- Posting Speed
- Speed of Light
- Writing Levels
- Douche
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
"The people of the city, great and small, are not silent; they lift up the lament, all men of flesh and blood lift up the lament."
Commodore Exvind's reprieve on the veranda was soon disturbed. To his right was a gurgling voice, distorted by metal. He turned to see another gentleman at the railing, with a coat fashioned from rare feathers and a top hat which, along with his plague mask, hid the majority of his face.
"Fate has spoken; like a hooked fish he lies stretched on the bed, like a gazelle that is caught in a noose."
The man turned. And though the beak of his helm did not move, Exvind detected the warmth of a smile. "The Death of Gilgamesh. I always had a soft spot." His voice was a chorus of sucks and slurps, as if the mask was filled with some kind of fluid. But despite this he made the poise and motions of a gentlemen. Removed his hat in greeting, the man bowed low to show a head of greasy, greying hair. "Forgive my dramatics, Commodore. You may call me Mr October. I serve the League of Extraordinary Moderators, for my part."
They exchanged pleasantries and Mr October sidled up beside the Commodore, both hands resting on a cane as he surveyed the city. The sucking and gargling did not cease. It sounded like the man was having trouble breathing, but he did not show his discomfort in any other way. "I bring ill tidings, Commodore. Murder, I'm afraid. Murder most foul and enigmatic, sparing not the highest echelons."
His gloved hand produced a photograph, pocket-sized and framed in silver. It showed a middle-aged, sandy-haired man with dashing smile. "Ricarten Merilson, a personal friend of the Queen and late employee of Mayhem Industries. He was found dead of asphixiation an hour ago."
Exvind examined the picture then raised an eyebrow at Mr October - the kind of raised eyebrow that suggested the questions: Why does this concern me and not my chief inspector? And why have you disturbed a social gathering to tell me this?.
Mr October saw it, of course. "No rare thing, in this city, sadly, I'm sure you agree. But here the plot thickens, Commodore. The workers who discovered the body found it in the most perculiar of circumstances. Poor Ricarten had been restrained in a custom-built chair, his wrists, throat and ankles bound in metal. He was inside a sealed room - sealed, I might add, with an anaerobic acrylic substance that matches nothing in the League's scientific encyclopaedias. The airflow was cut off completely. He suffocated very quickly indeed."
He pocketed the photo again and looked out across the bustling city. "A murder requiring no murder weapon. Not unheard of, you might say. But here is the cherry on the cake, Commodore - the sugarlump in the tea. We know for a fact that no one went into or out of that room. Because, you see.... it was built around him before he died."
The sounds of the party seemed to fade, the air becoming numb with this revelation. If Exvind's eyebrow could have raised a little higher, it would have. The bizarreness of Mr October's words put flight to his earlier irritation with the party. It was as if the page of the storybook had just been turned. Some new game was afoot.
Mr October indicated one of the giant construction spiders that moved on the horizon, building new homes on the riverside. "One of Mayhem Industries' constructor spiders built the house at midnight last night. We believe the wall sections were pre-coated in the sealant. Someone must have sabotaged the materials beforehand. Whoever killed Ricarten knew exactly where to place that chair so that the room would be lowered around him by the spider. We're questioning the pilot of the construction machine, but it is unlikely he saw anything from so high up."
The man spluttered a little, as if choking on some of the fluid inside his plague mask. He hunched over, pausing for a second before straightening again. He dabbed at his beak with a handkerchief, despite it being dry. It was like a practiced mannerism. "Ricarten was a low-level employee of Mayhem Industries, but also a personal friend of the Queen. As such, the Crown would prefer if this matter were handled with some discretion, hence my visiting you, Commodore. We have informed Mayhem's CEO and asked him to attend the scene along with his top sealant researcher. Perhaps they will help you shed light on this matter." He placed his hat back on and then, as if in afterthought, said "Also... we have requested the services of a metal expert. She will help you with the metal restraints on the chair..."
He stepped a little closer, yellow eyes peering up at Exvind through the eyeplates of his mask. "The restraints were engraved, Commodore... engraved with a language that no one can decipher..."
Commodore Exvind's reprieve on the veranda was soon disturbed. To his right was a gurgling voice, distorted by metal. He turned to see another gentleman at the railing, with a coat fashioned from rare feathers and a top hat which, along with his plague mask, hid the majority of his face.
"Fate has spoken; like a hooked fish he lies stretched on the bed, like a gazelle that is caught in a noose."
The man turned. And though the beak of his helm did not move, Exvind detected the warmth of a smile. "The Death of Gilgamesh. I always had a soft spot." His voice was a chorus of sucks and slurps, as if the mask was filled with some kind of fluid. But despite this he made the poise and motions of a gentlemen. Removed his hat in greeting, the man bowed low to show a head of greasy, greying hair. "Forgive my dramatics, Commodore. You may call me Mr October. I serve the League of Extraordinary Moderators, for my part."
They exchanged pleasantries and Mr October sidled up beside the Commodore, both hands resting on a cane as he surveyed the city. The sucking and gargling did not cease. It sounded like the man was having trouble breathing, but he did not show his discomfort in any other way. "I bring ill tidings, Commodore. Murder, I'm afraid. Murder most foul and enigmatic, sparing not the highest echelons."
His gloved hand produced a photograph, pocket-sized and framed in silver. It showed a middle-aged, sandy-haired man with dashing smile. "Ricarten Merilson, a personal friend of the Queen and late employee of Mayhem Industries. He was found dead of asphixiation an hour ago."
Exvind examined the picture then raised an eyebrow at Mr October - the kind of raised eyebrow that suggested the questions: Why does this concern me and not my chief inspector? And why have you disturbed a social gathering to tell me this?.
Mr October saw it, of course. "No rare thing, in this city, sadly, I'm sure you agree. But here the plot thickens, Commodore. The workers who discovered the body found it in the most perculiar of circumstances. Poor Ricarten had been restrained in a custom-built chair, his wrists, throat and ankles bound in metal. He was inside a sealed room - sealed, I might add, with an anaerobic acrylic substance that matches nothing in the League's scientific encyclopaedias. The airflow was cut off completely. He suffocated very quickly indeed."
He pocketed the photo again and looked out across the bustling city. "A murder requiring no murder weapon. Not unheard of, you might say. But here is the cherry on the cake, Commodore - the sugarlump in the tea. We know for a fact that no one went into or out of that room. Because, you see.... it was built around him before he died."
The sounds of the party seemed to fade, the air becoming numb with this revelation. If Exvind's eyebrow could have raised a little higher, it would have. The bizarreness of Mr October's words put flight to his earlier irritation with the party. It was as if the page of the storybook had just been turned. Some new game was afoot.
Mr October indicated one of the giant construction spiders that moved on the horizon, building new homes on the riverside. "One of Mayhem Industries' constructor spiders built the house at midnight last night. We believe the wall sections were pre-coated in the sealant. Someone must have sabotaged the materials beforehand. Whoever killed Ricarten knew exactly where to place that chair so that the room would be lowered around him by the spider. We're questioning the pilot of the construction machine, but it is unlikely he saw anything from so high up."
The man spluttered a little, as if choking on some of the fluid inside his plague mask. He hunched over, pausing for a second before straightening again. He dabbed at his beak with a handkerchief, despite it being dry. It was like a practiced mannerism. "Ricarten was a low-level employee of Mayhem Industries, but also a personal friend of the Queen. As such, the Crown would prefer if this matter were handled with some discretion, hence my visiting you, Commodore. We have informed Mayhem's CEO and asked him to attend the scene along with his top sealant researcher. Perhaps they will help you shed light on this matter." He placed his hat back on and then, as if in afterthought, said "Also... we have requested the services of a metal expert. She will help you with the metal restraints on the chair..."
He stepped a little closer, yellow eyes peering up at Exvind through the eyeplates of his mask. "The restraints were engraved, Commodore... engraved with a language that no one can decipher..."