---

---

Xiuyang reunites with the others, only for them to be required to split up again. She chooses to follow Seviin into the fog between them and the Forge, and in an ill-conceived attempt to comfort her, ends up hurting her instead. They end up separated in the fog, where Seviin confronts her inner beast—and Xiuyang is challenged by her obsessive love for Ciro, and her yearning for an ounce of warmth in Halge Larchelon. Xiuyang rejects the false promise of eternal bliss and returns to Seviin to make things right. Two girls who both view themselves as freaks confront their self-loathing and fear of rejection together, but the conclusion of that conversation is left for a peaceful day.


The survivors of Halge Larchelon explore the reception area of the Forge. With some awkwardness still lingering between Xiuyang and Seviin, she joins Leon, but the two are quickly captured by the Forge's denizens and interrogated. Xiuyang navigates this situation the way she does best: by bringing genuine emotion and a lot of truth to the table to cover one small but effective lie. She convinces the Hegelans that she is being used by a mutual enemy, and her only interest in the Forge was initially curiosity and a love of exploration. They pity her for the helplessness she clearly shows, and she is spared the horrible fate that awaits the prisoners of Halge Larchelon: being forced to wear a bodysuit that can puppet its wearer.

---

---

The headless monster lurking in the depths of the city returns and threatens to destroy all who linger in the Forge, including its protectors. As the battle progresses, Xiuyang is captured by the beast and wrapped in ribbons cut of the same cloth as the prisoner suits—the Omniphage Coils. As Xiuyang confronts her fear of a fate worse than death by detaching from her identity as a human being and accepting her role as a temporary agent of the viral Solari superorganism, her Devourer manas fight back against their control and form a symbiosis, turning her into something in between Xiuyang Solari and a horrific abomination. Temporarily bereft of higher functioning, its sole purpose seems to be to take down the headless dragon—but then, it suddenly protects Seviin from a bullet. As the battle rages on, Yvain puts his life on the line in one final gambit to take down the beast for good. Seviin attempts to bring him back from the brink of death, but will it work?


The denizens of the Forge, the outsiders, and their puppet master have a standoff, the outsiders accused of murdering two of the Hegelans. Suddenly, Xiuyang realizes that Pluurii is behind it all—both the assassination attempt on her friend Seviin, and framing them all for murder, to buy herself time to shut down the Forge and remove several thorns in her side in the process. Xiuyang sees an opportunity to cause Pluurii's plan to backfire, by orchestrating their battle in such a way that she can accomplish Revidia's goals while denying any collaboration with Tarlon. Her allies do not know that she intends to allow Pluurii to shut down the Forge before killing her off, and unfortunately for her, they come along. Luckily, Juulet also planned to shut down the Forge, so the Forge ends up shut down regardless—but in the process, summons a monster that not even Hugo could defeat. The final battle of the Forge begins.

---

---

Xiuyang confronts Pluurii, Seviin's would-be assassin, and finds a broken woman that threatens to be a reflection of herself. Like a predator, she stalks her, but unable to find her, she comes to her senses and tries to find it in her heart to spare her, at least for now—but Pluurii seizes the opportunity for a sneak attack, then threatens to kill everyone Xiuyang cares for. For the first time in her life, the former follower of Oraff—now an agent of Eshiran—knows true hatred.


Xiuyang comes away from her battle with the Leviathan certain that her most uncertain times were guided by the gods. As she comes to terms with her new body and her new role as an agent of Eshiran, one question remains: does someone like her still belong on Sipenta? Will she ever again have a place to call home, and people to call family, or will she have to wait until the day of her soul's redemption? Can she be redeemed..?

---

---

Sorriso is banished to the Omenaxan, and Virang stands poised to seize the day. Black King, however, has other plans, and calls in a favor from an exorcist. The demon, a fraud, shrinks back in fear, but Zarina's wildblood manas awaken and tip the scales back to a neutral position. The dragon and the exorcist prepare to battle, the dragon indistinguishable from a demon in the eyes of the Palaparese rebels. They seem evenly matched, but will anything survive their climactic showdown?


The revolution is over, or so it seems—if only the consequences of meddling with temporal magics could be so easily dismissed. Chaos ensues—in the end, will the fighting simply continue?


A pulsating aberration appears, and both heroes and villains from both sides seize the opportunity to meet the gods and partake of their fruits. In this sacred grove, new connections are made, old wounds are reopened, and the truth is laid bare.

It was apparent, from the length of the route that they took and the length of time that it took for the cathedral to grow appreciably in size, that Dom St. Adelheid was quite a ways outside of Lindenholdt's core.

It was also impossibly large for a town of this size.

Its great twin belltowers loomed above the town, their shadows stretching long and pointed, stabbing into the very heart of Market Square and on past it through the halls of the town's guilds, and then further, still, all of the way to the Von Mollern Estate. They lay, as yet, silent: two of their eight bells mounted, another five still waiting to be hoisted into place, and the final one stuck in transit, thanks to the ice on the river.

And, yet, Lindenholdt itself was anything but silent. Dozens of colourful stalls, vendors, and shopfronts opened onto the plaza. One man was selling trees beside the fountain, though he was almost out of them. Steam curled from a great pot of hot apple cider. Men chatted about the news or their holiday plans while their wives haggled with vendors and their children dashed and darted through a sea of legs and torsos. Elders sat around the fountain or in front of shops, deep in conversation or keeping an eye on the youngsters, just as others had once kept an eye on them. The town butcher was busy setting out some fine cuts of venison. A burly woman with a sleigh was selling bundles of firewood. Cookies waited in bakeries, and the sweet smell of sugar and spratz filled the air. Johann had something to say about virtually all of these.

"We'll be stopping here for about twenty minutes," Bastian announced, hooking his thumbs into his belt and scanning the crowd. "I don't know about you, but I'm yet to enjoy a proper lunch, and an officer of ze peace runs on his stomach. Feel free to ask some questions, zough most people here are not fluent in Avintz." He shook his head. "And don't push too hard just yet, my super sleuths." He winked. "Stay close, fill your bellies, and we shall be on our way."

Ingrid looked around the market and all its wonders seemed to be laid out in front of her. To the portly man, unable to tie his shoe, to the tempting bakery with some revidians posted out front speaking in their own mother tongue. She pointed it out to Marco, the seemingly revidian in their group. "Do you think you can pick me up something from there? Something buttery, please!" Ingrid made her fake plea to Marco.

Marco was absentmindedly listening to Johann go on a long winded tirade about the merits of pairing snickerdoodles with apple cider when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. ”Hm?”

He turned his head away from the portly man, whose mouth was still running away from him, to take notice of Ingrid. She pointed to a bakery across the street and made a request. Apparently she was hungry. He still wasn’t quite ready for lunch yet, but he also had nothing better to do until they reached their destination, so Marco didn’t mind doing his fellow student the small favor.

With Marco left to grab a treat for her and eavesdrop on the revidians, she decided to lend her aid to the portly gentleman by the fountain, "Excuse me?" Ingrid asked the man in avincian. "Would you like me to help you with your shoes?" she asked before doing. She got in trouble doing something similar to some of the wheelchaired folk before.

Bastian was out and about, wheedling his way into the cider lineup by chatting up a couple of young women. The four students, meanwhile, had spread to the four winds in search of, more or less, Lindenholdt. At Ingrid's sudden appearance, the very heavy man looked up, his face rather red but far from unpleasant. Something about him just appeared... nice.

"Ah, yes," he replied in accented Avincian, "I appear to be ze roundest man here, haha!" He straightened with some difficulty and dabbed at his forehead with a kerchief. "I suppose ze kampf is futile." He nodded. "I would not decline." he studied her as she moved in, however, clearly recognizing that she was not from around here. Perhaps he was merely too polite to ask.

Ingrid had a chuckle at ze roundest man here, "It would be no trouble at all." She crouched down, lifting her dress and tucking it into her knee to not muddy it. She tied it as she was taught to, taking care to make it tough enough to hold on but not to tight to be uncomfortable when stepped with.

from her crouched position, "There, it should hold for the rest of your day." She smiled and gave a small nod as she rose back to a stand, letting her dress fall back down.

As she was crouching, Ingrid could not help but notice a boy of about twelve or thirteen hovering nearby. He had, now that she thought about it, actually been there for some time. However, before she could address him, he disappeared into the crowd with a loaded glance in the direction of the heavyset man.

"Ah, danke. Thank you!" He nodded and went to heave himself to his feet, the effort seeming to tax him some. "Oh, where are my manners, young lady." He chuckled apologetically, eyes momentarily searching for the boy before giving up. "Hans Grünewald, master of ze dyer's guild." Now that she considered it, his clothes were not only fine, but rather tastefully colourful as well. "And yourself?"

Ingrid gave a light curtsy, "Ingrid Penderson, Biro of Ersand'Enise and 2nd tallest woman in Lindenholdt," she made note of the clown that snatched the title from her. It struck her rather late, "Grünewald? Oh! You must be Edith's father, it is lovely to meet you." She did a quick look for the child who went off as he had done, "is the boy your child as well?"

Hans let out a bark of laughter and set to moving, his positively massive form something of a sight to behold. He was tall, as well as heavy, and people tipped their hats in his direction. "Ze same," he replied to Ingrid's observation. "I suppose your friends are working with zat girl." He nodded. "I shall say Zat they are in for... quite ze experience."

His chuckle was quick one, but then she asked him about the boy and his expression grew darker. Hans shook his great head tightly, huffing as he walked. "Zat is Hanno, my dear girl." He shook it again, leaning in slightly. "Hanno Zimmerman." He straightened as if it were self-explanatory, before perhaps realizing that it was not, to an outsider. "His father is Ernst - one of ze missing." Hans paused, pursing his lips, face pinched. "A good lad." He swallowed. "A good lad, and due to start his apprenticeship in the coming year, before..." He trailed off and sighed.

"Her preparatory skills were something to be admired, Dami knows that." Ingrid gave a compliment as one should in small conversation. But as the conversation continue, Ingrid's superb mood lowered to a quieter calm when she heard the name of the child. "I see," Ingrid took a moment of silence to gather her thoughts, "We were heading to their house for the investigation. Did... you know his father personally?" She asked with as much empathy as she could muster.

Hans shook his head tightly, making his way towards one of the buildings. It was the Dyers' Guild Hall and the clock above its doorway told Ingrid that she did not have so very long left. "I knew him in passing." He shook his head again. "A solid fellow: hard worker, knew his craft, saved his money." He lowered his voice and leaned in. "Liked his drink, but never struck me as a sort to take it too far." He paused and considered. "Except with his family. He had far too many children for a man of his income, if you ask me." He paused before the door. "Poor Hanno. His mother will be widowed and an apprentice does not make a wage, only room and board for his first two years. Zey will need ze income." His hand rested on the latch.

Ingrid made some mental notes based on what Hans said. Craftsmen, drinks, large family, not enough money. That is what could be used to describe Mr. Zimmerman. Maybe he has some friends at the taverns that heard some of his personal business, things you don't bring home. It was a start, no doubt Karl had already started that process but redoubling efforts may lead us somewhere.

"Well, thank you for your time Mr. Grünewald. I do hope that Hanno, should he wish, be able to continue his apprenticeship." Ingrid already had some charity work planned for Caldores, what was it to add one more child with a bright future. "I do have one last question, do you know the names of any taverns popular with commoners and craftsmen?" She glanced up to the convenient clock.
He paused at the threshold and considered, perhaps in a hurry to be somewhere but held back by the debt he felt he owed her or, perhaps, his better nature. "Der Löwenkopf." He riddled them off on his fingers. "Schwarzman's, Der Glücksbulle, and... well, Die Tanzsteifel, though that one's also an inn. Now," he concluded, "I intend no disrespect, Lady Penderson, but I really must be going." He flashed her a smile. "Have a Merry Caldores and enjoy your stay in Lindenholdt!"

"Of course, a merry Caldores to you as well." Ingrid left him to his devices and whatever demanded his attention so urgently. Not that she had so much time to spare either. Ingrid hurried to rejoin less she be the slow one of the group. She had hoped Marco had actually picked something up at the bakery, now knowing that Ernst Zimmerman had many children.

---

As Ingrid pranced off to bother one of the townsfolk, Marco realized that she hadn’t given him the money for the bread. He sighed and fished around in his pockets for some coins. The Century gave a generous stipend to its elite soldiers, so he was far from being broke, but he could only hope that a small town like this would accept coronas or magi. The young Revidian trudged across the snow covered street, dodging snowballs and runaway sheep as he went, until he secured a spot in line. As he patiently waited with his hands buried in his coat, Marco couldn’t help but overhear a conversation being held in a language that was surprisingly familiar to him.

It would be difficult to catch much above the bustle of the crowded square on the eve of Caldores, but Marco had the Gift. Thus, while he could not make out what was being said to perfection - or even full understanding - he could hear enough to make out that the people speaking were engineers or smiths of some high end commodity. More than once, he heard the words "segreto" or "finanziamenti". He heard "scadenza", "guerra", and, finally, "possiamo fidarci di loro?" There was some laughter at that. They also commented on the food being bland and tasteless except for its oversaturation with sugar.

Most mysterious of all, however, was a word that he did not quite understand, for Marco had not heard it before: "lanciafulmine". It... did not strictly make sense, but their voices seemed to drop and become serious the handful of times he heard them utter it.

Then, he had reached more or less the front of the queue, finding himself more or less next to the trio.

Marco couldn’t catch more than a fragment of their conversation, but he didn’t like the words that the three Revidians were using. A secret exchange of money. War. An unknown third party they only referred to as “them”. Were these three arms dealers, or something similar? Even if they were, did their business in Lindenholdt even remotely relate to the missing people? If not, he could not see a reason to confront them based on a few politically charged phrases. There were too many missing details for him to piece together a complete story.

When he reached the front of the line, Marco spoke his order in very slow, clinical Avinician. He was curious if the trio would continue talking, and they probably wouldn’t if they knew they were being understood. In case the baker couldn’t understand him, Marco also pointed at one of the fancier confections with his left hand while raising two fingers with his right.

They kept talking as he ordered, and the baker's daughter, behind the counter, seemed to get his meaning enough to make it easy for him to both get what he wanted and get what he really wanted.

"We're past the prototype stage - virtually ready for production. We'll make the deadline."

The single woman among the three shook her head adamantly. "Maybe so, but we have to move them, and from a place like this?" she scoffed.

"I don't even know why they chose it for a project of this importance," Griped the third, "unless it's actually not that -"

"Because we need everything we can get to even matters out, and the Kerremans are doing much of the heavy lifting." The first, with a well-trimmed silver beard and slicked back hair, was in charge. Marco could sense it.

"With our money," the female researcher protested. "It just seems like we'd be better served -" Her voice lowered and she glanced about, eyes sweeping over Marco as she took in everyone in the vicinity. "taking a prototype home and reverse engineering it back home. They'll never ship on time, not with the winter ice in this frigid excuse for a town."

Then, the third of the bunch tapped his fingers on the table in a very specific pattern "fast-slow-slow-fast-fast - pause - fast-fast." He tried to make it look idle, but it was not. They quickly and somewhat clumsily switched to talking about how cold it was here and how their boat had become stuck in the ice.

As soon as he had the food in his hands and his money splayed across the counter, Marco was gone. The conversation took a rather uninteresting turn, and hanging around for longer than necessary would only serve to have his face etched into their memories. He hadn’t heard everything, but he heard enough. There were some big weapons being moved through Lindenholdt, and Kerremand was involved somehow. From what he could piece together, the Revidians were backing some kind of weapons research, and the prototypes were being built right here in Lindenholdt. With the relationships between the great powers of Constantia teetering on the brink of conflict, Marco could guess who those weapons, the “thunder spears” as they called them, would be pointed at.

While he was a fellow countryman of theirs, Marco did not particularly care to take a political side in the looming war. His life as a priest and a Century had squashed whatever nationalistic beliefs he might have had as a hot blooded teenager. What mainly concerned him was the danger the trio themselves presented to the townsfolk. If they were hiding a cache of weapons prototypes in Lindenholdt and some clueless peasant happened to stumble upon it, then they could have been kidnapped or even killed.

I probably shouldn’t share this with anyone from Lindenholdt.... I’ll talk about it with the other students later and see what they think. Marco cradled the paper wrapped cakes in his arms and walked in the direction of Ingrid to deliver the goods, while also paying very close attention to the signatures of the three foreigners in case they ever crossed his path again.

---

Roslyn drank in the sights and sounds with an eagerness. Whenever she spotted an unfamiliar food item, she nudged Johann then pointed at it. Of course, the large fellow examined it with an eagerness that was infectious. She found herself loving holidays like Caldores. It was a welcome distraction from the hardships of the year. Sticking close to her fellow students, she caught Bastian's words.

"Will do." Her eyes caught a hard apple cider stand near the man. She looked up at Johann. "Umm, Johann?"

She waited until she had gotten his attention. "I want to try one of the hard apple ciders. Do you want to come with me? It will be my treat."

"You had me at 'hard'," Johann joked, realizing, only moments later, how that might've sounded. Could Roslyn see his cheeks redden in embarrassment?

Regardless, they made their way over and took their place in line. Children bustled and bumped through it, friends chatted, people came and went as others held their spots, and a mother rocked and tutted a crying baby. Johann translated some of the more amusing goings-on as they worked their way up. "These two are talking about their friend's new wig. One maintains that it looks like a squid. The other believes that it is like an egg cracked over her head." He motioned only with his eyes.

"This fellow is worried that his daughter will cry if he does not get her an orange for Caldores and then his mother will think that he is a bad parent." Those same eyes nearly rolled.

"Those whispering two are checking out every girl they can see and rating them by various metrics." He paused and smirked slightly. "They have rated you, too, as well as my tits." He glanced down at his own chest and pursed his lips, mock-pouting.

"These are saying that the new cathedral looks ugly, and taking bets on whether it will open on time." His chin pointed to a small cluster. "Those are on about the disappearances. They say it is the Revidians." He arched an eyebrow. "Though I cannot imagine why."

"This one's nephew, Rudy, is always getting into trouble, and more so since... Hmm." He shook his head. "Since the 'incident', she says."

They continued to move up in the line, even as the two children chasing the goat came barreling past. All talk turned to that subject for a little while. "This one wonders if her lazy husband will get her a gift this year. That one is flirting with Bastian." Indeed, their guide was there, working his magic.

"That one is..." He stopped and listened more intently, and Roslyn could feel a slight draw of the Gift. "One of those two men is saying that the land for the new cathedral is cursed - the Frickmayer curse - and that is behind the disappearances." He paused and listened again. "The other says that they found something they should not have and were murdered. Both agree that there are many hidden things in this town." Johann furrowed his brow as they move dup again, nearly to the front. "They do not sound very bright, but their sentiments..." he trailed off. Bastian wiggled his brows at them as he walked away with a cider of his own and two giggling young women waving his way. "Zwei minuten," he mouthed. "Same place."

Then, Johann and Roslyn were at the front of the line and a small, pleasant-looking chap with a festive hat, round eyeglasses, and a bery large handlebar mustache was peering pleasantly and expectantly at them, mug and ladel at the ready.

It took Roslyn a few moments before her eyes widened with realization. Oh... She placed a knuckle on her lips and stifled a budding giggle. With anyone else, it might've been awkward. She gently patted his arm and gave him a reassuring smile about his true meaning.

When they moved, she listened to him translate. At mention of the two men rating certain assets of hers, she bit her lip and crossed her arms over her chest. "Sounds like you didn't like what you heard. I didn't beat you, did I?" She teased softly.

Drinking in the information passed to her, Roslyn started to sort it out in her head. Her thoughts were interrupted when the children chasing the goat barreled past. With a small and quick spell, she focused her kinetic to slow the little creature down for them. She might have to help if they were still struggling. It was the drawing from Johann that caught her attention. Her eyes turned to him as he spoke of a curse.

"Frickmayer curse? I suppose superstition makes for good gossip." Roslyn had been reminded of what Zarina and Marceline said after their sword training.

She had little time to dwell on it when their turn came. Her glanced at Johann to translate as she ordered. "Two hard apple ciders, please. How much are they?" Her hand slipped into her lap purse and began looking for the proper coins.

They had been bantering back and forth: an exchange in good humour between friends.... of a sort. "There is all manner of scuttlebutt in a town like this." Johann shook his head slightly. "Though it also speaks to the prevalence of a belief. From my experience," he suggested, "those always have some basis." He took a moment to stroke his chin. "I just wonder what it is."

Then, they were at the front. The great clock above the dyer's guild, and its opposite over the watchmakers' guild, had ticked thirteen more minutes by. Johann placed a gentle hand on her arm and reached into his coinpurse instead. "The promise was enough," he chuckled, "I wanted it anyway and I have money to burn these days." He took a moment to translate her order and the mustachioed man glanced between them. "Pärchen-Special?" he asked. Strangely, Johann didn't translate that one. He merely shook his head quickly and reached for his money.

Roslyn knew what Johann meant and found herself agreeing. It was something to keep an eye out for during the investigation. When he touched her arm, she paused and heard him decline her offer.

"All right, if you insist. However, next time I'll fight you on paying." She closed up her coin purse slowly while he placed their order. Spotting the look and recognizing one word, she noticed he didn't translate.

Waiting for the ciders to be served, she inquired about the meaning of Pärchen. "I recognized one word, but I'm not sure about the other one. Parchin?"

She frowned at her tongue stumbling over the word. "I really should've focused on learning Kerreman. Been to the country twice already and I haven't managed to learn the basics."

Johann held his cup to his lips and his expression was inscrutable behind it.
"Mystery is the spice of life, Miss Wicke," he responded, "and many do not find Kerreman such an easy tongue to master. Now," he suggested, "we drink and we walk, yes?"

All of the others seemed to be gathered. They were the last, and it would not do to hold things up unduly.

"Very well, keep your secret." Her lips pursed before she sighed and her expression relaxed. She took a drink of the cider. The familiar burn went down her throat and warmed her insides against the cold. "True, but even a few words can help. I hate struggling to communicate or feeling like I'm not heard."

She pulled from the stand and followed him. "Of course. It seems everyone's done shopping and mingling."



It did not take them long to gather and, then, they were on their way. "We're taking the bridge," Bastian mentioned, as the five of them continued along. "Zimmerman's on the other side." There was a great tree - bare for the cold months - that sat in a small parkette with a well and benches around it, and a jeweler's shoppe that they passed. Then, they were crossing a handsome stone bridge of relatively recent construction. "It replaced the previous one three years ago," Johann mentioned.

"Ja, and it was a mess the whole way," added Bastian. "At least ze finished product was worth it." He shrugged, stretching and rolling his neck as they walked. He cut a rakish figure with his hair, his clothes, and the sword hanging from his hip. One sensed that he knew how to use it, as well.

"The height of the arches- and the width - " remarked Johann, "allows midsized merchantmen to pass under. It was a must for a town that relies on its port so much these days." He glanced down and lingered appreciatively on the view for a few seconds. Indeed, below them, the river still flowed, in places. Most of the fishing boats had been pulled up on land for the season, along with some smaller merchant craft, placed in drydock or storage in large sheds that lined the riverfront. The pier was built of heavy stone and timber, likely to survive the stresian breakup. A handful of sturdy craft, with iron or copper-lined bows, still sat at dock, a couple of sailors aboard one hacking away at the encroaching ice with long poles before it could grow too thick or hold fast to their hulls.

On the opposite bank rose a series of houses and, in the near distance, the steeple of a church. "Our place is just up there," Bastian advised, pointing to a handful of houses just across the wide muddy road from the house of worship. Exactly which had belonged to the recently-missing Ernst Zimmerman was not entirely clear. They walked for a few more minutes past a wooden church carefully hand carved in the Old Drudgunzean style, echoes of the Old Gods still evident in its craftsmanship, even if it had been built once upon a time by newly-converted and enthusiastic Quentists. An equally ancient cemetery lay beside it under the shade of a great gnarled yew tree.

The houses here were a bit further apart than they had been near the town centre proper. In front of one of them, a pair of boys, busy playing, looked up and quickly dashed inside. Bastian stopped. "That's ze place," he said quietly, waiting for them to form up. "Ernst's wife is named Sarah. She is a good woman, but she has been... struggling. I suggest we don't overwhelm her."

It was as they were deciding who would approach first, with Bastian, when the door opened of its own accord. A disheveled woman in dirty, ill-fitting skirts came tumbling out at them, a trio of young children clustering around the doorframe behind her, peering out with wide eyes that were a mixture of curious and dulled. "Bastian!" came her high-pitched voice as she rushed right up to him, shooting cursory glances at the others. "Bastian! Hast du etwas gefunden? Hast du meinen Ernst gefunden?" From her eyes and her demeanour, it was clear that she had been both crying and drinking. "Du hast gute Neuigkeiten, nicht wahr? Du sagtest, du würdest kommen, wenn du gute Neuigkeiten hättest!" Briefly, her eyes found the four youths who had accompanied the one familiar face and... they seemed evaluative to someone perceptive enough, for just a flicker of time.

"This is sad," said Johann quietly. "She misses her husband and is begging for good news. She is desperate for it and delusional."

"Yeah. At least she's not isolated herself in a room." Roslyn replied with the same measure of volume. With a deep breath, she then added. "Only 'good' news we can give is that we're here to help. I wish we had something better."

This part wasn't going to be easy, but it needed to be done.

She stepped forward and came to rest beside Bastian, a small supportive gesture. There was also hope he might translate for her and in a way that might soften what she had to say.

"Hello, you must be Miss Sarah Zimmerman. We were told a bit about you and how you were faring. My name is Roslyn Wicke. We,"she gestured to her fellow students, "were sent to help with the investigation. I am sorry to sound insensitive, but we were hoping to ask you some questions. I know you've done this before and if you would rather decline, it is understandable."

She tried to sound as sympathetic and kind as she could. However, there was no right way to speak of this. Roslyn's eyes shifted to the children peeking out then back to the mother, wondering if they managed to eat enough. Or ate at all.

Sarah Zimmerman's eyes darted between Bastian and this foreign girl who stood in front of her now with a sweet voice and foreign words. More words came tumbling out of her, but Bastian did not deign to translate them. "Du bist hier, um diesen Fall durchzuwinken, nicht wahr? Du willst ihm am liebsten den Sargdeckel zuknallen!"

Johann could not reach Roslyn without seeming rude, but he leaned into Ingrid and Marco. "She says we are here to rubber stamp this case and slam the lid shut on her husband's coffin," he whispered.

"Oh, was soll ich tun? Was kann ich nur tun? Und diese Kinder: Sie verhungern!"

"Oh, what will I do? What can I possibly do? And these children: they're starving," Johann said quietly, btu loudly enough for Roslyn to hear.

"Frau Zimmerman, ich weiß, das ist schwierig, aber versuchen Sie bitte, beim Thema zu bleiben." Bastian grimaced as he spoke. "Diese jungen Leute sind den ganzen Weg von der Akademie gekommen, um bei dem Fall zu helfen." Momentarily, he twisted to translate for Roslyn, even as Johann did the same for the others, with less paraphrasing. "I was telling her that I know this is hard but to stay on topic. You're here from the academy to -"

"Wenn Sie so talentierte Leute hierher gebracht haben, warum suchen sie dann nicht nach meinem Mann?" Sarah interrupted, her voice almost a wail. "Then shouldn't you be using these talented peopole to look for my husband? she says."

Two of the children disappeared from the doorway. Another cowered, just in sight. A boy who Ingrid might've recognized from the market lingered somewhere by the hearth, tending to a pot with his similarly-aged sister.

Bastian, exhausted, rubbed at the bridge of his nose and let out a long sharp sigh. "Sie suchen nach ihm, Sarah, aber glauben Sie nicht, dass sie zuerst von Ihnen hören müssen?"

Johann took over translation duties. "They're looking for him, Sarah, but don't you think they need to hear from you first?"

She crossed her arms and then reached up with a jerky motion to sweep some disheveled hair from her eyes. "Weißt du, diese Baustelle war nicht sicher. Es war dieser Feskerriecher, Krauss. Er trieb alle ständig an, schneller zu arbeiten, und mein Ernie war zu lieb und sanft, um Nein zu sagen." She shook her head tightly, trying to soften her expression for Roslyn. "Was soll ich nur ohne meinen Mann tun? Alle kümmern sich nur um diese blöde Kathedrale, als würde sie dieser Kleinstadt plötzlich Bedeutung verleihen? Kann sie mir meinen Ernst zurückbringen?"

Johann swallowed and looked uncomfortable. 'What will I do without my husband, she says." He folded his arms. "Everyone's only concerned with this stupid cathedral, as if it will suddenly make this small town important? Can it bring my Ernst back?"

Roslyn might've not understood the words, but she knew the tone. Her brother had used it often when circumstances were beyond his control and he couldn’t fix them. A stab of guilt hit her heart as she realized she might’ve put Bastian into a difficult position. Especially since he didn’t translate the words for her.

She kept her expression fixed with a calm one, ignoring the discomfort crawling up her skin. She considered the stipend they got from the school and wondered if giving up some of her share might be enough to help. At least for a day or two, they wouldn’t have to worry about food. It might release a burden from her mind and earn some goodwill with the family. Before she could ask the others, Ingrid spoke up behind her.

Ingrid was sympathetic to the woman's cries and desperation. The school had constantly exposed her to the plights of people she would never see otherwise. She felt little comfort but she picked up on things as the woman shared her woes and the burden that is being placed on her.

Ingrid placed a hand on Johann's arm, letting him know she was going to speak, the trout seemed inappropriate right now. "If your children are hungry let them eat sweetbread for now and the rest will be taken care of, isn't that right Bastian." She offered the sweetbread purchased by Marco to the mother, giving a quick glance Bastian's way to just agree.

"You are quite right Mrs. Zimmerman, we are here to investigate the disappearances so the cathedral may finish. However, I don't plan on rubber stamping until we have tried. I'm sure your help will bring good fortune come Caldores." She now glanced Johann's way.

Roslyn’s eyes flashed the Eskandish woman a grateful look for her aid and nodded in agreement.

"I'm sure a Caldores charity can be organized to benefit them," Bastian agreed, surprisingly sheepish for the time being. This, Johann eagerly translated into Kerreman for the grieving widow.

For her part, Sarah dashed forward to accept the gift, hands grasping and clawlike. "Danke," she remembered to say, "Vielen Dank!" she breathed. Behind her, another small head poked out, eyes seizing upon the sugary treat.

Then, from the back room, came the voice of a preteen or young teen boy - Ingrid would recognize him as Hanno, from earlier. "Hier, Mama. Lass mich das für dich nehmen." His voice, while helpful, held an undertone that seemed... misplaced, almost... insistent.

"Nein, Hanno. Mir geht’s gut. Ich behalte es erstmal."

"Ich werde es Constanze und den anderen Kindern geben," he said firmly. Her eyes darted between her son and her unexpected guests, and she handed it over with some hesitation. "She thanks us for the food and her son offers to take it. She says that she is fine and will take it. he wants to feed it to the children and she gives it to him," Johann summed up succinctly.

"Also, was möchten Sie wissen?" she asked, leaning intently but uncomfortably against the doorframe. "So, what would you like to know?" Johann translated.

Marco approached from behind and gave Johann a tap on the arm. ”Her husband. I want to know what and where his job was, and where he was supposed to be going the day he went missing. It may sound redundant to her, but the vague briefing we have on the missing persons case wasn't much for us to go on.”

Johann and Bastian tripped over each other in translating, the former winning out while the latter settled for standing just off to the side, looking tough and somewhat sympathetic. Meanwhile, in the background, Hanno began to disburse some of the sweetbread to his younger siblings, keeping some more judiciously in reserve once each had taken a piece.

"Mein Mann heißt Ernst. Er ist Steinmetz," she began calmly. "My husband's name is Ernst. He is a stonemason."

"Die Stadt erlebt seit zehn Jahren einen Aufschwung, und er hat an vielen Projekten mitgearbeitet, in den letzten drei bis vier Jahren vor allem am Dom."

"The city has been booming for ze past ten years, and he's worked on many projects, but mostly on ze cathedral in the last three or four."

Her eyes flicked uncertainly between these powerful young foreigners, but Johann offered an encouraging nod and smile. "Ich wusste, dass bei der Arbeit etwas nicht stimmte, aber er wollte nicht darüber reden."

"She says that she knew something was wrong at work, but he didn't want to talk about it," Johann took over translating.

"Manchmal ging er trinken, aber nicht oft. Ich dachte, dass er vielleicht seinen Kummer im Dancing Boots ertränkte." She pulled into herself, shrugging uncertainly.

"Sometimes he went out drinking, but not often." Bastian had reclaimed his role as translator. "I thought maybe he was drowning his sorrows at the Dancing Boots."

She started, for a second, and furrowed her brow. "Er ist oft mit diesem ... Idioten Florian nach Hause gelaufen, weil unser Haus auf dem Weg zu seinem liegt." She paused. "Ich hoffe, das hilft." She gestured toward Bastian. "Ich habe ihm und dem angebunden Mädchen das alles bereits erzählt."

"I hope that helps." Johann had taken back the mantle. "I have told him and the tethered girl all of this already." He pursed his lips. "I assume she is speaking of Edith."

"I was hoping for more when I asked what was known." Roslyn commented when she caught Marco's statement. She noticed the mother's hesitation over passing the bread to the oldest boy. It struck her as odd, especially her hesitation and his insistence over it. As if he didn't trust her.

She waited until Marco's questions were answered before presenting her own. She noticed Florian's name come up which was one of the missing. " What was that about Florian?"

There was a long pause as Marco silently absorbed the information that was being revealed to him. He absently tapped his index finger against his forehead, trying his best to commit the woman's words to memory while drawing any connections he could between her husband, the cathedral, and the mysterious weapons researchers he met in the town square today. Something was clearly very wrong with this entire project, but they still didn't know enough. They needed more leads.

”Did her husband have any friends at work who haven't gone missing yet? Any drinking buddies?”

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Johann, body language immediately apologetic, "She mentioned that Florian and Herr Zimmerman often walked home together, since this house is on the way to the other's. My apologies."

Then, came Marco's follow-up question, which Bastian was quick to translate. Meanwhile, to those perceptive enough, Hanno seemed to disappear from view and, at around that moment, there was the clunk of a door closing somewhere nearby.

"Oh, er hatte viele: Jens, Friedrich, Otto, Jürgen ..." She trailed off, eyes darting nervously around before settling. "Manchmal kam er ein oder zwei Tage nicht nach Hause." She shook her head. "Ich weiß, dass er ihnen Dinge erzählt hat, die er mir niemals erzählen würde.."

"She listed his work friends: Jens, Friedrich, Otto, and Jürgen," offered Johann, "and claims that, sometimes, he didn't come home for a day or two. She says she knows he told them things he would never tell her."

Then, from the kitchen, Roslyn and Ingrid both noticed something: young Constanze, all of ten or eleven, nostrils flaring for a moment as she glared at her mother. The look subsided and the girl turned and darted away so quickly that it almost seemed as if the Hendlishwoman and her peer had imagined the entire thing.

Sarah continued to speak and Bastian and Johann to take turns translating. "She claims that zey are all around, at zeir usual spot - Die Tanzstiefel - but zat none of them have offered her any help. She needs money to pay for things and, suddenly, zose fairweather friends are gone. She goes on to say that she should try to bring the architect, zat dirty Feskan, to court for running an unsafe workplace."

Marco looked between Johann and Bastian and licked his lips. ”If what our fair lady says is true, then we should have a word with those four. Rumors and hearsay between drinking buddies are better than no leads at all. Where can we find Die Tanzstiefel?”

Bastian blinked. He looked uncertain for a moment and then he let out a bark of laughter and grinned, slapping Marco on the back. "You had me going zere for a moment," he admitted, for Die Tanzstiefel was, of course, the inn where they would be staying.

Johann remembered to thank Frau Zimmerman and reassure her that help was in the pipeline. Then, he twisted to regard Marco. "We still have Frau..." He trailed off.

"Oh, Margit," Bastian interjected helpfully.

"Yes, her to question." He arched an eyebrow. "I would say we should get going, but where are the women?"

Marco's held a fist in front of his mouth as he tried not to laugh out loud. Bastian's reaction made him aware of the mistake he had just made. It was becoming difficult to remember all of these Kerreman names. ”I'm not sure. Maybe they decided to play house with the kids.”

Johann looked unsure of what to do, for a moment far from his usual jolly competent self. "Should we... go there?"

Marco replied with a shrug. ”I suppose we can get a head start. If they can't find a signature as big as ours in such a small town I'd say they should be worried about getting their diplomas.” He turned to the mother and excused himself with a shallow bow. ”Madam, thank you for your time. We will be going. I promise that we will find your husband...” Marco chewed on his tongue. He nearly said 'alive or dead', but saying the latter aloud might land him in hot water. ”...Or any clues that may point to his whereabouts, and we will not leave until we do. While Lindenholdt's civil servants may be trapped by a web of responsibilities, finding those missing people is my only concern. May the gods smite me if I tell a lie.”

"I... tank you, zir." Sarah swallowed, glancing behind herself. She dabbed with her apron at some of the tears. "Bitte finde meinen Ernst. Ohne ihn bin ich verloren." She hugged herself as three or four young children played in the background. That was the last view they had of her before the door closed and they were on their way.

"Frau Weber lives just up zis way." It was well into the hours of Oraff, and the sun glistened off of snow-speckled fields. "Really out at ze very edge of town." He shook his head. "In theory, Florian was a farmer."

Marco nodded along while looking this way and that. He was half focused on what Johann was saying, and half on the scenery. It was nice to enjoy the sights for a change without keeping your eyes peeled for something trying to kill him. If their reason for visiting Lindenholdt wasn't so depressing, this trip would have actually been a nice mental break before everything inevitably went to the birds. It was only going to go downhill from here.

”And in practice?”

"In practice, his father, who had sold the family's weaving business to buy land, did not properly rotate his... ernten." Bastian looked Johann's way. "Crops," the other Kerreman contributed, and the first nodded. "So, basically, the soil is..." "depleted," "and Florian grew up with half ze skillset of a weaver and half ze skillset of a farmer and no land to work." Bastian shook his head. "But he was a big fellow, and strong, so he found odd jobs and worked those and spent what he had left on booze."

They continued for a few moments longer and the deputy was silent. Then, he swallowed and shook his head. "He beat her - repeatedly and severely, and it will look like she had motive, but she did not do it." He shook his head. "I know Margit. She is a few years older zan me, but I have known her since we were children." Bastian scowled. "I warned her not to marry Florian because he was fucked up, but he knocked her up and, if she did not marry him, zis town would've looked upon her as a whore. She is bitter about ze entire thing, but doesn't have a...boshaft -"

"Spiteful"

"- bone in her body." With that, he fell silent, and Johann's eyes searched for Marco's.

They were traveling past the edge of a cemetery now. The great twin steeples of Dom St. Adelheid rose in the distance, just across the river, and the bare branches of a great elm spread just beyond the headstones and a small crypt. The fields lay in stillness and silence for the winter as the sun, lower and golden, now, sparkled on snowdrifts. Up ahead, in the distance, lay one last house, its roof slightly bowed, an old wagon half-broken, resting beside a tree nearby. They were, perhaps, another two minutes' walk out.

---

Ingrid nodded along with the number of complaints the mother had. She had a feeling about the mother but didn't say a word. Her eyes kept finding Hanno until it didn't, a small clunk of the door told her where he had went. The children's seemed resentful of there mother, or maybe off put by her. Ingrid tugged on the Roslyn's finger and whispered to her, "let's try to talk to Hanno, he seems to have some sense about him." Ingrid politely excused herself to look around.

Feeling the small tug on her finger, Roslyn caught Ingrid's look. She had seen the same thing her friend had and flashed a knowing smile. Without a word, she let herself fade into the background and followed suit. Her hand reached into her skirt pocket as her fingers brushed her compass.

They didn't have to look far. "Aber sie lügt über Vater! Sie lügt und du sagst nichts!?" Constanze was laying into her brother, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Ich weiß," he admitted, "es ist nur so... sie ist alles, was uns noch bleibt. Wir brauchen sie, zumindest bis wir alt genug sind, um es alleine zu schaffen."

"Aber sie ist eine beschissene Mutter. Sie trinkt nur, gibt unser ganzes Geld aus und gibt Vater die Schuld." She slumped against the rear wall of the house, fists clenched in helpless anger.

Hanno reached over and wrapped an arm around her from the size, and little Constanze leaned into it. "Tut mir leid, Schwesterherz," he offered, as she snuggled into his shoulder. "Ich wünschte, ich könnte mehr tun, aber was würden Dieter, Dora, Elli und Stefan tun?"

It was at that moment that they noticed the two interlopers.

They came upon them and the speak trout in the bag shot to life when their voices reached a peak. It swam and danced as it started to translate.

"mother. She just drinks, spends all our money and blames father. I'm sorry, sister. I wish I could do more, but what would Dieter, Dora, Elli and Stefan do?"

Ingrid listened to it the speak trout. She looked at the two of them and handed it over to them. "Hanno, you and your sister can speak and this will translate. Now is your chance to tell us while your mother talks to the men. I know we can help." The trout continued its game and translated it to Kerreman.

"I forgot how loud that thing was..." Roslyn blurted out as the trout translated her words. She smiled softly at the children as she couldn't hide the sheepish look. "Sorry, we saw you two head out and decided to follow."

"So, I guess you heard everything," said Hanno, his words filtered through the fish but not his voice. He rolled his eyes with a hint of resentment.

Constanze, however, was curious. "That's pretty helpful," she admitted, eyes flicking to the magical mounted trophy fish. Likely, she had never seen anything quite like it. "Just don't let mother see it," she added with a growl. "She'll probably try to sell it for money." The girl rolled her eyes.

"What did you wanna know?" Hanno asked guardedly, arms crossed, halfway interposed between the semi-familiar pair and his younger sister. His eyes, like Constanze's flicked towards the rear door with fear, resentment, and expectation all at once.

Why do older brothers feel the need to protect their sisters? Roslyn wondered then dismissed the thought, moving onto more important matters. "On the day before your father disappeared, was he acting strangely or doing something out of the normal?"

Hanno opened his mouth to answer and Constanze shot him a look, but his eyes widened and he continued. "He said that Uncle Florian had seen something while they were down on inspection and almost quit on the spot. He was... frustrated with Mr. Krauss, who wouldn't believe him, though he secretly wasn't sure if he believed Uncle Florian either."

Constanze shot her brother a second demonstrative incredulous look and he curled and uncurled his fingers, eyes darting between his sister, the door, and the two newcomers with the magical fish that spoke all languages.

Roslyn pressed her fingers to her chin. "Well, we have a few friends checking out the cathedral. And that is strange."

Noticing the girl looking at the door, she had to make a comment. "If I get a feeling anyone's about to come through that door, I can make it... jam."

She took a deep breath then considered what else to ask. "Do you happen to know where your father was heading the last time you saw him?"

The two children glanced at each other. "We'll have to go soon," Hanno warned. "She'll be coming, and we need to live with her. Don't worry," he quickly added. "I'm big enough now that she won't hit." He paused and glanced at the ground. "Not that she really does that."

"He was headed to work," Constanze blurted. "He said he needed to face the problem and, if it went well, we might have money for oranges and new stockings at Caldores. If it didn't..." She looked down at her shoes and clenched her fists. Her eyes flicked back up. "Florian was there. Neither of them ever made it back."

"I'm sorry for our mother," Hanno cut in suddenly. "She is not always like this, but with what happened to dad -"

Constanze turned her eyes on him and, for a moment, he nearly stopped, but he didn't. "She's gotten worse and I don't know if she'll stop this time. Don't give her money, whatever you do."

Roslyn tensed at Hanno's first statement, then immediately relaxed. She couldn't imagine an adult having a reason to ever hit a child. The very idea boiled her blood as she forced herself calm. "I'm sorry to say grief can bring out the worst in a person. It seems like your mother uses drinking to cope with it, but it doesn't stop the pain. Just numbs it."

There was clear remorse in her voice at knowing that effect firsthand. She stepped closer to Constanze and gently put her hand on the girl's shoulder. A hug would've been better, but Roslyn didn't want to overstep her boundaries. "Well, I'm sure we can still bring some oranges and stocks tomorrow. With some luck, and the help you provided, maybe we'll find out what happened."

She then added. "If you two recall anything else, have information that might help, or simply need someone to talk to. We're staying at the Die Tanzstiefel. Just ask if Roslyn Wicke or Ingrid Penderson is in. We'll come running if we are." She looked at Ingrid to see if she wanted to ask anything before the kids took off.

Ingrid kept one eye on the door, watching with the other 2 as a way of hopefully settling the nerves of the siblings. Luckily, Roslyn was on the ball and asked the right questions, lending us some foreboding statements, promises of cash, and narrowed timeframe of their disappearance. She nodded approvingly to the snow mouse's job. She would tell her great job later.

Or so she thought until she sympathized with the mother in front of Hanno who was desperate to make excuses for his mother. Ingrid had wallowed, she had struck out of grief. It doesn't excuse her actions nor wipe what those children see. Ingrid kneeled down to face Hanno and Constanze in the eyes. "I know you say that it is not her style but hear me, if that changes, you take you siblings to Die Tanzstiefel or another adult you trust." She placed a gentle hand on Constanze cheek, "You all hurt, that much is clear, but she has no right to hurt you," she looked at Hanno, taking the fish, "You are the eldest man of your house for now, safeguard your siblings. I know you know that." A few magus passed into his hand when the trout was taken.

She stood back up, knowing that the mother would soon be back. She couldn't just remove the children to assure their safety. She was not in Eskand where she could lift a child out of struggle with some minor action. All she could do was be ready when they truly called out for the help. She'd best let Bastian know about this.

Constanze flinched away instinctively from the touch before stopping herself. Hanno accepted the magi with wide eyes. He had never held one in his life. His sister leaned in, equally dumbstruck. "I will take good care of it," he promised, clenching the unusual coins in his hand. "Let me have one," Constanze insisted and after a moment of thought, he passed it to her. "Constanze," he said, in a serious voice, "Do not -"

"Tell anyone," she interrupted. "I know."

"Are you..." Hanno swallowed, glancing from the coins in his palm to the two women. "Real mages?"

Then, there were footsteps approaching the door from the other side and he shoved the coins into his pants while Constanze tucked hers into her dress. "You should go now!" the boy declared, in an urgent whisper. "She's coming," hissed the girl.

"We'll be fine - trust me," said Hanno. Constanze was already taking up a broom and sweeping away snow. He was making for the firewood stacked under a lean-to. Within two seconds, the children were convincingly busy with housework.

Ingrid got up and wiped her dress clean, taking a final look at the children. There was an unease in her chest yet she didn't show it. She started to turn, hearing the coming footsteps.

"We are mages of Ersand'Enise," Ingrid lightly grasped Roslyn's hand and flicked off the speaktrout. "Support yourself with some arcane, we are walking out of here with grace." The light weaved a net around the 2, fading their image away from the snowy field. For all, they were simply gone.

Roslyn would've been lying if she said Constanze's reaction didn't tug hard at her heart. It had to be hard to accept a caring gesture after being independent for so long. A part of her wanted to shake some sense into the children's mother. However, this wasn't her home country and she had to exercise some self control. She watched the siblings stare in wonder over the coin given to them until their time ended.

"Can do." As Ingrid provided the light, Roslyn contrasted with a bit of shadows. As their images darkened and then faded, she pressed a single finger to her lips. Her right eye winked with a mischievous smirk.

The boy and the girl looked at the space where the two mages had been and then at each other with secret smiles of wonder. Then, the door opened and their mother was carrying little Franziska with an admonishment on her lips. She saw that they were hard at work, however, and left them alone with a grunted 'danke'.

Now, ahead of Ingrid and Roslyn, stretched the countryside beyond Lindenholdt. It was barren fields, a few hay bales covered in a white frosting of snow, and stoic silent trees. To one side lay further farms and, beyond them, forest. To the other was a graveyard with a great bare elm tree and a small family crypt and, beyond it, a few houses, the half-frozen river, and the towering spires of Dom St. Adelheid. Ahead, were the three men and their destination: a single house on a small farm at the very edge of town, it appeared. It would not be beyond Ingrid and Roslyn to catch up.

Once the pair had made it out of the children's hearing range, she chanced a glance back and then said. "I swear, I'm gonna shake some sense into that woman before we leave here. Just for those children's sake. Now let's go find the boys."

"Isn't that the truth, though I imagine the only thing that will help with this would be finding her husband to keep her straight." Ingrid said offhandedly as they took some large heroic steps to Marco and the others.



Seeing them, Ingrid dropped the refractory of light, now far and away from Mrs. Zimmerman. "Apologies boys, we were busy establishing the International House of Sweetbread. Quite informative our collaborators were. Much to share."

Johann offered up a smile. "The children will be okay?" he inquired with subtle knowing. Then, the door to the house ahead opened and a woman stepped out, lighting some sort of pipe or rolled cigarette. She noticed them mere moments later, glancing back at the house and then at them. She did not move to greet the oncoming group but nor did she seem hostile.

"Yes, I think so for now." Was all Roslyn managed to get out when a woman came out. The smoke wisped from her cigarette as she seemed to notice them. Her eyes shifted between the house and then them, seemingly inviting them to take it inside.

"Well, let's get this over with. Johann, help me?" Roslyn asked before she stepped forward as she politely introduced herself.

"Hello, I'm Roslyn Wicke and we," Again her hand gestured to her fellow students, "were sent from the academy to help with the investigation of some missing men. We are hoping to ask you some questions."

Unlike Sarah, this woman didn't seem to be falling apart. At least on the outside.

The woman stood in the doorway, blowing a stream of smoke in the general direction of the newcomers, but not right at them. "Ja, I know who you are," she replied in heavily-accented Avincian. For a split second, her eyes snapped to Bastian's and his to hers. Something passed between them, though the nature of it was not clear. "You seem very... enthusiastisch." She pulled from her cigarette again and tapped it, a little stream of glowing ashes trickling away into the light afternoon breeze.

She exhaled. "You are here about mein mann, richtig?" She arched a brow expectantly. "We should be proper folk und shake hands, no?" She held hers out to any who would take it. "Margit Weber, born Grünewald. Und Sie sind?"

In the background, a cat leapt off of a shelf and skittered out the door. A girl of about eleven knitted by the fireplace. Someone was out back, chopping firewood rather clumsily.

"Ah, yes. My rich cousins, most likely." Her eyes darted to Bastian again. "Vielleicht they can help a fresh-made widow," she snorted, waving away a bit of lingering smoke."Florian was happy only when he was with his friends, you must know." She shook her head. "He had lost another job and I was ready to use our savings again - whatever we had."

She took a break to smoke again, as the girl by the fireplace glanced outside glumly. Margit twisted to shoot her a tired, supportive look before turning back. "Listen: so we can understand each ozer, I will say zis honestly: we were not happy. He told me little unless it was very good or very bad." She swallowed, gazing out into the afternoon sky for a moment. "Zat morning, he told me he would get his job back, with extra pay and zen we would make a baby zat night." She shrugged and took another puff. "When he didn't come to Die Tanzstiefel that night -" She exhaled, pairing it with a bitter laugh, "I was thinking Ipten saved me and he was off at another place because it was cheaper or he felt some shame, for once."

She tapped the cigarette again and its ashes drifted free. "It was going to end in a bad way," she remarked, "Always, right from ze start." She threw the butt of it away and regarded her young visitors evenly. "Much like everything my husband touched."

Roslyn caught the brief look between the deputy and the woman, but she didn't know what to make of it. Not yet. She relaxed when she realized the woman spoke Avincian even with a heavy accent. Unlike Sarah, Margit gave an aura of jadeness. Someone that accepted the hardships no matter what form they came in.

As the woman answered Ingrid's question, Roslyn followed up with another. "Did he ever mention how he lost his job?"

Margit nodded. "Oh, it was a fight with that Feskan, Krauss." She scowled. "He is just like Hartmann, before him." She crossed her arms and leaned, once more, against the doorframe. In the back, there was a pause in the chopping. Inside the house, the girl had risen from her knitting to head for the pantry. "He did 'safety inspections' so that nobody could say he had a dangerous way, but zey never did anything. It was just a show. He only cared about his building and getting it finished on time."

She sighed, brushing some stray locks of hair from her eyes. "Ze work was not safe and Florian wouldn't take it anymore. Oh, he only cared about ze more pay he could get, but he was right. He pulled poor Ernst with him and..." She trailed off and shrugged. "Listen," she assured them, "I wish I knew more, but I don't. Ze less that my... husband spoke to me, ze better." She sighed again, fiddling a bit with her sleeves. "Now, ze hour grows late and I have a job to get to soon."

She glanced back in as the rear door closed and a teenage boy thumped in with some firewood to lay down by the hearth. His sister hurried over to help him. "Emma," she called, "Hans?" They looked up. "Hast du deinen Bruder gesehen?"

Johann leaned in to translate: "Have you seen your brother?"

She was met with twin responses of 'nein' and shaken heads, and she twisted back to face the investigators. "I will not let zem work, or zey will get into trouble, like Rudy." She rubbed at the bridge of her nose. "und like zeir father."

Bastian nodded in understanding. "Ugh. Reshta, we are needing ze answer soon. We need eizer ze insurance money or that man back." She shook her head, breath trembling a bit, and made the sign of the Pentad, rolling her eyes in frustration. "Orätz forgive how... gefühllos I sound." She scowled as the sun began to glare, low, through the small house's rear window. "I never meant to be zis way."

She straightened, then, patting down her dress and collecting herself. "I hope you find him, for ze children, if nothing else. Now," she concluded, "Is zere anything else?"

The bitterness of the woman was noted, so was her small glances to her daughter. She obviously cared for her despite the 'circumstances' around her birth, Ingrid could only assume. Though Ingrid didn't suspect her of the murder, it would be too obvious and the ground was already too hard to dig. Unless she had help from Bastian or another man with the gift. Plus her story cooperated with what they heard from the children and why Mr. Zimmerman went out. Things are leading to the cathedral and we have a time frame for when. Most likely Mr. Zimmerman got pulled into the business of Florian. Krauss seemed to be the central suspect at this time.

"You are a smart woman, sending children to work too early only makes bitter adults. So can we ask about Rudy? If he is already working and like his father, then he might be worth questioning him about his father. We will do our best to have either outcome by the end of Caldores." Ingrid secretly prayed for the latter. The outcome of a forced, loveless marriage had been her reality 2 years ago, might still be if her parents have any say.

Margit shrugged. "He... works in his own way," she allowed, "but it is not good work and he is often away." She paused, half-turned, and did nto take her next step away. "Thank you for your honest help with zis," she said. "If you see him, maybe you will be able to put some sense into his head."

She shrugged and there was a quick exchange between her and Bastian. Johann's eyes widened slightly, but he paraphrased for the others. "Bastian must spend a little time with her here, speaking about another matter."

He furrowed his brow, remembering back to the constable's station and an incident with a 'Junge Herr Weber' over there. He looked to Marco, Roslyn, and Ingrid to see if they might remember as Bastian made his apologies and promised that he would be along shortly.

Ingrid nodded, accepting she wouldn't be able to find anything on Rudy. She nodded that Bastian needed some private time and she wasn't one to interfere, "Then let us become scarce for a moment, besides, we have much to discuss." Ingrid thought she was on the ball and that they had solid leads until he brought up that Weber. She literally smacked herself on the head, "I had forgotten about that with all that had been learned. Thank you Johann."

"The drunk in the cell that Edith was watching? " Roslyn asked in a quiet tone, checking to see if she was on the same page. She had been tempted to sober him up for the officers, but

"Okay, what we learned from the children was helpful." She started to share the information they learned from the children. "Mrs. Zimmerman has been lying about her husband going out and drinking. It's her and with his disappearance, it's gotten worse."

She took a breath as she moved on from the unsavory note. "Mr. Zimmerman mentioned Mr. Weber had seen something during an inspection. Mr. Kauss didn't believe it. He went to work and to face the problem, but neither of them came back."

"Mr. Zimmerman went out with him and also believed that they would either end up with more money or nothing. We can guess which one ended up being the answer." Ingrid retold a little more.

"Maybe they went to coerce someone for more money and a dispute broke out and the suspect was the victor." Ingrid proposed a potential reasoning but had little to go off on there. "Florian seems loud, someone would have heard them at the cathedral and Klauss would know what Florian claimed to see. Maybe we could use it as a trap? If he says Florian and Ernst were just fine, then we know there is a lie being told."

"I'm not sure. I have a hard time seeing Zimmerman do that. Weber, maybe." Roslyn spoke softly, then added. "Before we start to look for more information, it might be smart to regroup with the others. They did go to the cathadrel."

”You’re right, we do need to regroup with the others.” Marco agreed with Roslyn, although he wasn’t looking directly at her. He was staring at the back of Bastian’s head as the deputy walked off to handle his own business. ”I think we’ve all picked up on quite a few clues, and once we know more about the cathedral I have a feeling we might be able to piece them all together.”

Marco suddenly placed his hands on the two girls shoulders and forcibly drew them closer. Before they could voice their surprise, he began to speak in a hushed tone, barely audible above the breeze unless their ears were close enough to feel his breath. The words passing through his lips were clearly for their ears only. ”This town is more dangerous than we knew. My countrymen are moving weapons through Lindenholdt. Weapons of war. Someone on the Kerreman side is complicit. Either the local government, or the crown itself.”

Marco’s eyes locked with Ingrid’s. ”I overhead three of them talking outside of the bakery. The project is top secret, and a massive amount of money is riding on it. If any documents or prototypes were being stashed in the bones of the cathedral and the missing men found them…” His words trailed off. He didn’t want to talk about this in the open for too long, and he was confident that their imaginations could fill in the blanks.

”Just keep an open mind, and don't be more honest than necessary when talking to the cops.” Marco’s voice returned to its normal volume. He gave the ladies a pat on the shoulders and let them dust themselves off. ”Until we have actual proof or reliable witness testimony, then what you have heard from me is only a theory relating to what might have happened. I just wanted you to be aware in case it becomes relevant to the investigation.”

Roslyn's eyes widened in shock at Marco pulling her in close. After hearing him reveal a theory about his fellow country men, she blinked in shock. These shadow games were getting unsettling. "That might explain one thing that Johann over heard. A few people think the Revidians are responsible for the disappearances, but I don't think they are."

Marco nodded his head back. "If you have your own ideas then all the better. The more theories we pursue in tandem, the more connections we can make to piece together the truth. It is good that the academy sent so many biros.



Already, they had shared a great deal of information, but the sun was now waning in earnest as they crossed the barren fields and skirted the edge of the graveyard. Dom St. Adelheid glistened under the late afternoon sun, its long shadow cutting through the town, its beautiful stained glass windows - installed only a month or so ago - glowing a dozen colours.

In the distance, a wagon clattered down the road between a large farming complex and a distant mill, pursued by a stray dog. From somewhere along the Althern came the sound of hacking and chopping at ice. A handful of children played outside, doing their best to make snowballs with the early dusting of the stuff that Aun-Orätz had given them.

Before long, they had reached the large road that led to the bridge and back, shortly, to the majority of the town, across the river. The Weberplatz was starting to empty as they skirted the edge of it. The tree seller had packed up and left, as had the firewood vendor and her sulky son. The butcher's and the cobbler's were closed, and one of the bakeries was finishing up the last of its line while the proprietor of the other had just flipped the sign on her door to say, 'geschlossen'. A couple of fruit stands were still open, and the cider cauldron was still making a killing selling off the last of its product - possibly watered down - to people heading home for the evening. A few wagons waited towards the edges of the square as people hustled back and forth, loading them.

There was one remaining hive of activity, however, and it was a Kerreman tradition that at least some had heard of: a group of people had set up a large evergreen tree near the fountain - it had been there before, but not quite so prominent. Now, as sunset neared, they were decorating it with apples, flowers, garlands, and candles, the last of which floated, ethereal, through the air in the telekinetic grasp of some of the town's mages. Others were placed where they belonged in more traditional fashion: with the assistance of ladders, matches, and eager children.

"Up that way lies Die Tanzstiefel, where you will be staying" Bastian informed them, pointing up the street. "Probably ze oldest and most famous inn and tavern in ze town. You will know it from ze boots on its sign." He turned to gesture at the square. "Zey are decorating ze Tannenbaum, if you are curious." He sighed and smiled wistfully. "It is an old local tradition. Zey do it every night for ze ten days of Caldores and ze five before and after."

He seemed about ready to part with them, as a large wagon clattered quickly into the square. "I should get back to ze station. Grumpy old Karl needs to get home for ze night, after all!" With that he prepared to part with the group.

"Ooo, so pretty. I love how Caldores brings the best out in people." Roslyn commented, pausing to observe for a moment. She then noticed the others hadn't stopped and immediately hasten her step to keep up. Catching Bastian's mention about departing, she quickly thanked him before he vanished. "Thank you for your help."

She then turned to the others. "I suppose we should head to the inn? Its been a long day and there's no telling when the others will be back."

"Yeah, hopefully their investigation bore some results. Besides, I haven't ate since we got on that carriage." Ingrid patted her stomach to make a show of it.

"If I had known that, I would've offered half my cider. It's easy to get down and stays with you for a bit. Beer would've been better for a meal though." Roslyn commented.

<Hi. Sea. Giant.> she teased. <How. Did. Your. Search. Go.>
Ingrid felt the pinches and the nickname now made her feel warm to people. <GOOD. INFO. ALOT. YOU.> Ingrid used the pats on her stomach to hide her communication, it was honestly easier than duel casting.

"As good as beer is, I could use a sausage and pie after all this work today." Ingrid could practically taste it already.

Bastian was a good few paces down the road as Marceline's response came in. The sun burned bright and orange just above the rooftops.

<Archives. Close. In. Twenty. Minutes. | Can. You. Find. Sybille. Lorenz. | Ask. Her. For. Frickmayer. Birth. And. Death. Records. Marriage. Records. And. Cathedral. Construction. Payments. | Information. On. Frickmayer. Crypt. Would. Be. Good. Too.> There was a pause. <Pass. This. To. Rosy. Too. | I. Will. Pay. In. Beer. Schnitzel. And. Vague. Promises. Like. A. Good. Kerreman. | Heart. Shape.>

Ingrid's ability with pinch language wasn't the best, she didn't have many tethered friends, maybe she was off putting to them or pushing their wheelchair one time got around. Either way, Ingrid whipped out the cutest notebook and wrote quickly, using offhand symbols and methods to jot it down as quick as Marci told her. <ANY. THING. FOR. YOU. SPICY. DRUG. APPLE Ingrid didn't know a word for brandæble and even a less of a clue on low to do the special symbols.

Ingrid went up to Roslyn's ear and whispered, "Read this and follow my lead," she gave a wink and skipped to Bastian. "Oh Bastian," she called out to him, no more than a foot or two behind him. "I know it is already quite late but I do have one last stop I must make," she pleaded, batting her eyes at him. "I wish to stop by the archives, would you guide me there or give me some directions?" He would surely not say no to a pretty woman, would he?

Roslyn skimmed over the words and nodded. It seemed they had a task to do before retiring for the rest of the day as she twisted about and followed Ingrid.

Bastian paused. He tilted his head. Then, a smile came to his lips. "Why, zat's not a half-bad idea," he admitted, "though it is getting a bit late." He craned his neck and strained his eyes to check one of the clocks in the square. "Come on. We can make it." With that, he twisted, hurried down the main street that led off of the bridge, and broke into a light jog. "Are you coming, or not?" he teased.

Ingrid clapped her hands, "Oh thank you!" She jogged after him, a little slow at the start but got up to speed before long. She hoped to not outpace him. "Keep up snow mouse!" Ingrid called out to Rolsyn who was only a little behind her.
"Oh, that won't be a problem." Roslyn called back and made sure to keep her hand on her compass. She called back to the boys. "We're making a quick stop somewhere. We'll meet you back at the inn shortly!"

The sun dipped below the horizon and the already-falling temperature began to plummet without its direct warmth. Shadows that had threatened to consume everything now took their opportunity to pounce, and sunset became dusk.

By the time that Bastian, Ingrid, and Roslyn reached the archives - on a side street just around the corner from the town library - The midsized building was lit only by the last bits of remaining ambient light and a couple of lanterns. A smallish woman who bore a striking resemblance to Roslyn was bustling about, closing things up.

When they pushed open the door, she had just settled down by the lamp with a book. She started immediately, almost dropping her reading material in the process. Her eyes went to the clock on the wall, which she had wound five minutes prior. "Oh, uhm... hallo!" she ventured. "Es tut mir leid," she began apologetically, "aber wir schließen gleich für heute Abend..."

"Diese Mädchen sind Ausländerinnen, Sibylle. Sprich Avintz."

She blinked, scurrying out from behind her desk. "Oh, very sorry," she said, in some of the best Avincian they had heard so far from a local, "but we're closing in just five minutes, you see, and I'm not supposed to admit new visitors now." She shook her head. "You won't have time to finish your research anyhow, I fear." Her eyes flicked between the other two.

Roslyn rubbed the side of her arms as she chased away the chill of night. It was nice to be out of the cold and inside somewhere warm. At the gentle voice shifting from the native tongue to Avincian, she smiled at not needing a translator. "Oh, I'm sorry for the late hour. We were really hoping to make a request about a few records and information for the morning."

As she stepped closer, the voice held a strange familiarity that she couldn't place. She moved on. "Mainly the Frickmayer birth, death, and marriage records. As well as the cathedral construction payments and anything on the Frickmayer Crypts? If you wouldn't mind."

Ingrid gave a thumbs up to the twin mice. She read her hasty notes so well! Ingrid might need to hire her as a translator.

Sybille blinked, considering. She tilted her head. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "you must be those investigators from Ersand'Enise I've been hearing about." Her eyes went Bastian's way with some suspicion. He was leaning back against a low shelf, elbows resting on top of it. "Yup, you got it, Sybbi!" He picked at something between his teeth and remembered to flash the mousy girl a smile.

She shuddered.

"Anyhow," she continued, "you'll have to put in a records request." She glanced up at the clock, furrowed her brow, and scampered over to retrieve a trio of papers from some drawers. "We can save some time because three of your requests pertain to the same family. We'll consolidate those." She pulled a tray with four inkpots and quills from a space in the desk. "Vier minuten..." she mouthed. "Das ist alles sehr unregelmäßig."

Then, she cleared her throat, handed them the forms, and told them to pull up stools. "You may use Avincian," she allowed. "Please write legibly. Then, I will be able to serve your request first thing in the morning, unless Herr Beckenbauer declines it."

"Ze only thing he ever declines is remembering what he did five minutes ago," Bastian scoffed.

Sybille rolled her eyes. "Be that as it may, we have procedures here, and he is a part of them until such day as he retires."

"Okay, mum," came the reply.

"You know, Herr Schüttmann," the archivist suggested, "It has occurred to me that there are three forms and three of you. You would have a much better chance of finishing up on time were you to help these ladies."

With a groan, Bastian swung himself from the desk, took up a quill, and started writing. "I will handle ze crypts," he instructed. "It is a more... technisch -"

"Technical"

"thing," he concluded, shooting her a small glare. Did Sybille smirk in the direction of the other two women as they worked?

"Of course. I don't want to get anyone in trouble." Roslyn had already popped over to where she needed to sit. Upon hearing the banter between the two, she pulled up her hand to stifle a giggle. "I'll take the first three then. Ingrid, you want to take the payments?"

Ingrid giggled politely at the show of authority, "Danke, Sybille. Your grace is appreciated." Moving to the ledger, Ingrid began to write as she had done hundreds of time for the library at Ersand'Enise. "I can sign for that, I have a way with reading numbers."

The sound of pens on paper filled the air for the next four minutes. Ingrid finished up quickly, handing her paper to Sybille with a flourish. The mousy archivist read over it briefly, with a keen and judgmental gaze, before nodding. "Very good," she remarked, looking up with a small, appreciative smile before filing the form carefully away. "This will do nicely."

Bastian was next, stamping his down emphatically on the table before her. The inkpot trembled and her eyes shot to it before flicking up to glare at him in annoyance. They swept the paper next, top to bottom, beneath a furrowed brow. "It is no good," she replied, looking up. "You must list both Lady Frickmayer and the local diocese as parties with interest."

He seemed about to protest, but her look was implacable and he could not very well spoil things for Ingrid and Roslyn. With a wordless sigh of vexation, he took it back, dipped his quill, and quickly scrawled both names under the indicated section. Meanwhile, Roslyn worked furiously at her ambitious project.

The clock ticked closer to the hour and they could hear carolers in the streets. Ink met paper in great looping swishes, Sybille filed Bastian's form, and her eyes went to the clock. She was just opening her mouth to offer an apologetic refusal when Roslyn all-but thrust the completed document her way.

Sybille blinked. Her eyes flashed from side to side across the page and she mumbled something under her breath. With that, a cuckoo burst forth from the clock to startle both of the newcomers. Unshaken, the archivist finished up the last few lines, nodded, and grinned. "You're a quick writer, Miss Wicke but, more importantly, a good one." Quickly, she tucked the form where it belonged, shrugged into her coat, scarf, and gloves, and led the trio outside.

"Wicke..." Sibylle remarked, as she locked the door and took a great big breath of the cold fresh air. Around the corner, closer to the Weberplatz, carolers were singing Die zehn Weihnachtstage. "You're Hendlish, right?" she inquired, as they began walking.

"Thank you. I was afraid I wasn't going to make it." Roslyn's heart had finally settled after the start from the clock. Upon hearing Sibylle ask about her country, she nodded. "Yes, born and bred. Why?"

Again, that familiarity gnawed at her, but she pushed it down. She had never been to Lindenholdt before and so she couldn't have possibly known this woman. Could she?

They made their way to the corner and it was such a pretty sight: the storefronts and square done up with garlands, the tree glowing with candles by the fountain, voices rising in song. One could forget, for perhaps a few moments, the looming war and myriad other threats.

Sybille smiled softly, mischievously. "From Arkney, perhaps?"

"Yes... How did you know?" Roslyn narrowed her eyes, getting a feeling that Sybille knew something more. "Do we know each other? I've been getting this odd feeling of familiarity, but this is my first time here."

She pulled up her scarf to keep the cold from crawling down her neckline. Her feet crunched along the snow to keep up with the archivist. The whole time her mind tried to piece things together.

Ingrid placated Bastian, tapping him on the arm as if to give thanks for what he went through. "And thanks to you, we were able to ready ourselves for tomorrow, you have been quite good to us." She whispered to Bastian so the 2 lookalikes could talk. Ingrid continued her walk, and tapped, <BOOK. DONE.> on her hip incase Marci
still listened.

Meanwhile, Bastian merely winked Ingrid's way. "And I could've done it quicker," he teased, "but zen it wouldn't have been as exciting." He began whistling and twirled his keys as he walked. "Good luck tomorrow. If you need me, don't hesitate to call on me." He smirked. "I'm not a hard guy to find."

Marceline did not, in fact, respond right away, somewhat to Ingrid's disappointment but, as they were passing along the north side of the Weberplatz, admiring the carolers and about to turn up the road where their inn was, a belated response came in.

<Sorry.> it announced, <We. Were. All. Talking. | You. Are. A. Treasure. | Your. Schnitzel. Is. Ready. | Did. You. Want. Anything. Else.>

"Of course, I look forward to our next meeting." Ingrid accepted the wink with a small smirk. If Ingrid didn't believe he had wants for Mrs. Weber or some other lady in town, Ingrid might have tried to have her schnitzel and sausage tonight. <PIE. CIDER. BEER. FOR. ROSE >

Now came a different test, to see if they would actually receive the documents tomorrow or does someone have the gall or sway to move within the archivist building at night. Or at least that is what Ingrid believed Marci had wanted to have set up. A little trickiness suited her well.

"My mother is Agatha. Yours is Blythe, right?" She smiled. "We are cousins - distant ones, but cousins."

"Agatha..." Roslyn's eyes widened up as realization hit her. " Yes, mother's first cousin. That's why you're familiar. You came to visit one year."

"Yes. I think I was about eight. You must've been..." She trailed off. "I remember being told to look after you."

"Five, I think?" Roslyn frowned with a thoughtful look. She tapped her finger against her chin for a moment. "Garith said I was outright terror when I was young."

"I remember you bit me!" Sybille laughed. "I was convinced you were a wildblood for a bit." She shook her head. "Well, this is me." She gestured down a street. "We must speak tomorrow, at length." She clasped both of Roslyn's hands. "Orätz, we do look alike. Don't we?"

"Yes, truly," agreed Sybille. "Now, I shall see on the morrow. Do try to... rest well at Die Tanzstiefel."

"Nothing that a little beer won't fix." Roslyn said as she caught the hesitation. There was no time to dwell on it with them needing to return to the inn. She pulled back her hands and twisted to return to Ingrid's side. "Let's get back to the Inn before it gets too dark to see where we're walking."

With that, the girls rushed back to the Die. Tanzstiefel, where the rest of the students waited for them.