"This is obstruction of justice," the inspector stated.
"I have no idea--"
"--what you're talking about," snarled the two Brass Blades together.
Black Brush Station wasn't particularly busy. It was a late afternoon that saw the sun rapidly descending from its zenith. Traffic was dying down, merchants were closing up shop, folks were turning in, and the local authorities had a collective stick up their asses.
Osric sighed. He knew stonewalling when he saw it; either his luck had gone rock bottom or the Twelve had a sense of humor, because the men stationed here were more belligerent and obstinate than usual. Approaching the officer in charge had made for an... interesting... conversation. Or lack thereof, as the case had been.
"There been any commotion here lately?"
"No."
"Less grift t'go around?"
"No."
"May I speak with the--"
"No."
So he'd bided his time, clambered up a series of crates and barrels to seat himself atop a low retaining wall and waited. His eyes scanned the station, the stalls, the aetheryte, the men, the women, the gear, the goods... everything. He waited. The cook eventually sent a scullion over with a plate for the evening meal. He politely declined. He waited. He slept.
Bells upon bells upon bells. He waited an entire sun. Morning came and went, as did midday. He waited. Then, having seen what he'd needed to see, spotted what he'd been hoping to spot, he slid down off the wall, brushed himself off, and walked over to one Brass Blade in particular... which was how he'd found himself speaking with two of them.
"Gentlemen," he said, "it works like this. Since I arrived and stood vigil, you've spent the evening, morning, and midday meals together, out of sight, out of mind, abandoning your usual circles. On that basis alone, you've aroused my suspicion. The fact that you're both nursing various injuries - a broken hand, a split lip, a welt - hasn't helped your case, either. Given your apparent lack of cooperation, I'll have no choice but t'file for a warrant. As I am an official inspector--"
Liar.
Shut up, I'm selling it.
"--there's no question that I will get what I want... and here's the clincher, gentlemen: whether or not I'm right, in the end, your superiors will see you suffer for causin' trouble and bringin' attention to their work here."
He glanced between the midlander and the highlander with a raised eyebrow, as if to ask, "do you really want that?" The former's scowl deepened, but the latter... the latter bit into his lower lip, his face contorting in concentration, in thought. Osric smiled up at him from where he sat on his haunches.
"Oooooorrrrrrr," he drawled, "y'can tell me what y'know, I don't file for a gods-damned thing, and we all go about our lives. No report, no harassment."
The two traded a look from behind their fly-masks, then eyed him carefully.
"Aye, there was a wagon here," spat the one who'd introduced himself as Raffe. "Confiscated a few suns back from some smugglin' pissant who ain't worth his weight in tuco piss."
The one named Louvel snorted. "Some bitch what used tae run with us--"
"--thought she'd buy us off, didn't she? Bribe us to look the other way, while she made off with it."
The sergeant smirked. "So y'tried squeezin' her for more, and she beat you both down."
Raffe grimaced. "Didn't say that."
"Didn't have to."
Louvel cradled his wrist as he spat to the side. "Ruttin' coeurl thinking she owns the sand she walks on. Redheads... ain't worth the trouble. Ya'd think havin' all that red sheared off would've learned her."
His companion snorted. "Women... ya alright, inspector? Ya lookin' pale there."
The "inspector" was anything but "alright". The color had drained from his face, a sickening knot had formed in the depth of his gut, and a dread chill had fallen over him. He had to force his next few words past the wooden block that had somehow lodged itself in his throat. "The name," he rasped. "The woman's name."
The highlander glanced askance at him, eyes narrowing into a squint. "Deneith. Roen Deneith."
Shite. Shite, shite, shite, shite, SHITE.
He shot to his feet, turned his back on the two Blades, turned a deaf ear on their feigned concern, and walked away. Out the gates. Across the tracks. Down the path. When the trance finally broke, he found himself passing the Coffer & Coffin.
You're not ready for this. Light, you're not ready for this.
"I have no idea--"
"--what you're talking about," snarled the two Brass Blades together.
Black Brush Station wasn't particularly busy. It was a late afternoon that saw the sun rapidly descending from its zenith. Traffic was dying down, merchants were closing up shop, folks were turning in, and the local authorities had a collective stick up their asses.
Osric sighed. He knew stonewalling when he saw it; either his luck had gone rock bottom or the Twelve had a sense of humor, because the men stationed here were more belligerent and obstinate than usual. Approaching the officer in charge had made for an... interesting... conversation. Or lack thereof, as the case had been.
"There been any commotion here lately?"
"No."
"Less grift t'go around?"
"No."
"May I speak with the--"
"No."
So he'd bided his time, clambered up a series of crates and barrels to seat himself atop a low retaining wall and waited. His eyes scanned the station, the stalls, the aetheryte, the men, the women, the gear, the goods... everything. He waited. The cook eventually sent a scullion over with a plate for the evening meal. He politely declined. He waited. He slept.
Bells upon bells upon bells. He waited an entire sun. Morning came and went, as did midday. He waited. Then, having seen what he'd needed to see, spotted what he'd been hoping to spot, he slid down off the wall, brushed himself off, and walked over to one Brass Blade in particular... which was how he'd found himself speaking with two of them.
"Gentlemen," he said, "it works like this. Since I arrived and stood vigil, you've spent the evening, morning, and midday meals together, out of sight, out of mind, abandoning your usual circles. On that basis alone, you've aroused my suspicion. The fact that you're both nursing various injuries - a broken hand, a split lip, a welt - hasn't helped your case, either. Given your apparent lack of cooperation, I'll have no choice but t'file for a warrant. As I am an official inspector--"
Liar.
Shut up, I'm selling it.
"--there's no question that I will get what I want... and here's the clincher, gentlemen: whether or not I'm right, in the end, your superiors will see you suffer for causin' trouble and bringin' attention to their work here."
He glanced between the midlander and the highlander with a raised eyebrow, as if to ask, "do you really want that?" The former's scowl deepened, but the latter... the latter bit into his lower lip, his face contorting in concentration, in thought. Osric smiled up at him from where he sat on his haunches.
"Oooooorrrrrrr," he drawled, "y'can tell me what y'know, I don't file for a gods-damned thing, and we all go about our lives. No report, no harassment."
The two traded a look from behind their fly-masks, then eyed him carefully.
"Aye, there was a wagon here," spat the one who'd introduced himself as Raffe. "Confiscated a few suns back from some smugglin' pissant who ain't worth his weight in tuco piss."
The one named Louvel snorted. "Some bitch what used tae run with us--"
"--thought she'd buy us off, didn't she? Bribe us to look the other way, while she made off with it."
The sergeant smirked. "So y'tried squeezin' her for more, and she beat you both down."
Raffe grimaced. "Didn't say that."
"Didn't have to."
Louvel cradled his wrist as he spat to the side. "Ruttin' coeurl thinking she owns the sand she walks on. Redheads... ain't worth the trouble. Ya'd think havin' all that red sheared off would've learned her."
His companion snorted. "Women... ya alright, inspector? Ya lookin' pale there."
The "inspector" was anything but "alright". The color had drained from his face, a sickening knot had formed in the depth of his gut, and a dread chill had fallen over him. He had to force his next few words past the wooden block that had somehow lodged itself in his throat. "The name," he rasped. "The woman's name."
The highlander glanced askance at him, eyes narrowing into a squint. "Deneith. Roen Deneith."
Shite. Shite, shite, shite, shite, SHITE.
He shot to his feet, turned his back on the two Blades, turned a deaf ear on their feigned concern, and walked away. Out the gates. Across the tracks. Down the path. When the trance finally broke, he found himself passing the Coffer & Coffin.
You're not ready for this. Light, you're not ready for this.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
