176. Trail of Entrails

Serac followed Travertine—and the trail of entrails left by Flint the Butcher—up the hill and deeper into the residential area. The clay houses here, though sparsely spaced, followed a neat pattern of rows and grids, not unlike the wheat fields downhill. In contrast, Serac's mind was a right mess.

Long after the detectives had left their one eyewitness to grieve for her (temporarily) deceased beau, Peridot's statement kept replaying in Serac's head. A large cat had risen out of the shadows, to then rip open a man from neck to navel. Putting aside the confirmation their suspect was almost-definitely-not-Mriga, Serac had real reason to believe she'd already met the very soul responsible.

"Something on your mind?"

Travertine asked without turning. His CROZIER click-clacked (and his deer companions clip-clopped) against the road at a brisk pace. Serac hastened to keep up, all the while thinking: something on my mind—is there ever!

"Nothing important." She settled on a lie that was hopefully at least a half-truth. "Just feel sorry for Peridot, that's all."

"She only has herself to blame."

Serac slowed her steps, glaring at Travertine's back. The sun's out in full force now, and this guy still can't decide if he's an alright dude or a raging asshole.

"The murders have been going on long enough that all Dawnwickers know what's at stake." The guy chose to lean into the latter. "Citizens are told to remain strictly indoors in the early Mornings and late Afternoons, and to travel in groups the rest of the time. ToMorrow, I must give Bishop Rafferty a stern talking-to. He should know better than to fraternize with the herd, let alone allow his woman to—"

"I'ma stop you right there, chief," Serac cut in sharply, voice edged with real warning, "before this working relationship of ours becomes untenable."

Travertine did glance over his shoulder then, long enough to flash Serac another almost-smirk, accompanied by a barely-apology.

"Forgive me. I didn't take one of your reputation to be such a sensitive soul." He turned his back again as he went on, "With that said, I suppose we ought to be grateful for the girl's indiscretion. For it's provided us with our first real description of Flint the Butcher, however incomplete though it may be."

"But"—Serac was roped straight back into detective talk—"by your earlier logic, isn't this exactly what the murderer wanted? It showed itself to Peridot, to frighten her into calling for help. It killed Drumlin before he could do anything, then left the girl alive to tell the tale. Like it wanted to give us a clear lead to follow."

"I'm in full agreement with that assessment. The murderer has evidently seen fit to escalate his campaign of terror. Perhaps to sow discord? Or perhaps… he stands to benefit from us stepping up our manhunt. What say you, Deacon Edin? You and I both know of a particular group of souls made to seek ever-mounting challenges."

Wayfarers. The answer seemed obvious, and Serac too had reached the same conclusion after a mere few hours on the case. Whatever or whoever Flint the Butcher was, its/his crimes had a Wayfarer's 'fingerprints' all over them.

"You sound pretty sure there's intentionality behind the Butcher's actions," Serac observed. "Keep calling it 'him' and everything."

"Should I not?"

"Well, how do you square that with the Butcher's description? Do you know any Mriga whose Oathborn might look like that?"

"No, and I should know if there were. I'm well familiar with the magic of all my Templar brothers and sisters."

"Exactly. Wouldn't that leave a Breachspawn as the only possible explanation? And you said yourself that only happens when a Wayfarer has lost control over their Oathborn. How is it committing all these symbolic and calculated murders then? Besides which, how are we even meant to catch the Wayfarer responsible if they're, you know, on the other side of Tidereign?"

"All good points. You've learned quickly in your short time here, Serac aft'Edin." An over-the-shoulder smile, reminiscent of the 'grin' that had so disturbed Serac back on the steamboat. "But to all your good points, I offer the same response: stranger things have happened. In fact, I can think of an example from just this Morning."

Serac felt another chill down her spine, but there was no boat for her to jump off from. Is this guy supporting my arguments or accusing me of the crimes? Did he 'recruit' me for an extra hand… or to keep an eye on the prime suspect?

"Perhaps"—a third opinion from inside Serac's head—"it's high time you came clean about your Night-side dealings, if only to deflect suspicion from yourself."

Would that even work? Serac reasoned. Travertine's never known the world of Night. Nothing I say about it could be fact-checked in any way. No, he's not interested in my knowledge of Night; he's only waiting for me to implicate myself, right here during the Day.

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"Point taken. And when it comes down to it, we're in a similar situation. Too little information to act on. All I can suggest for now: keep your eyes peeled and your mind open."

Good advice, or at least the best Serac could hope for in the circumstance. She thumbed the envelope in her pocket one last time, then concentrated on playing her part as a sincere and not-at-all-suspicious detective partner.

Presently, the pair came upon a detached piece of intestinal ribbon—the third such discovery on their trek. It hung prominently on the rim of a stone well, one loose end rolling onto the grass to point to a new direction.

Serac suppressed a dry heave for what felt like the umpteenth time toDay. It was accompanied by another flash of anger, this time on behalf of the neighborhood that surely depended on the well for their day-to-day. More and more, she saw Travertine's point about how such mockery and harassment could drive a ritual-loving people up the wall.

As for the Cardinal himself, he bent to inspect the third 'clue'. The local Anchoreds had been told to leave any potential evidence untouched, an instruction they followed as faithfully as all other aspects of their regimented life. It allowed Travertine to make note of the ribbon's appearance and orientation, exactly as Flint the Butcher had left it. Finally, he picked up the ribbon, again with his bare hands. He folded it up carefully before putting it into a leather bag attached to Big Stag ORD.

Having watched the same interaction three times now, Serac still couldn't decide if it was the most deranged or adorable thing she'd ever witnessed. For what it was worth, it did make her miss Ashvanaga: a living castle she couldn't rightly summon while still pretending to be a 'Deacon Edin'.

"This one veers west and leads away from the main road," Travertine said, "toward the alder grove on the edge of the lowlands."

The deerherd then frowned, which Serac now recognized as distinct from his characteristic scowl. It spoke to an uncertainty—a deviation from the norm that made him question his usual procedure.

"Would the Butcher really 'hide' the last piece in the wilderness?" the man muttered, eyeing Serac as he did. "Unless—?"

As if remembering something, Travertine abruptly dashed off, with such long strides that his Oathborns had to trot and Serac had to jog to keep up.

"What is it?" Serac demanded. "What brilliant discovery have you made now?"

As was quickly (and annoyingly) becoming a habit, Travertine answered Serac's question with another question, "Did your Seersmith teach you about the two types of Breachspawns?"

"Huh? Sure. I think she said Breachspawns can also originate from Anchored souls who breached their oaths. But those tend to be less—what's the word—individualized than the Wayfaring ones."

"Correct. In the absence of Oathborns, mob-class Breachspawns can and do arise from Anchoreds driven off their oath-abiding way of life. They often congregate in packs, and are drawn to places and objects that hold power over their baser natures. Part of our duties as Templars is to preemptively draw out and smite these lesser Breachspawns under a controlled environment, lest they spring upon the defenseless herd at an inopportune time."

"Let me guess," Serac said, now sharing in a sense of mounting dread, "you reckon someone's already gotten the jump on that. Laid down a trap for unsuspecting souls."

"Precisely. And we must deal with the problem before it spreads. Before these abominations from across the veil grow fat on Dawnwick soil."

"Okay, I think I'm with you. But where exactly is this trap? What's this place or object of power that would incite a whole pack of—"

Serac held her breath as her horns—what was left of them anyway—quivered beneath her hood. Even here in Tidereign, she'd retained her modest ability for passive ripple-reading. It told her the ripples around her were being dredged up and thrown about every which way—and they weren't happy about it!

She soon saw why. The trail of entrails had veered off from the main road, only to lead the detectives to a graveyard on the edge of town.

How did Serac know? Well, these weren't the [Accursed] skeleton army piled up outside the Bone Lord's front door. No, this plot of grassy land hosted graves in the most direct sense of the word, marked by stone tablets honoring the dearly departed.

Except there was nothing honorable about how the buried dead were being treated now. The graves had been dug up and knocked about every which way. And the exhumed, desecrated corpses were now being torn limb from limb, to be fed upon by the ghouls that had gathered here.

"What fresh hell is this?" Serac exclaimed incredulously. The question was rhetorical and visceral, and yet, Pathsight saw fit to provide a written answer:

[Frenzied Glutton]

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. First the Penitents in Naraka, then the Starvelings in Pretjord, and now, Frenzied Gluttons in Tidereign. The newest faces for Serac to shoot at belonged to a pack of Aberrant grave-robbers, about six or seven of them at a glance.

Contrary to its designation, the [Glutton] was a spindly creature. A coming-together of thin, gangling limbs whose thread-like muscles coiled in on themselves. Its face—if it indeed was a face—formed a vague, wafer-thin triangle contiguous with its chest and torso. They loped rather than walked: long, slouching bounces that gave them the appearance of something liquid and profoundly alien.

Yet, when a Glutton reached into a grave for its 'food', it did so with frightening efficiency. A blinding quick swipe with its spindly arm, and up popped an antlered Mriga head, shorn clean off at its mummified neck. Faster than a horrified Rakshasa could mutter 'what in hell', the Glutton's body unzipped itself, from the tip of its facial triangle to the base of its knotted groin. And in went the Mriga head, disappearing into the void at the Glutton's heart. The body re-zipped itself in short order, to then shudder once in a wave-like motion.

Serac had seen her fair share of souls swallowing their food. But never had an instance of it so revolted her, and on such a fundamental level.

She'd only worked the 'Flint the Butcher' case for a matter of hours. She barely knew her detective partner, let alone anything about the 'herd' Travertine was [Oathbound] to protect. But she'd seen enough. Questions and answers could wait. Right now and right in front of her face was an abomination that needed cleansing with extreme prejudice.

"Ready yourself, Deacon Edin!" Travertine, ever scowling, hollered out a rallying cry—timely yet unnecessary. "It's time you proved your worth and place in the Keeper's plans!"

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