She-Swine

Eryck pressed two fingers into her twisted neck, feeling for a pulse, coming up wanting. Her skin was cold, knotted, eyes grey as winter dusk. To a side, her spear had skittered, its point still polished, sharp and gleaming as ever.

"Dead," he said, resigned. "It would have been instant. No pain." He reached out with two fingers, closed her eyes. For whatever else she was, she was a colleague. A comrade in arms. 

And she had been murdered. 

"What a mess," Thyme grunted from down the hall a ways, stretching out the hem of the sheepskin shirt he'd swiped out of evidence. It bulged at his chest, tightening about his broad shoulders. "Her folks'll be pissing fire when they hear about this!" His ursine face crinkled around a hard frown, trying to project some command back into his voice. 

He'll be demoted for this, Eryck knew, with full certainty. Knocked unconscious by criminals, stripped of his keys, locked away, and one of our own dead. He knows it's over, but he's still putting on the same face.

"If they do, I'd rather show them to a better chamber pot than the barracks, captain." He stood, climbed up a few steps, considered the body from a vantage.

"Well, I wish you very good luck with that," Thyme said, scratching at his beard as he edged closer. "No one had eyes on it. Could bring in some Tasters, but--"

"Her family would never allow it." Eryck nodded, swinging his gaze up the stairway. Elves viewed their flesh as sacred, to be buried in their Garden upon death, that it might live again. Over sentimental, but he appreciated the symbolism, even if it got in the way of the judicial process.

He considered the steps, the corpse, the angle of descent. The way her body contorted suggested she'd fallen from near the top. "I don't get it." He said, lifting up his clipboard. 

Thyme chuckled, leaning against the bars by the landing. "Oh, the prodigy is onto something, is he?"

Eryck ignored him, producing a pen from behind his ear. "Frey was careful. Supercilious, but careful." He gestured to her crooked body, its state of undress. "She wouldn't pick a fight without armour. Not a real one."

Thyme shrugged. "Maybe she wasn't expecting one. They moved quick..."

"Not that quick," Eryck tutted, scratching down notes. A bubble, 'Pushed?', branching out into other bubbles. "She just got off shift, and would have been in her cot. The Lupene should have been the priority, she'd know, and she would have been smart enough to put on armour for that, or engage him at range. She didn't have a reason to come here, not when the row started. Not unless she thought she had an easy target."

Thyme's beard puckered as he nodded along. "And you have any idea who this 'easy target' might have been? Or how she knew to find them?"

"She could have seen them, heard them, smelled them, or just sensed the vibrations of their coming." Eryck shrugged, adding a bubble. 'Elf senses = strong'. "And I have a few theories. Check the limbs."

The captain grimaced. "You think she put up a struggle?"

"Maybe. Wouldn't hurt to check."

There was no blood or skin under her fingernails, no chips, no sign of bruising about her wrists. They gingerly peeled off her stockings, checked her toes for bleeding, contusions. 

"You know, I heard of some fellows who would pay good Wings for this..." Thyme snorted, giving her foot a wiggle. 

Eryck stared at him, expression blank. The captain chuckled, dimly, then let it fall, stepping back. A decent attempt at humour, but poor timing... and gross.

"So, anything else to check? Want to make sure she was a vir--" Thyme's face pinched as he caught himself, tugging at his shirt again. "Er... I mean, um..."

Eryck ignored him, again, checking over her heel, her ankle. Thoroughness was a neighbour to excellence, his brother told him, and he was always the neighbourly sort. 

"You know, it's been a long night." Thyme sighed, rubbing his neck. "Let the robes came in and do their work. I'm sure they'll find anything untoward and--"

"Keep it behind ten layers of bureaucracy while her parents hire assassins to go out and kill whoever fits their theory?" Eryck shook his head. "There were thirteen prisoners down there--"

"Fourteen." Thyme corrected, wearily. "That's what Balm said. He counted fourteen."

"Then he miscounted," Eryck said, his voice certain as stone. "After the Porcene, it was thirteen. I read the ledgers. Reread them, too."

Thyme held up his hands, placative. "Fine, fine, if you say so!"

Eryck rolled his eyes, felt at the ankle. "As I was saying, there were thirteen prisoners down there, and only one of them is a murderer. I won't countenance a witch hunt, not if I can narrow it down."

Thyme chuckled. "So that's why you're giving your dead colleague a foot massage, huh?" 

"I'd rather give myself a foot massage and relax by the fire with a ginger tea." Eryck told him, deadpan. "And I'd rather my colleague was still up and sneering, too."

Thyme narrowed his eyes. "You're a hard man to amuse, Eryck. And much too bold when talking to your superior." He snorted, then spat. "Here's what I think. Those prisoners made us seem like fools. They made a shambles of our barracks, a mockery of our best and brightest, and left one of us mangled in the dirt!" He growled, forming a fist. "Far as I see it, the bastards all belong on the gallows, in a neat little line!"

"Then why aren't you looking for them, with the rest?" Eryck asked, blankly, feeling a groove. "If you're that passionate, captain."

"Because I have to listen to your smart mouth before I can make my report." Thyme scoffed, puffing out his chest. "So, can I do that? Can I make my report, Ser Highest and Mightiest? The sooner I can, the sooner they'll be dancing..."

And the sooner you'll be jobless. Eryck sighed, running his hands along the leg in a hurried motion. They were aligned on haste, at least. 

He felt something. A groove, a bit of tenderness. He removed his thumb, saw a thin, faint red line craze her ankle. A scratch, fresh, and made with force. Not a fingernail, too delicate for a knife. Toe nail? No, too fine a point, and they would have been shod. Unless...

Easy target.

"So?" Thyme huffed, tapping a foot. "Can I go?"

Was it enough? Almost, but he had to be sure. If he spoke the name, he would be marking them for death. He knew she was the most likely answer, but there were always alternatives, threads to follow. 

And she seemed harmless. But 'seeming' was often the trouble, wasn't it?

No, he needed to be certain. Absolutely certain. There was no room for mistakes, not anymore.

"That's all I've got, captain." Eryck told him, standing, pulling out his clipboard and pen. "Might as well bring in the robes."

Thyme smiled, gave him a tap on the shoulder. "Good man. Go get some rest now, you hear? Captain's orders." He commanded, taking care to step around him, and the corpse, as he ascended the staircase.

"I will, in a bit," Eryck said, drawing another bubble. 'Olive Farrier'. "I have to check in with an envoy, first."