Player Progression Story The Murders In Merkar'sarh

OOC Note: This is progression is part of the Combat School System, and if you'd like to participate you can join in with the link found here


It is in the early dawn when the Esa-Ajo disembark in Merkar’sarh. The port is teeming with life. Regalian warships loom over the entire harbour, barely an inch of sunlight able to sneak past the great vessels. The Empire’s diversity is truly at display as the Sihndar make their way to the dockside gate, spotting all kinds of races and cultures plying their trades or standing guard on the corners. Urls and orcs offload barrels from a supply ship, carrying them over their shoulders with ease. Varran corsairs argue with Altalar merchants, while the short Sarrans do their best to ease the situation with their renowned charm. Dwarven and Qadir engineers stand side by side, inspecting damaged Kathar weaponry. Yet despite all this multiculturalism the Sihndar couldn’t help but feel that they were not welcome. Heads turn and faces sneer as the Drowdan warriors pass through the gates, wads of spit shot down behind their feet. The stoic elves keep to their stride, walking along as if they’re the only ones in the city.

The Sihn’fallar, Lazzul’ei identifies a Tenpenny officer and leads her people over to him. “Hail!” She calls out, lifting a hand in greeting. “Lazzul’ei Daevaar of the Esa-Ajo, me and my men are here to investigate your murders. I would like to speak to your superior, Officer.” The Ailor straightens up his back, crossing his arms over his chestplate. “And I’m King Florent of Ithania. Any spy could get their hands on a curved sword like yours, and that skin isn’t too different from some Kathar we hanged last night either.” He grumbles out, bringing his hands down to his waist as his weary eyes look over the group. “I’m here at the behest of the Imperial Marshal, would you like me to bother him or will his letter to us suffice?” The Sihndar simply retorts, Tehlmar rummaging through his rucksack for said evidence. The Lieutenant waves his hand dismissively, his tone changing rather quickly at the mention of the Marshal. “Bah.. Don’t. The south-eastern bastion. Can hardly miss it. Brigadier ought to be there. But if you lot pull any funny business..” The man relents, Lazzul’ei reassures him with a curt, “Nothing funny about Sihndar business, I’m afraid.” Before bringing her retinue down the streets.

It was an interesting walk through the city. The further behind the walls they came, the more the unwanted attention from the locals seemed to turn on the Ailor garrison instead. Tenpennies tried their best to mediate between bickering humans and altalar. Prices, odd looks, misconceptions are all cause for loud exchanges. Several stalls look to be completely abandoned, the same with stores. Shelves and counters merely sitting there displaying dust, and as the group continues on they find more stalls, with the once-owners packing up for good with solemn sighs and the shake of their heads. Even the cold, pragmatic minds of the Sihndar can manage to puzzle together the situation in this part of the city. No skill in perception is needed to understand that this district was hit the hardest by the war. The disdain and despair can almost be felt in the air.

It was hard to distract oneself from the rampant misery of these war-torn streets, and yet the Eso-Aja kept moving towards their destination. The military presence increases as they pass down the road, they’re getting closer. Ten minutes pass and they see it. A tall tower with makeshift repairs to the damaged stoneworks. Up the winding steps they go, passing by windows peering out over the rooftops of Merkar’sarh. Endless tiles and gloomy streets. The indistinguishable mutterings of garrisoned soldiers and craftsmen can be heard through the doors as they make their way to the top, the voices growing quieter as they near the officer’s quarters. After a quick knock on the door they’re allowed in, their eyes acquainting themselves with a portly Anglian flipping through stacks of paper. He is grumbling on about the elves while he drags his fingers through his thinning hair in frustration. Tehlmar clears his throat, and so the Brigadier lifts his gaze with a tired huff. “What’s this then, hm?” He asks. “We’re the Esa-Ajo of the Crown Isle. Sent here by the Imperial Marshal about your murders.” Lazzul’ei responds which puts a hearty chuckle in the Anglian. “Hah! That old goat think we’re so desperate that we need to call upon dark elves? Bah, nevertheless.. Your arrival is very much appreciated. The Marshal Cabinet had put me in charge of the peacekeeping in this part of the city, and I wouldn’t give this job to my worst enemy. Three murders over the past week, all Ailor. We don’t have the resources or time to track them down, and the bastards who keep dying are artisans and merchants. Thanks to this there isn’t much of an influx in new talent, yeah? My men need clothes on their backs and cots to sleep in, and I need the people who make that alive.” The portly man says, nudging his papers across the desk along with identity badges. “Read up, and if any of my men cause you trouble just show them that thing there. Now get out of my office, I need to think..” The Sihndar nod once in near unison, collecting a handful of documents each before their timely departure.

A few hours later in a nearby tavern room the Sihndar browse through the last pages on their hands. The Sihn-Fallar sighs, rubbing her hands over her face briefly. “Right.. Let’s get to it. The newest victim. Vidar Ekheim. Carpenter from Drixagh, sailed here to profit off of the city’s reconstruction. Bludgeoned to death over the head six times with a blunt object. Same as with the four murders before him. Whoever killed Mister Ekheim must have some strength to them, and a hefty dose of anger. Cëa’liá, Cillass, you’re with me. Tehlmar, you’ll take Daealla and Cÿl with you to the markets. Talk to the locals, get a scent of the place and the people, do you understand?” Lazzul’ei commands with a calm and assertive voice. Her subordinates acknowledge her words with a nod, and so the group splits in two. The Sihndar part ways, drifting away into the bleak streets of Merkar’sarh once again.

Lazzul’ei, Cëa’liá’liá and Cillass enter the dead man’s quarters, gazing out over the cluttered room. The trio move in, scouring through the mess that was left behind by the killer and their victim. Cëa’liá’liá pipes up after twenty minutes of careful searching, lifting up a torn-off piece of cloth for all to see. “Looks like they caught their sleeve on something, must’ve been in a hurry!” She calls out, Cillass closing up the distance between them to inspect the new clue. As he draws nearer the clue, the Medic’s attention is caught by something in his peripheral vision. The man kneels down near the exit, dabbing his fingertips into a thin streak of liquid. “Lazzul, fresh blood…” He mutters, wiping off on his thigh before rising to his feet. Their leader makes her way over, instincts leading her towards the door. “Can’t have been here less than an hour ago.. The killer must’ve come back to clear away evidence, but nearly got caught, which is why they were in such a sudden hurry.” The leader says, not hesitating to follow the track. The remaining two turn to eachother, shrugging before they jog out to keep up with the Sihn-fallar. Like a bloodhound she follows in the steps of the killer, obsessively eyeing the ground and keeping every scent on alert. The frantic search leads the trio to a decrepit house, still covered in the soot of burnt buildings in the near vicinity. They cautiously move up to the door, Lazzul’ei hushing at her companions as she waves Cillass and his lockpick over. Cillass sneaks over with his tools. A man has to have his tools. He kneels down and gets to work. Carefully he nudges the pins up and down, listening intently for that well known ‘click’. And then.. Click! As Cillass goes to sneakily draw the door open he hears footsteps fast approaching, too fast for him to react. His companions stand at the ready, and the door swings open in his face, knocking him to his back. At the frame stands a frightened Altalar, but not for long, as he is punched out with a ferocious throw of a fist. Cëa’liá is quick to bring her blade up against his neck, the steel threatening to tear the skin. Her attention is seemingly caught by something, turning her gaze into the house. And there it is, a cowering, young family huddled together on the floor, staring up at the intruders with fear in their eyes. With gritted teeth Cëa’liá leans in to mutter to the suspect, “What part did you have to play in the murder of Vidar Ekheim?” “Who..? What- What the fuck is this?!” The anxious altalar replies. “Don’t think we’re fools, stranger. You were at the scene of the crime.” Cillass groans as he gets up on his knees. “W- What? By the Gods.. That thing-- I’m trying to feed my family, Drow. The ashskins took almost all we own, living off scraps since the Emperor came to ‘liberate’ us. Koer’llain.. He- He’s the one who told me about the house. ‘No one there’, he said, ‘House is laden with new imported goods. Ailor, no one in the neighbourhood will mind.’ so I went there, but I didn’t know he was dead!” The altalar exclaims, his voice shaky and his lips quivering with fear. “Koer’llain?” Cëa’liá asks of him, slightly loosening the grip on his neck. “Koer’llain, he’s- well.. He used to be an armourer, untill the war took all his business- His pride. He’s a good man, but a bitter one as well. The kathar took all his wares for the battle with the Imperials, and the Imperials put some fat little dwarf in charge of his forge afterwards. Cutbacks.. Pah.” He scoffs in return, sneering. Cëa’liá releases her grip on the man and turns to her superior. Lazzul’ei nods once at the Altalar, “Thank you for your cooperation.. Men, with me..!”

In the meantime, Tehlmar and his group had been wandering around the markets of lower Merkar’sarh. Regalian officers went around the stalls, fueling the little business there is left, much to the relief of both locals and foreigners who had come to seek fortune, people just like the deCëa’liásed Velheimer. It was a strange sight. Despite all the hardships and brutality, world trade would not stop for a second. Countries fall, armies clash, cities burn, but cold gold never rests. The three find their way to a lavish Altalar, tall and groomed, standing out from the poverty and depression like a sore thumb. There he is, hawking his random assortment of questionably acquired goods. A silver chalice is wagged before the face of Tehlmar as his trio step up to the merchant’s stall. “Thirty five regals! A real steal!” The merchant calls out with a fine luster in his voice, “Even drow like you can afford it!” The ‘drow’ find no humour in the statement, blankly telling the peddler. “The murders. Merchants hear everything, so what do you know?” The dry delivery caused a chuckle in the Elf, who sets down the chalice and tunes his demeanour to match the severity of the topic. “Blunt. Didn’t think you people could be so cold all the time.. Tsk, oh well. I’m no merchant of death, if it is murder you’re looking for I’d likely find you seven crows. Or I’d direct you to that butcher. Oh, what’s that name again.. Correntyn? No, Norremael. Yes. That’s the one. If there’s anyone in this city capable of murder it’d be him.” The salesman says, waving them off to the side streets. The butcher carefully slides his knife over the sinews of a rabbit, the elf hardly looking up from his workstation as the three Sihndar approach him. “Ehem.. Norrema--” Daealla utters to him before being interrupted. “Yes, that’s me.. Out of mutton. Out of pork. Out of venison. So what’ll it be?” Norremael the Butcher huffs out, tired and disinterested. “Actually,” Daealla would once again attempt to speak, “We’re here about the murder of a velheimer. Vidar Ekheim..?” But the butcher kept at his work, paying no heed to the words of the Sihndar as he hooks his readied rabbit up. The Esa-Ajo exchange glances before offering a reminder to him. “Sir?” And yet the butcher drowned out everything coming out of their mouths. Cÿl’s eyes flicker between the people until he eventually stabs his dagger into the butcher’s bench, “Speak when you’re spoken to!” the trainee commands of the intimidating altalar. Unsurprisingly, this attempt at currying favour from his superiors failing just as much as his words did with the butcher. Norremael sticks his knife into the wood, the great butchering tool dwarfing the puny dagger. The altalar leans over the counter, staring down the Sihndar with a scowl. Tensions rise, but thankfully not for long as Lazzul and her group find Tehlmar’s, slightly winded from the run to the markets. “We got a name - Koer’llain, he’s--” The Sihn-fallar begins, unfortunately being interrupted by the butcher as well. “Koer’llain? Hrmph.. I know that name. Former armourer from around here. Had his forge taken by dwarves.. Spends all his days at his old home, ten minutes northwards.” Norremael the Butcher claims, wiping his bloodied hands over with a rag. The Esa-Ajo accept this sudden turn in judgement, dipping their heads in an orderly fashion to the man before their feet march off to find the alleged culprit’s abode.

After more talks with locals on the way, the Sihndar of the Crown Isle have found their way to the armourer’s house. Neighbours down along the street have mostly agreed that there is something off with that broken man, and these testimonies make our heroes wary as they approach. As they round the street corner they make an odd discovery. A gloomy, strong Altalar sits on the steps of his house with defeat in his eyes. As he spots the Sihndar he begins to tell them, “They told me you were coming for me.. Yes, I did it. And would do it again.” The culprit rises from his seat, dropping his hammer at Lazzul’ei’s feet. “Go on then, execute me. Would make for a satisfying death. My whole life, ruined by the meddling of pesky Regalian pinkskins. Accuse me of having helped armed riots.. They take my forge, what little I had left of my former, proud life! I knew this would happen, but at least now I may die a martyr.” Koer’llain states with his chin raised high and proud as the Sihndar slap the shackles over his wrists, nudging the killer towards the Brigadier’s tower. The lardy officer looks to barely have even left his office, clapping his meaty hands together as he nears his new prisoner. “Ahh.. Excellent, excellent. The Generals will be pleased to hear that I’ve gotten to the bottom of this. My thanks, Drowdar, you’ve just earned me my promotion! Buhahaha!” The Anglian chortles heartily, offering a dismissive wave of the hand to the Esa-Ajo. “Sir- With all due- Hmm..” Tehlmar tries to retort, yet refrains as he takes notice of irritation growing on the Lokingian butter enthusiast’s face. “Aye.. That’s right. Go on back home, you lot. I’ll take it from here.. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have letters to write to Lord William. Guards!” The Sihndar are told by the heinous man, with a vile sneer and an arrogant tone. Soon after the door’s opened once more, armed soldiers filing into the room. The soldiers all beckon for the elves to exit, with a hand resting on their blades. Despite the possibly perceived humiliation the Sihndar still walk away with their heads held high, and thankfully on their shoulders. Lazzul’ei murmurs something indistinguishable yet agreeable according to the nods of her companions as they make way for the week’s last ship to Regalia..