Death in the Park
Night of the 47th of Autumn, 519 AV
It seemed such unfortunate events always took place in the darkest of the night, and what more perfect time than when there was a near guarantee that almost every citizen of Lhavit would be curled up in bed somewhere, catching a few bells of reprieve before life resumed? It wasn't quite the midnight rest when the Alheas Crone met her demise; she had seen it coming, had prepared, but foresight did not always allow for the best outcome.
However, just as these terrible things were always planned for beneath Leth's light and within the shadows, there were also always those who did not follow the expected cycle for one reason or another. Cala's killer was long, long gone by the time the midnight rest ticked over into its end, careful to clear their path behind them and leave the scene as undisturbed as a murder could be. But others were just stumbling upon the scene.
They all had their own reasons for being within the Park so late at night, just as the midnight rest was ending, perhaps alone or together; maybe it was a restless night, or they were stretching their legs or getting fresh air, or perhaps they had their own deeds to do. Regardless, they would all find their steps being drawn the same way. Perhaps it was chance, perhaps fate; that they unknowingly weaved a certain path, or perhaps it was something else, the glowing of the prismflies and occasional calls of owls leading them, luring them towards where the blood was still drying in the grass.
One way or another, they would all stumble across the scene, perhaps at the same time but certainly not long after each other. It was eerily quiet in the immediate area, the scene before them remarkably and so very wrongly calm. The Crone's shack was in view, sitting still, and mere steps away from the porch lay the Alheas Crone herself, face down in the grass and unmoving, one arm outstretched as if she had been running, reaching for something. The gentle multi-hued glow of prismflies lit the area in a ranging spectrum of lights, casting an unearthly quality over the scene.
The grass glowed a gentle blue-green-pink-orange beneath the lights of the insects; it slowly faded into a darker colour near the Crone, the blood that had spilled pooling in the grass around her, dying it almost black in the moonlight, still slightly damp as it seeped into the ground.
Cala did not move; she was perfectly still, unbreathing. If touched, her body, the already cold blood of a snake running through her veins, would be icy cold; she had clearly been there for at least some time, though not too long. The door to the shack behind her hung open, ajar and just slightly off its hinges, a gaping maw into the blackness of the fortune teller's home within.
If any of those who were there, shock wearing off and investigation being launched, were to roll the Crone's corpse over, Cala's eyes would stare unblinkingly upwards, unseeing, her lips only slightly parted as if she had been about to say something. Her headscarf and jewelry were askew, and the front of her clothing was drenched in still-drying blood, the tacky substance sticking to her skin and around the deep stab wound in her stomach. The sudden heavy, sickening smell of drying blood filled the air, cloying and sharp all at once, sickly sweet yet metallic.
On her forehead, drawn clumsily, perhaps by the killer's own fingers, was the mage marking symbol. It was slightly smeared, not perfect but recognizable, and this time it was very clearly drawn in Cala's own lifeblood, dried against her skin, not any sort of paint trick that was meant to resemble blood.
Silence reigned, thick and heavy, except for whatever words were exchanged between those who had stumbled upon the gruesome scene. For some, it was not the first time they had found a body in the Park, bathed in shadows and moonlight and blood, the smell of death thick in the air. For others, it was a shockingly new sight; for all, it was still grim and horrifying.
However, just as these terrible things were always planned for beneath Leth's light and within the shadows, there were also always those who did not follow the expected cycle for one reason or another. Cala's killer was long, long gone by the time the midnight rest ticked over into its end, careful to clear their path behind them and leave the scene as undisturbed as a murder could be. But others were just stumbling upon the scene.
They all had their own reasons for being within the Park so late at night, just as the midnight rest was ending, perhaps alone or together; maybe it was a restless night, or they were stretching their legs or getting fresh air, or perhaps they had their own deeds to do. Regardless, they would all find their steps being drawn the same way. Perhaps it was chance, perhaps fate; that they unknowingly weaved a certain path, or perhaps it was something else, the glowing of the prismflies and occasional calls of owls leading them, luring them towards where the blood was still drying in the grass.
One way or another, they would all stumble across the scene, perhaps at the same time but certainly not long after each other. It was eerily quiet in the immediate area, the scene before them remarkably and so very wrongly calm. The Crone's shack was in view, sitting still, and mere steps away from the porch lay the Alheas Crone herself, face down in the grass and unmoving, one arm outstretched as if she had been running, reaching for something. The gentle multi-hued glow of prismflies lit the area in a ranging spectrum of lights, casting an unearthly quality over the scene.
The grass glowed a gentle blue-green-pink-orange beneath the lights of the insects; it slowly faded into a darker colour near the Crone, the blood that had spilled pooling in the grass around her, dying it almost black in the moonlight, still slightly damp as it seeped into the ground.
Cala did not move; she was perfectly still, unbreathing. If touched, her body, the already cold blood of a snake running through her veins, would be icy cold; she had clearly been there for at least some time, though not too long. The door to the shack behind her hung open, ajar and just slightly off its hinges, a gaping maw into the blackness of the fortune teller's home within.
If any of those who were there, shock wearing off and investigation being launched, were to roll the Crone's corpse over, Cala's eyes would stare unblinkingly upwards, unseeing, her lips only slightly parted as if she had been about to say something. Her headscarf and jewelry were askew, and the front of her clothing was drenched in still-drying blood, the tacky substance sticking to her skin and around the deep stab wound in her stomach. The sudden heavy, sickening smell of drying blood filled the air, cloying and sharp all at once, sickly sweet yet metallic.
On her forehead, drawn clumsily, perhaps by the killer's own fingers, was the mage marking symbol. It was slightly smeared, not perfect but recognizable, and this time it was very clearly drawn in Cala's own lifeblood, dried against her skin, not any sort of paint trick that was meant to resemble blood.
Silence reigned, thick and heavy, except for whatever words were exchanged between those who had stumbled upon the gruesome scene. For some, it was not the first time they had found a body in the Park, bathed in shadows and moonlight and blood, the smell of death thick in the air. For others, it was a shockingly new sight; for all, it was still grim and horrifying.
