175. Vessel and Dust

As the deerherd led the way through the farmland, his fellow Mrigas stopped their work to greet him. They did so with the first half of the horn-tapping gesture, and Travertine returned it by finishing the second half: crossed arms over chest, CROZIER firmly held in one fist. The Wayfarer wore a scowl the whole time, while the Anchored souls kept their flat-faced silence.

A pervasive gloom hung over the people of Dawnwick. The source of said gloom soon revealed itself, as the 'detectives' made their way into the residential area.

Just on the edge of the farmland, as wheat fields made way for low-set clay houses, a small crowd had gathered at a crossroad. At first, Serac couldn't see what the commotion was about (especially with so many antlers blocking the view!), but she smelled it clearly enough. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. An offensive mixture of blood, guts, and palpable fear brought Serac back to her lonely cell in the Damnatorium.

The crowd soon parted to let Travertine and his deer familiars through. Following close behind, Serac saw for herself the scene of the crime—a brutal tribute to violence and mutilation.

A Mriga corpse lay splayed on the side of the road, antlered face up and frozen in an expression of pain and horror. Something or someone had ripped it open down the middle, from neck to navel. From the gash spilled the Mriga's pale, bloodless intestines, unfurled into a single ribbon that twisted up along the ground, as if to point at something up the road.

Serac nearly retched, but managed to compose herself. She glanced up at Travertine to gauge his reaction. Perhaps as expected, the scowling man gave her nothing. He knelt to inspect the corpse in silence, looking for all the world like this was routine work for the wielder of a shepherd's crook.

As Serac tried her best not to look away, she came to a strange realization. She knelt beside her detective partner to voice it in a whisper, lest she 'draw attention to herself' so early into the game.

"Why is there a corpse at all?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean why hasn't this poor man turned to Souldust? His mutilated body is still solid, out in the open for bystanders to gawk at."

Travertine didn't answer right away, instead taking a moment to reach into the open wound with his bare hand.

"But he has turned to Souldust," he eventually answered without interrupting his work (please let it be work!), "or at least the part of him that was always Dust. When we Tidereigners die, it's our inner self that's released from its physical vessel, to then fold itself into the veils that divide Day from Night."

Serac blinked in astonishment, then barely stopped herself from throwing back her hood. She craned her neck to look upon the skyveils—so faint as to be all but invisible in the daylight—and wondered if the dead man's Souldust had made its way up there yet.

"You mean to tell me the souls of Tidereigners have two parts to them?"

Day and Night. Two sides of the same coin.

"As do you, Serac Edin, now that you've [bound] yourself an Oathborn."

"You mean the Oathborns are your 'inner selves'? Manifested and brought out by Primal magic? So that means, when we Wayfarers die—"

"Yes. When we Wayfarers die, our Oathborns turn to Dust and rise to the sky, where they become one with the Gloam. It's not until the next sunrise, when the skyveils fold in on themselves, that they may find their way back to our body, allowing us to reconstitute."

Now Serac couldn't even blink, lids blocked by bulging eyes.

"Hang on, that means… depending on how early into the Day you eat it, you might be stuck in the Interstitium for up to 88 hours."

"Correct," Travertine answered in an even-keeled whisper, still not done rummaging inside a dead man's body, "and do not act so surprised. You're seeing an example of it, right now."

Serac looked from Travertine's scowl, to his bloodied hand inside the corpse's gaping wound, then to the dead man's contorted face. She took an involuntary, shuddering step back.

"This man was—is—a Wayfarer?"

She couldn't believe it. Was this what she'd look like if she ever met a violent death here in Tidereign? The horror, the grotesque, the indignity!

"Not so loud. And yes. Drumlin aft'Rafferty, a KL-47 Bishop charged with protecting the farmsteads—a task he evidently failed this Morning."

A flash of indignation—on behalf of a 'KL-47 Bishop' she'd never met (alive, anyway)—pulled Serac's floating mind out of the sky and back down to earth. She matched Travertine's scowl as she demanded, "And what are you doing, shaking down a dead body like it owes you acorns?"

"Acorns? I don't know what you mean by that, but if you must know, I'm taking inventory. It's Tidereign tradition to bury our dead as a funerary rite. Now, it goes without saying that a 'less permanent' arrangement is called for in the case of us Wayfarers. But out of respect to the temporarily dead, we consecrate their bodies as best we can. To do that for a victim of Flint the Butcher, we must first ascertain what's missing from said bodies."

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Serac gulped down another retch, relying on the absurdity of the situation to keep her emotions in check. 'Respect', the man calls it, while he digs around the disemboweled insides of his fellow Mriga. On this occasion, curiosity also served as a steadying force.

"Flint the Butcher," she whispered, "is that the psycho who did this? You sound like you already know the guy."

"I've never seen the man"—a prompt reply, carrying the first real hint of anger—"nor do I know for certain if he is a man. 'Flint' is simply a placeholder popularized by Dawnwickers. You'll find it's not uncommon for people to try and trivialize the object of their fear. As for 'the Butcher', it's a rather apt epithet for this criminal, given their MO." Travertine paused briefly, just long enough to throw Serac a knowing almost-smirk. "But whether it's as apt as yours, I suppose that remains to be seen."

Serac flushed a little, looking less like a Mriga by the minute. Before she could come up with a half-coherent reply, Travertine stood up, apparently finished with his 'inventory' work.

As soon as he did, one of the bystanders stepped up and presented him with a basin of golden water. Travertine gave a slight bow to the deer woman, then proceeded to wash his hands. Again in complete silence, and again with a tangible air of ritual.

Serac watched with morbid fascination as the blood mixed with the gold into a kind of burnished crimson, perhaps not too unlike the color of her own eyes. That was also when she noticed the many eyes that lingered on her, courtesy of the crowd of locals. She pulled her hood lower, more worried about people thinking her mangy than recognizing her as an outrealmer.

To be fair to Travertine, she now saw the rationale behind keeping her identity a secret. As silent and disciplined as these locals were, they were clearly on edge about the elusive killer in their midst. No sense scaring—or perhaps provoking—them further.

Travertine finished washing. The dutiful woman with the basin of now crimson water stepped back to re-join the crowd. Only then did Serac turn to her fellow Wayfarer to resume their whispered detective-ing.

"So? What did you find?"

"It's more what I didn't find. The spleen, in this case, which might present a challenge in trying to recover it… but we'll do what we can."

"Any leads?"

"Yes. You see the way the small intestine has been laid out?"

"Like it's pointing to a certain direction? I didn't wanna believe it, but I suppose it's true. But… did Flint the Butcher himself do this? Why would—?"

"To make us ask exactly that." Travertine spat out the answer, failing to fully suppress his volume. "To mock the dead. To frighten the living. And to taunt those of us sworn to protect the herd, perhaps in the vain hope we might forsake our [Oaths]."

Serac didn't quite understand. And yet she understood perfectly. She even felt some of the same anger bubbling up inside herself.

"Well, what're we waiting for? Let's go hunt this bastard down."

The two detectives, now finally on the same page, made to do just that when—

"Cardinal Nankervis, a word?"

Two among the crowd had peeled off from the rest. The speaker was an elderly man with antlers too large and gnarly for his stooped back, and the other a round-faced young woman with puffy red eyes. As the latter stepped closer and caught sight of the dead body, she immediately broke into a sob.

"This here lass was with Bishop Rafferty at… the time of the attack," the old man explained. "She says… she reckons she saw Flint the Butcher with her own eyes."

At this, Travertine's leaf-shaped ears swiveled in and out. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, the gesture was so comically endearing that Serac began to shake in restrained laughter. Whether due to that or her strange appearance, the old man stared at her openly.

"You may both speak freely." The so-called Cardinal assured his so-called herd. "This here is… Deacon Serac aft'Edin. My new aide sent down from the Veilwatch Temple. Whatever you see fit to tell me, Deacon Edin is fit to hear it as well."

Burning with embarrassment, Serac took a shuffling step sideways, hoping to hide behind Travertine's considerable frame. In the end, the awkward gesture only made her stand out even more.

"Of course," the old man said, sounding not at all convinced. He then turned to the sobbing girl. "Come, Peridot. Tell the Templars what you saw. Pray do not keep the Cardinal waiting."

Despite the old man's encouragement and Travertine's patient(?) scowl, it took a good minute for the girl called Peridot to calm down enough to speak. Off to the side, Serac had already formed her own theory about how the girl might be 'related' to the dead Wayfarer. Said theory was promptly confirmed by the witness's first statement.

"It should've been me," Peridot said, words thick with snot and tears. "Drum—Bishop Rafferty died saving me."

"No one asked you that, lass! The Cardinal wants to know about—"

The Cardinal himself raised a hand to shush the old man, stern and firm. Seeing this, Serac's respect for Travertine grew just a smidgen.

She also wanted to rush over and give the girl a hug, perhaps together with some soothing words. It's okay. Just wait till toMorrow and Drumlin will be back, good as new. In fact, it's a good thing he died in your stead! On second thought, it was best she let the witness speak for herself.

"It came out of the shadows," Peridot continued after taking another moment to collect herself, "in the twilight before Dawn had fully turned to Day. No sound, no footsteps, no sign at all there was anyone nearby. I turned a corner, and suddenly there it was."

"Waiting in ambush?" Travertine with a pensive scowl. "Or jumping out from behind?"

"Neither. It… rose out of the ground. One moment, nothing. The next, the thing was right there in front of me, fully formed."

"Hm. Then what happened?"

"I screamed. Must've woken up the whole farmstead. Then Drumlin—I heard him running up the hill, shouting my name. I think he was still too far to see me—us—then. And it… it was like it knew. It turned away from me without a second thought and—and…"

The young woman broke down again, words and recollections drowned out by fresh tears. Travertine kept his stoic calm, apparently willing to give the witness more time. Against all odds, it was Serac who'd grown impatient—or perhaps anxious—enough to butt in.

"You keep calling it 'it'." She made direct eye contact with Peridot, throwing caution to the wind. "I'm confused. I thought we were looking for a he, or at least a Mriga. What exactly did you see?"

The girl gulped down her tears and met the stranger's strangely-colored gaze with red puffy eyes of her own.

"It rose out of the shadows," Peridot reiterated in a trembling voice, "the biggest cat I've ever seen—with claws sharp enough to slash open the very skies."

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