Tales from the Guard
An Announcement in Crimson (1640)
Part I, in which a mysterious visitor to the Yard makes a disturbing prediction
From the personal diary of captain Jeremy Archer, d.d. IV. Filadin 1640
Throughout my extensive career I have dealt with many cases that have touched upon the very foundations of our imperial republic. To mind spring the misadventures of the unfortunate doctor Haymish and his eccentric relationship with one of Kaiser Hjalmar's mistresses, or the disappearance of the IRS Persephone. In both cases, only great effort by the City Guard prevented these matters from becoming public and causing massive scandals. Both incidents, however, are dwarfed by the potential for havoc that was present in the case presented to us by that mysterious black figure of professor Aratavon, who called upon the Shirekeep Yard station one fateful Homersday morning.
It was the day after I celebrated my 15th anniversary as captain of the guard. Unavoidably, my thoughts were drawn back to those early days, when Shirekeeps law enforcement really was little more than a patchwork of competing organisations, some good, some useless, and some outright corrupt. Especially in these later years, with an Imperial Government that went against the many ideals with which the Guard was founded, it was difficult not to become melancholic. Nevertheless, my musings were rudely interrupted with a knock on the door.
The arrival of the strange visitor was brought to my attention by guardsman Tobias Mulion, then barely 20 years of age. Mulion, a heavy set fellow of that sturdish Northern Elw stock that is known for their dedication and composure, had been on early night watch at the station. As always, I had been working late on some or other investigation, and found myself disturbed around midnight by Mulions knock on my office door. “Sir” there is a gentleman here to see you, he says it is very, very urgent”. "Not now Mulion, see if guardsman Grauster is available, he can do the preliminary interrogation". "But sir, the gentleman specifically asked for you. He insists that the captain of the guard hears him, as, and I quote, this is a matter of grave national importance!"
"Very well then", I answered, even though I believed this request to be preposterous. Nevertheless, something in me - call it intuition- told me not to dismiss it. I hardly had time to change from my old lab coat I used for experimenting into a more appropriate attire, when a remarkably tall and slender figure entered my office. He was dressed almost exclusively in black, but though his manner of dress was simple, I could tell that it was of premium quality: a well fitted and trimmed frock coat, leather boots, and trousers of premium Babkhan silk. The man did not wear a hat, and his dark hair, which was greying to an almost silky white at the temples, was slicked back. His features were positively aquiline, with a high sharp nose, dark bushy eyebrows that almost met in the middle, complemented by a well-kept waxed moustache.
"I have heard of you" he said, looking at me directly with his, almost black, eyes that appeared to pierce right through me. "You are a man of particular disposition towards the greater good, which to me is baffling though admirable” he said, after some pause. “Well thank you very much, mr -”. “Professor” the man interrupted “Professor Aratavon, pleased to make your acquaintance”. “What can I help you with, professor?” I asked. “I come to you with a simple message, a very simple one. Tonight, good detective captain, the crimson flame is burning and will leave behind his shadow”. “And what is that of concern to me?” I asked, slightly taken aback by the sudden solemn tone of the strange visitor. “Oh it will, it will for sure captain! Because when the crimson flame burns, its shadow will lay on the streets of our Imperial Capital, and its shadow is death!”. “The death of whom?” I asked. “That, good detective, I cannot tell you. I cannot, no! I cannot for the crimson’s flame is its own master and it will leave behind who it wishes”. And with that, the self-styled professor turned his back, causing his cloak to follow behind him in a theatrical flutter, and exited my office. I sprang towards the door, only to find the visitor gone. “Melion!” I shouted. “Yes sir”, the brave guardsman replied. “Next time this man enters Shirekeep Yard, arrest him! For I will not easily bide such a fool to waste the crucial time of a Captain of the Guard!”
The next morning, I had all but forgotten about the peculiar incident. Clearly the so-called professor was nothing but a charlatan or a fool, intending to waste my time at best or to engage in some type of conjurer's trick or scam at the worst. I had much more pressing matters at hand than to think about this strange visitor. I entered the Yard and had not yet had the time to request my daily cup of fine Babkhan coffee before I saw a red-faced young man running towards me across the place, Guardsman Melion. “Sir! You must hear this, there has been a horrid murder at the Retribution Park, and not just a murder of some random denizen too! It was mister Peytonian sir!”. I recognised the name of course, Carolus Archibald Peytonian was one of the richest people in the city, and probably one of the most disliked. He had largely accumulated his substantial fortune by exploiting the weakest in the city. As a landlord, he owned several blocks of apartment buildings that could only be described as human stables. Tiny, disease and insect-ridden shoeboxes in which whole families of unfortunate denizens were crammed at a time. At the Yard, I had heard many stories of collapsing houses, accidents, contagious diseases that may or may not have been purposely spread, and other terrible but unverifiable accusations. Now this man had apparently been murdered, and I could not say I was either surprised or deeply moved by his unnatural demise. Nevertheless, as a Guard Captain it was my duty to uphold the law, and thus I had to find out what had happened. “Melion, tell me the details, I implore you”, I said. “He was found dead, sir, throat slit and his chest bare. And he was branded sir - branded with a hot iron like cattle, it was a strange symbol too sir, it was like a picture of a gigantic red flame”.
to be continued
