Beneath the Dragoneye Moons

It was a dark and stormy night. Detective Fenrir, Private Weyevern, was deep in his office-lair, surrounded by piles of unpaid bills. He’d done a few favors for the [Landlady] over the years, and was at no risk of being evicted.

The fact that none of the bills had Fenrir’s name on them never once crossed his mind. His teeth delicately wrapped around a barrel of whiskey, and with one quick tilt of his head, he swallowed the entire thing whole.

The whiskey was just like life. Full of splinters, and it burned the whole way down. Burned like his old flame, who’d left with nothing more than a tip of her hat and a promise she’d be back one day.

That had been months, nay, years ago. He despaired of ever seeing her again.

Thunder rumbled, and a bolt of lightning crackled down right in front of the opening of his cave, briefly blinding and illuminating. When the bolt faded, a soaked dame, dripping water onto his floor, was inside his office. Her presence cast shadows that danced along the walls with a life of their own. Her dress clung to her like a whispered secret, her eyes holding the depths of the night sky. Mysterious, inscrutable. Her hair cascaded down like the waves of the endless ocean, promising naught but fathomless depths that all would get lost in, and stories untold. Her lips were painted with the first blush of a blood moon, and she smelled of expensive wines and cheap perfume. She was danger and desire, a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

Her composure briefly flickered like the last light of day when she saw Fenrir, but she quickly put herself back together. She boldly strode forward, her shoes clicking against the stone floor like the ticking of a clock counting down to disaster.

“I’ve got a case for you.” Her voice was a mix of desperation and determination. “Man I work for - Mendaxus - is an up-and-coming politician with enemies. The kind of enemies lurking in shadows deeper than the ones we’re in. They didn’t like what he was saying, and tried to silence him - permanently.”

Fenrir worked a splinter of the barrel between his teeth. He’d heard all this before. It was just how the world worked.

“I need someone who isn’t afraid to navigate the murky waters of the city’s underbelly, someone who can find out who’s behind it and why. The guards are a dead end, they’re just as entangled in this as everyone else. I need someone else. Someone different. Independent. Someone who can get to the truth of the matter.”

It wouldn’t make a difference in the grand scheme of things, but a case was a case. For all Fenrir knew, tomorrow the parties trying to silence the politician would be knocking on his door, asking for his help. It was all the same.

As long as the money was good, he’d do it.

It was clear that The Spider’s absence had emboldened the criminal elements. They knew they could get away with it, and without The Spider to keep them in line, it fell to Fenrir.

“I don’t care what it takes or what houses you need to burn down,”

Fenrir snorted, letting an Icy blast coat the dame, instantly stiffening her dress as it froze. Her teeth chattered as she finished her plea. Her voice softened, but the iron in her eyes never dimmed.

“Just find who’s trying to kill hope in this city before it’s too late.”

She straightened up, the distant lights of Sanguino backlighting her like the last flickering candle of the city.

Fenrir grabbed a second barrel of whiskey, throwing it back with a motion as sharp as the broken glass that littered the streets of the city.

“Alright.” He growled, activating the runes etched on his body, shrinking himself down to a more manageable size. “Show me.”

Chaos and Order had both visited the scene of the crime. An unnatural stillness lay over it all. The podium, once a beacon of hope and change, now stood silent and splintered, a solitary witness to the violence that had pierced the morning’s calm. A sniper’s shot, aimed with deadly intent and malicious intentions, had shattered more than just the speech; it had shattered the illusion of safety in a city teetering on the brink.

The ground was littered with debris of panic. A doll, dropped in haste from a child’s arms then ruthlessly stomped on by the careless members of the city fleeing the violence. A lunch wrap, starting to rot from the inside out like the city itself. Splashes of water coated the place like there’d been a rainstorm, and flecks of blood were everywhere, from a thousand different bodies. A tribute demanded by the city, a tribute unwillingly given. Fenrir sniffed at a bottle that had been carelessly tossed, judging whoever had left it behind for their poor taste in alcohol.

Still, he couldn’t afford to be discerning, and his favorite beer had always been free. A snap of his teeth, the biting sting of broken glass the only way he could feel alive once again.

There was nothing to be found in the remnants of the crowd, scattered like their hopes had been.

He flapped up to the podium, noting circles upon circles of runes engraved into the stone, a central spot dedicated to an arcanite core. It was as empty as the city’s soul. The runes were written in an elaborate, curving script, a language only the elites knew and deliberately kept to themselves. Just another way the rich and powerful could screw over everyone else.

Fenrir snorted, looking around more. There were no traces of the bullet that had been fired, but his race and element let him know deep in his bones what had happened.

It had been an Ice spear. A crafty weapon from a crafty assassin, who knew the evidence would melt away just like he would once the sun came up. Fenrir got down on his feet and wings, closely examining the traces of the Ice, working out the pattern written in water and blood. He traced spot after spot, working out the angle the spear had come from, then looking down a wide and straight street.

Either the shooter was an expert shot, or he’d curved the attack. Fenrir would work out which it was.

Something bothered him about the whole thing. Something was wrong about it all. A part of it didn’t make sense, and Fenrir couldn’t put claw nor tooth on the issue.

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With a flap of his mighty wings, Fenrir took off, his keen eyes looking for any detail off. Anything wrong. An open window, a smoking ring.

The road was long and straight, and three miles away he hit the end, in a wall of apartments in a part of town that couldn’t quite be described as bad, but somewhere nobody who had other options went to. A few sparks of hope glimmered among the overarching miasma of poverty and despair.

There was an open window, runes still shining in the light. Fenrir dove down, trying to unobtrusively get in to take a look before some overeager guard ruined the entire scene.

And speak of the guard - they were here, barring his access. Almost like they’d been told to expect him, and deny him entry. Like everything else in this city, it smelled.

Their reasoning was flimsy and weak. ‘Too high level.’ ‘Not an elvenoid.’ ‘Children live here’. ‘What’s a monster doing here?’ ‘Call the Rangers!’ ‘No, call the Sentinels!’

Hanging his head and his hat, Fenrir stalked away, knowing a setup when he smelled one. Everything they said had been an excuse. Calling him a monster, bah. The real monsters were the ones they saw in the mirror every day.

He’d just have to find another way to get in.

Fenrir figured he only needed a minute to pick up the scent then be gone. He was no stranger to breaking and entering. It was half the reason the dame had picked him. He’d get to the bottom of this, he’d bring the ugly truth to the surface kicking and screaming, and damn everyone who got in his way.

He flew up, up, up, into the Ashen skies that displayed the city’s soot-coated heart to anyone looking from miles away, a glaring warning of what dirty deeds went on in the city’s center. Not even the sun could bear to see the ugliness of the city.

With a screaming dive, he shot down, breaking through the window and wall, into the sniper’s nest. Screams and alarms sounded, and Fenrir knew he only had a few precious seconds before the fuzz would try to take him out.

A room with no furniture. Doubtlessly rented under a false name and abandoned. Tobacco stubs littered the room, another mandala with elegant runes, and the sweet scent of ink, sweat, and blood.

A vampire had been here and feeding. The plot thickened like sewage. Fenrir was sniffing around, making sure he got the scent properly as the door slammed open, the coppers yelling.

“Stop the monster!” ‘Kill it!”

Of course it was a hit. Arrest? Due process? Couldn’t due process a body - nor did dead men tell any tales. Naturally they wanted to silence him, and stop the truth from ever getting out.

Fenrir jumped out the open hole in the building, trusting that a passing hay bale could take his weight… and that his wings would let him fly.

The guards hadn’t been able to silence him, but he hadn’t been able to track the assassin very far. The list of people who could take a three-mile shot was as slim as his leads.

It was time to call in a few favors. The dame wasn’t worth it, but his reputation was on the line, and he had bills to pay.

It was time to visit The Spider.

Red embers glowed on a secluded stretch of sand, a private beach where every seashell whispered secrets. Those in the know saw it just like a spider’s web, catching all manner of things - secrets, lies, and people looking for both.

She was stretched languidly on a chaise longue, an oasis of calm in the sweltering heat of the afternoon. Her name was Susan, but nobody called her that. She wore a wide-brimmed hat that shielded her from the embers and the world, a barrier and an accessory. Her swimsuit was a bloody shade of red. It was rumored that it had started off white, and every time she killed a man, she added a single drop of blood to it. The heat simmered, yet appeared not to touch her in the slightest.

She was The Spider, and a mouse couldn’t sneeze in Sanguino without her knowing about it.

Fenrir landed nearby, his figure casting a long shadow as he watched her. There was no surprise on her face, no indication that his arrival was unexpected.

“You’re standing in my light.” She said, not taking her eyes off the endless Ashen clouds above them. “Move.”

Couldn’t refuse a reasonable request, not when Fenrir had come hat-in-claw to cash in a favor. He shifted over, and explained the problem.

The Spider laughed when he was done.

“Oh, that! Well, I’m not going to spill all the secrets just because you asked nicely. I will point you in the right direction. Ask yourself this - who benefited? Now shoo, I am on vacation, and I’m not letting oversized lizards ruin it, protege or no.”

Fenrir stalked away, pulling his hat low down over his eyes. It hadn’t been an answer, and The Spider as much as said that she did know who did it, but it was a direction. An angle to play.

Who benefited?

The obvious answer was the political rivals. The other ones running for the same senate seat as the politician. An easy way to win an election was to make sure he was the only one in the running. Long live democracy. Assassinate rivals until ‘democratically’ elected dictator for life.

The attempt was still bothering Fenrir.

He had a lead now, and it was time to talk with the man in question whose life had almost been snuffed out like a desperately guttering candle. It was time to find out who the other players in the game were, the hidden puppet masters pulling the strings. Who else could make sure the guards were in the right place at the right time, than another politician greasing the right palms?

It was all starting to come together, and it painted exactly the type of picture Fenrir expected to see.

It took some tracking down to find the man in question, but Fenrir was able to get it done. Private guards swarmed around his headquarters, quadruple the usual number. Unsurprising, given how many people were trying to silence his voice in the world.

Naturally, they barred his path.

“You can’t come in.” They said, spears crossing the door and physically barring his entry. “Mendaxus is in an important meeting.”

Ha. More important than his life? Fenrir muscled his way past them, ignoring both their protests and sharp steel that broke against his scales, like a toddler trying to punch a gladiator. He slammed the door to the meeting room open, witnessing a heavy pouch of gemstones trading hands between two men.

Corruption. Of course. It was no surprise to Fenrir, and it didn’t bother him at all. The one in the fancy toga was Mendaxus, who smelled of expensive oils and indulgent lifestyles. The fat vampire didn’t have a single callus on his hands, and he smelled of ink and blood.

“Who are you!?” The vampire yelled, the pouch of gems vanishing into his clothes. “Help! Monster!”

Hang on. Ink and blood? Fenrir growled as he prowled forward, sniffing the man deeply. A spell started to get drawn in the air, but with a sharp bite Fenrir snapped it like a guard beating a protestor. He pounced, pinning the assassin.

“He did it.” Fenrir growled, his teeth opening wide over the vampire’s head. “I can make this all disappear if you don’t want to involve the guard.”

“HELP!” The vampire screamed. “Murder!”

“The only murderer here is you.” Fenrir growled. Mendaxus was sneaking along the edge of the room, a coward to the end. No surprise there. Politicians were great at making sure everyone else spilled their blood first.

“I didn’t murder anyone!” He blathered, trying desperately to buy his life with words. “The secretary hired me! It was supposed to be good advertising for my barriers! Save your life against anything! I get more business, Mendaxus gets the popularity from being an almost-martyr, everyone wins!”

Fenrir reeled back like he was struck, a few oddities that hadn’t made sense suddenly falling into place for him.

The assassination attempt. It had only been one shot. Any assassin who’d graduated beyond drinking milk knew about shields and barriers, and would fire at least two attacks. One to break the shield, and a second to get the job done.

The Spider hadn’t suggested who would’ve benefited. She’d asked who had benefitted, and from a failed assassination attempt, Mendaxus had been the clear winner. Mendaxus, and whoever this enchanter was.

Fenrir roared in frustration and realization, a blast of Lightning and Ice taking off the top of the headquarters. With furious flaps of his wings, he flew back home.

The case was over, closed. Done. Finished.

There was nothing left to do.

It had been a setup. The whole time, from the start, the dame had set him up! Fenrir didn’t know why, the twisted minds of the political class and those who served them too tortured for even him to follow, but it was obvious he’d never been meant to succeed. Perhaps he’d been meant to take the fall for the attempt, the guards waiting at the scene of the crime primed to arrest him and pin the blame on him. He would’ve made quite the specimen - infamous Private Weyevern attempts to slay local hero would’ve been quite the headline - but he’d avoided that trap.

He didn’t care about reporting it to the fuzz or running the information to others. Not his case, not his problem. When things cooled off a bit he might be able to use the knowledge to call in a few favors, open a couple more doors that would otherwise be shut in his face.

There was one last part that stung to the whole thing, one last bit of knowledge that frustrated him as he sipped on a barrel of cold whiskey on the rocks.

Truly, the city’s heart was as empty as his bank account. He definitely wasn’t getting paid for this one.

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