Last morning, a ten headed group of criminals, was found dead in the Hive Ward.
Locals speak of finding a stone that revealed images of wanted criminals, accompanied by a tune composed of their dying screams.
The stone itself has not been retrieved by the Harmonium yet, but some of the corpses could be identified as indeed being wanted criminals.
The corpses had their faces in a severe, as it appeared, molten state.
It is lead to believe, magic has been the cause of the fate of these men. Harmonium however, remains puzzled as to who might have done this.
Chant is that perhaps other criminals had a score to settle with these ones, but the truth of the matter, remains unknown still.
This was Rob Finch, reporting from site.
Handfull Of Criminals Found Dead...
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*Melancholy_Dreamer
- Posts: 14
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
The corpse lay upon the slab like a sleeping vagrant still in the throes of nightmare. His limbs frozen in a rictus, and his face, his face . . . .
She shudders and tears her eyes from the sight of the ruin that was once the man's features. Traveling over the rest of the body, she notes the tubes now connected to the still form. Blood flowed outwards . . . embalming fluid, in. The process was not perfect. The scent of blood mixed with attar, rose oil, filled the air in the small chamber. She shudders again and turns to the silent Dustman behind her.
Only one criminal had the means - jinx and prestige - to purchase their services beforehand. "Bally" Brice Gottfreid. A bad blood known as a scourge of the Hive Ward . . . guildsmaster of a large band of the local color. Known and feared in his day, Bally Brice's small kingdom of rogues and assassins had been wittled away bit by bit the last five years, his empire shrinking even as his waistline expanded; and now this, his final resting place.
The Deadbook.
"This is Brice Gottfreid?". The Dustman merely nodded, his face concealed by the darkness of his hood. Her hand moves to her neck, and she unfastens a necklace of gold ringed by dozens of the Sigil Torus coins, then hands them to the Dustman. The figure bows and retreats, leaving her alone with the last mortal remains of what was once a feared man.
Knowing it to be fruitless, she nonetheless methodically searches the body. Nothing. No fresh scars indicating perhaps a hidden item. His clothes, cut in quarters to faciliate easy removal, lay in a basket nearby. A search of these, too, revealed nothing of interest.
She sighs and straightens. The corpses had long been stripped of anything valuable. It was Sigil's way. What she required was now in the hands of some Hive Ward opportunist . . . or the hands of a fence.
She strides from the lair of death, past the slient Dustmen, past the rows and rows of what were once men. Now naught but empty shells, stripped of all potential and choices. The roar of the crematorium nearby lighting the side of her face with a flicking ochre witchlight.
She is reminded of the fires of Hell.
Departs, heading for the Hive Ward.
She shudders and tears her eyes from the sight of the ruin that was once the man's features. Traveling over the rest of the body, she notes the tubes now connected to the still form. Blood flowed outwards . . . embalming fluid, in. The process was not perfect. The scent of blood mixed with attar, rose oil, filled the air in the small chamber. She shudders again and turns to the silent Dustman behind her.
Only one criminal had the means - jinx and prestige - to purchase their services beforehand. "Bally" Brice Gottfreid. A bad blood known as a scourge of the Hive Ward . . . guildsmaster of a large band of the local color. Known and feared in his day, Bally Brice's small kingdom of rogues and assassins had been wittled away bit by bit the last five years, his empire shrinking even as his waistline expanded; and now this, his final resting place.
The Deadbook.
"This is Brice Gottfreid?". The Dustman merely nodded, his face concealed by the darkness of his hood. Her hand moves to her neck, and she unfastens a necklace of gold ringed by dozens of the Sigil Torus coins, then hands them to the Dustman. The figure bows and retreats, leaving her alone with the last mortal remains of what was once a feared man.
Knowing it to be fruitless, she nonetheless methodically searches the body. Nothing. No fresh scars indicating perhaps a hidden item. His clothes, cut in quarters to faciliate easy removal, lay in a basket nearby. A search of these, too, revealed nothing of interest.
She sighs and straightens. The corpses had long been stripped of anything valuable. It was Sigil's way. What she required was now in the hands of some Hive Ward opportunist . . . or the hands of a fence.
She strides from the lair of death, past the slient Dustmen, past the rows and rows of what were once men. Now naught but empty shells, stripped of all potential and choices. The roar of the crematorium nearby lighting the side of her face with a flicking ochre witchlight.
She is reminded of the fires of Hell.
Departs, heading for the Hive Ward.