“Tea is the normal choice. The manner of its making tells a lot of the person. It is energising without being overpowering, and refreshing in many a circumstance. Normally I would partake in such an offer, but right now I am working and thus remain to the duty at hand. You understand this too, do you not? One does not simply stop in the middle of cooking to indulge in a pleasure, it brings risk to the final product. The same is with my work,” a brief lick of lips, she let neutrality return once more. Her gloved hands picked up her book and she claimed her quill, ”I like to focus upon it until it is complete. I thank you for the kind offer however.”

“So, Mister Fenix. A few questions for record sake on the chance I need to get in contact with you or something I’ll occurs,” the nib clinked in the ink vial when she dipped it, ”Your current place of residence and work? Your current employment is one as a chef, correct? Your preferred method of final report, as in do you prefer verbal or written documentation? Your preferred method of payment, for example a value up front or paid in instalments? Finally are you doing this as a representative for a unit, or is it solely for you?”

The quill scratched on the page in response to his answers, before pausing. A quick scan of her notes she had nothing left to do but move to the crux of the situation. The why he was here, ”I can understand how topics of a personal nature can be hard or difficult to attend to, but in order to even assess and quote a price I must know the requirements. So, with due respect Mister Fenix, what do you require? What is it you are looking for?” Keep it clean, keep it professional. She did not have time to allow for sentiment to get in the way of her work. No it was best to look at this from an entirely analytical perspective, ”I cannot even fathom beginning to help you if you do not help me first. So, please, give me a direction in which to focus on.”