The back entrance of La Stella Rossa did not look like the sort of place adventurers were meant to enter. The front of the restaurant was all polished glass, gold lettering, and velvet canopied prestige facing the bright avenues of the race district, where banners fluttered over packed streets and the distant roar of the track rolled through the city like surf. The alley behind it was another matter entirely. Narrow, shadowed, and smelling of rainwater, cigar smoke, and old brick. Two broad men in dark coats stood beneath the service lamp by the rear door, neither smiling, neither bothering to pretend they were mere doormen.

The moment the group was stopped, hands began checking belts, sleeves, boots, and under cloaks with all the delicacy of tax collectors. When those hands found leather armor and mustache before patience, the mustachioed man’s dry answer cut the tension sideways.

“Searching for something specific, or just enjoying the view? Because the second one costs extra.”

For one suspended second, the alley went tight. One goon’s brow twitched. The other set his jaw, clearly unsure whether to take offense or offense with interest. Then, from somewhere deeper inside the building, a voice erupted with enough force to hit the alley before the door even swung wider.

“Ya pair of numbskulls! Of course they came armed! I sent for adventurers, not choirboys! Get them in here before you embarrass me further!”

The goons stiffened at once. The door opened. Whatever argument had been about to happen died in the threshold.

Inside, the contrast was immediate. The service corridor gave way to dark paneling, amber light, thick carpet, and air so full of cigar smoke it looked almost layered. Framed racing photographs lined the walls. Winning finishes, trophies, crowds in ecstatic uproar, silk clad figures half caught in motion, but never quite enough at a glance to explain what was being raced, only that the city treated it like religion. They were ushered not to a dining room, but to a private chamber in the back. A broad booth, a scarred walnut table, heavy curtains drawn shut, and enough smoke hanging in the lamplight to turn the room sepia.




At the center of it all sat Don Domenico Calabrese. Big Dom to any soul with a survival instinct. He was enormous in the chair and somehow still looked cramped by it, thick fingers ringed in gold, cigar smoldering in one hand, the other hovering protectively near a plate piled high with gabagool as if it were both meal and emotional support. Two lieutenants stood behind him like furniture that might kill. A third lingered by the wall with his hands folded, watching in the patient way of men who broke things professionally.

Dom spread one hand toward the table in what may once have been hospitality and was now close enough to an order.

“Sit. Eat. Anybody says no to the gabagool, I’m taking it personal.”

He waited only long enough for that to land before the performance began in earnest.

“They took her.”

The words came low at first, disbelieving, like he still expected the room to correct itself. Then his face darkened. His nostrils flared. He leaned forward, one thick finger pressing into the tabletop as though he meant to pin the entire city under it.

“Out of her own stable. In my city. Two nights before the Derby.”

His palm came down flat. Hard enough to rattle the glasses, hard enough to make one of the lieutenants glance up.

“Do you understand what kind of insult that is? To me? To this family? To the sporting soul of this whole rotten town?”

The anger did not pass this time. It built. The cigar wagged sharply in his grip as he spoke, his breathing already starting to thicken with the effort of it.

“And I want a bullet in the back of the head of the bastard who thought he could disrespect me like this.”

By then Domenico was visibly getting wound up, voice climbing, chest rising heavier, the hand not holding the cigar opening and closing on the tablecloth like he might tear it clean off. One of the men behind him shifted half a step, less to calm him than to be ready for where the temper might go.

Then, just as suddenly, the fury collapsed inward into something more wounded. Dom leaned back, stared through the smoke toward one of the racing portraits on the wall, and exhaled through his nose like a man trying not to let strangers see too much.

“She’s a little high strung, sure. Temperamental. Legs worth more than half the district, and smarter than some people I keep employed.” His eyes cut sideways, briefly, toward his own men. “No offense.” The offense was clearly intended. Then his gaze returned to the adventurers. “But she’s my champion. My little comet. And somebody thought they could put hands on what’s mine.”

He jabbed the cigar through the haze, close enough to the party that the gesture felt almost like accusation.

“You are not taking this to the Guild. You are not asking stupid questions in crowded places. You are finding who took her, where they moved her, and you are bringing her back in one piece. No bruises, no broken bones, and nobody touches her legs unless they got a death wish or a medical license.” A breath.

On the wall behind him, a framed winner’s photograph had been turned slightly askew, enough to hide the face of the figure in it.

Dom’s expression hardened again.

“I want names. I want the truth. I want her back before morning turns this into odds. And when I get the son of a bitch responsible, I want him face down in the gutter with enough lead in him that the crows need a week to sort him out.”

"Oh! Do she is a person!" Freyic says, smacking his fist against his upturned palm in realization. "For a second there, I started to think we were talking about a horse." He quickly counts his fingers as he mutters numbers under his breath, "Seven... Eighty-two... twenty-five... Yeah, I have no idea where she is, but we'll do our best to return her!"

'How do I get myself into these situations?' Marcus mentally asked himself as the two men started to frisk him for weapons. When a local ghost had mentioned this area for work, he had assumed it had been for something legitimate. Now, in a dark alley in a very rough part of town, he realized he shouldn't take work advice from the dead.

Marcus considered if he'd be able to explain he was just in the wrong place when a booming voice stilled everyone in the alley. The spirit medium opened his mouth to speak but the words failed to materialize. Instead he silently entered, sat down when instructed, and filled his mouth with what he assumed was 'gabagool'.

As he listened to the Don's speech for a moment he felt remorse. Clearly Big Dom had just lost someone close to him. Anyone would be angry when a wife, a girlfriend, maybe a child were kidnapped. As he looked around though his brain started to connect the dots. Was all this anger about a racing animal? Surely not...

Marcus swallowed his food and internally sighed. Like it or not, he'd have to do this unless he wanted to end up 'face down in a gutter'. He forced a smile on his face before he replied. "Like my friend here said, we'll find her." He tried to recall various detective shows he'd watched. "Can you give us a detailed description of what she looks like? Is there anyone you suspect might have done this? Can we see the scene of the crime, err, can we see the stables?"

Titles: Prime, Prime - Mundane - d1c24

The mustachioed man who shifted the air back at the alleyway stood beside the offered chair for a moment, looking back at the man who did the patting with a taunting grin before shifting his attention to Don Calabrese himself. "You have my deepest condolences, Big Dom, was it? Some trash really have no idea of the sanctity of a man's property." Another jab at the 'doorman' while being sincere to his employer.

Taking the offered seat, Hwicce leaned comfortably against the back of the chair, eyebrows raising when the pile of gabagool was 'offered'. "Don't mind if I do." With a flick of his wrist, the mercenary produced a [Concealed] dagger from his sleeve. He used the blade to skewer quite a few slices of the meat, bringing it to his lips and taking a hearty bite of it. "Pretty good." He mumbled, chewing, as he listened to the man's tale of misfortune.

Then he swallowed, skewering another pile of gabagool with his knife. "So, someone took your 'precious little commet." He looked at his companions; quite a few good questions were being put forth already. "Do you have any enemies bold enough to try something like this?" He waited a moment before taking a bite of the new pile of skewered meat. "I suppose you won't mind if we ask your men a few questions, right?

Elora knew the job would be a strange one when the petty criminal she had stopped the other day was the one who invited her to this meeting on behalf of 'Big Dom'. Though she quietly thanked him for stopping his men from searching her and possibly taking Lunaciel, if they had tried that then this job would have been over before it even began. Elora had to remind herself that learning of the world included the less savory parts as well, this was not a job she would have taken under normal circumstances.

"I'm on a very specific diet, so I hope you don't take offense, I'm sure the gabagool is wonderful," Elora made sure to flash her fangs quickly, hoping he'd understand. She sometimes reminisced on the food of her youth she could no longer eat, but being the first moon-blessed of house Vaelthorne in generations was such an honour that she could get over it most of the time.

It was unclear to Elora whether Big Dom was talking about a horse or a person, and it seemed an incredibly rude thing to ask. After a bit of listening she hopped into the conversation, "I'm sure a man as powerful as Big Dom has many enemies, the real question is which of those enemies could have pulled this off? And I agree a description would be useful, or even a picture perhaps?"

@Anon101 (Freyic)
@RedAuron (Marcus)
@duskshine749 (Elora)
@DoubleChecker (Hwicce)



The room held still for half a breath after Freyic’s realization, as though every man inside it had been forced to stop and decide whether he had just said something insightful or incredibly dangerous.

One of the goons by the curtain suddenly found a vase at the corner very interesting. Another slowly turned his head toward Dom. The don himself just stared through the cigar smoke, heavy-lidded and motionless, fingers drumming once against the edge of the plate before he let out a short, irritated grunt through his nose.




“You got a real gift for timing, kid,” Domenico muttered. “Maybe later I hire you to explain the obvious to thunderstorms.”

The moment passed only because Hwicce, with all the careless confidence of a man who either knew exactly what he was doing or had long since accepted the consequences of not knowing, produced a concealed dagger after having just been frisked and began spearing slices of gabagool off Dom’s mountain of a platter. The nearest goon stiffened at once, one hand twitching toward his coat.

Dom, however, pointed with the cigar instead, not at the knife, but at Hwicce himself.

“See? This one gets it.” His jowls shifted in something close to approval. “A man walks in armed, pays respect, and recognizes quality cured meat when he sees it. That’s culture.”

Behind him, one of the lieutenants looked personally offended on behalf of the frisking process.

Elora’s refusal might have drawn offense from a lesser man, but once the flash of fang caught the light, Domenico only narrowed his eyes, squinted once, and gave a dismissive flap of his hand.

“Diet’s a diet. Long as you ain’t insulting the plate.”

Then the questions began in earnest. Description. Suspects. The stables. Whether his own people could be spoken to. Whether he had enemies bold enough to do this. That last one drew a humorless bark from Big Dom, as though Hwicce had asked whether water was wet.

“Enemies?” He leaned back in the booth and spread his hands. Rings flashed gold through the sepia haze. “In this city? I got rivals, grudge-holders, bookmakers, jealous patrons, sponsors with too much perfume and not enough spine, and at least three bastards who smile to my face while praying for my public humiliation. So yes. I got enemies.”

His expression turned ugly again.

“But this?” He jabbed the cigar toward the table hard enough to scatter ash beside the platter. “This took nerve. Access. Timing. Somebody who knew where to hit and when to do it.”

Marcus’s request for a detailed description earned less anger than the request for a picture. At that, Dom’s eyes flicked for the briefest instant toward the turned winner’s photograph on the wall. Just long enough to be noticed. Then his face closed again.

“You don’t need a picture,” he said flatly. “You need a crime scene.”

His gaze shifted between the four of them, measuring. Freyic, whose mouth had gotten there before his caution. Marcus, who looked like he was already trying to solve this like one of his little mystery serials. Hwicce, who had somehow turned gabagool theft into diplomacy. Elora, composed and careful, asking the right kind of question instead of a dangerous one.

“The stable comes first. You see the stall, you smell the place, you talk to the handlers. You ask my men what they saw, what they missed, and why I shouldn’t replace all of them with bricks.”

At that, one of the suited men by the wall quietly swallowed.

Hwicce’s question about speaking to Dom’s men earned a short nod. “Ask whoever you want. Long as you understand this. If I find out one of mine sold me out, I’ll deal with that myself.”

The don reached down, pinched a slice of gabagool between two thick fingers, then pointed it accusingly at the room before stuffing it into his mouth. He chewed, seethed, swallowed, and stabbed the air with the cigar again.

“Piero.”

One of the lieutenants pushed off the wall at once. He was wiry where Dom was heavy, sleek where Dom was broad, with slicked hair and a tie just a little too bright to be tasteful. “Boss.”

“You take them. Stable first. Then the route from there to the service gate. Then you let them talk to whoever was on duty that night.” Dom’s face darkened. “And if I hear anybody gave them the runaround, I start rearranging teeth.”

Piero placed one hand over his chest in mock dignity. “Dom, I am wounded you think I would allow such a thing.”

“I think you’d narrate around it,” Dom shot back. “Move.”

Chairs scraped. The room shifted. The meeting, for all its smoke and theater, had become a job.

As Piero pulled the curtain aside and motioned for the adventurers to follow, the sounds of the restaurant returned in muffled layers. Clinking glasses, kitchen noise, a burst of laughter from the front rooms where respectable people pretended none of this sort of thing happened in the city. Behind them, Big Dom called out one last time, voice rolling after the group like thunder through velvet.

“Bring me something useful. A name, a witness, a scrap of truth. I don’t care which comes first.”

Then, after the briefest pause:

“And if any of you come back having changed your mind about the gabagool, there’ll still be some waiting. Assuming Hwicce here leaves any for the rest of civilization.”

Piero gave them a sharp little smile in the corridor beyond.

“Careful,” he murmured as he began leading them through the amber-lit back halls of La Stella Rossa. “That joke means he likes you. Usually the people he hates get quieter exits.”

---

Piero did not stop talking until the restaurant was behind them.

He guided the group out through a side corridor, past steaming kitchen doors and a cook who looked at armed adventurers the way other men looked at weather, then out into the racing district proper where the city opened up in ribbons of light, polished stone, and restless noise. Even at this hour, the avenues near the track were alive. Newsboys shouted about tomorrow’s odds. Carriages rattled past beneath bright banners bearing painted emblems and racing colors. Somewhere in the distance, from beyond the grandstand and its looming lattice of lamps, came the shrill cheer of a crowd watching some smaller late-night heat or exhibition. This part of the city did not sleep so much as pace in circles.

“Try not to look too impressed,” Piero said as he led them off the main boulevard and through a narrower lane lined with stable walls and carriage sheds. “The district can smell tourists. And fear. Sometimes in that order.”

The Calabrese stable sat behind black iron fencing and a gate that had not been broken so much as professionally defeated. The chain still hung there, cut clean through, its severed loop dull in the lanternlight. Inside, the stableyard was neat in the way only recently disturbed places ever were. Not untouched. Just put back together too carefully.

A broad groom in a rolled-up shirt and leather apron stood near the main doors with his arms folded so tightly they looked nailed there. He had the sturdy neck and red face of a man who had spent the last two days being blamed for things. Beside the water trough, a younger hand with straw in his hair kept glancing between the party and the yard as though hoping to be overlooked by everybody involved. Near the side gate sat an older night watchman on an upturned crate, cap in his lap, one cheek still purpled from either a punch or the shame of surviving one.

Piero spread one hand.

“Here we are. Dom’s pride and current ulcer.”

Inside, the stable was all polished timber, brass fittings, expensive tack, and the thick mixed scents of hay, leather, oil, and animal warmth. Most of the stalls were occupied, and their residents shifted restlessly at the arrival of strangers, snorting and stamping in soft complaint. One stall at the far end, however, stood empty.

It was larger than the others.

Its brass nameplate had been removed, but not very well. A brighter rectangle remained where it had once sat, and one screw still jutted stubbornly from the wood. The latch had been forced from the inside or the outside, it was hard to tell at a glance, and fresh splintering marked the frame low enough to notice only once someone got close. On the straw near the rear wall lay a narrow strip of blue silk half-buried under trampled bedding. Nearby, beneath a shelf, something silver caught the light, small enough to miss if one were not looking for it.

Across from the empty stall, a grooming station had been left in a hurry. Brushes, oils, a bucket still half full, and a folded towel sat on the bench. One item looked particularly out of place among the stable tools: a hand mirror with a cracked ivory backing, tucked behind a jar of hoof ointment as though somebody had tried, belatedly, to make it less noticeable.

Off to one side, the tack room door remained open. Ledgers lay stacked on a side desk beside feed invoices, race notices, and a clipboard of staff rotations. One page had been torn out recently enough that a corner still clung to the binding.

Piero clasped his hands behind his back and rocked once on his heels, looking entirely too pleased to be near other people’s disaster.

“You wanted the scene. This is the scene. That angry ox by the door is Bassi, head groom. The boy trying to become wallpaper is Nino, stall hand. The old man by the gate is Toma, who was on watch when things went bad and has been reliving it ever since.” He tilted his head toward the empty stall. “And that was hers.”

He let the silence sit for a beat, then smiled thinly.

“Ask. Look. Poke at things. Just maybe do not stand directly behind the other horses unless you are deeply committed to learning humility.”

Summarization: The party is now at the stables, they have a few options of who to talk with or what to interact. Feel free to explore.

Freyic, having been from a much smaller city and a young boy, had ran around the market while no one was watching. He picked apples with ease and spotted all sorts of new plants he had never seen before. He even saw a beefy man carrying his daughter on his shoulders while walking, both laughing, and striking Freyic with nostalgia.

Then he made it to the stables. "Wow... it's bigger than my house." Freyic said with a soft gasp, spinning as he taking everything it. "Would I still be wrong if I were confused if we're looking for a maiden or a mare?" he whispers to Elora as he tugs on her sleeve. "I mean, look at this mess. There's more hay and papers than jewels or gowns. And there's more digits here than in my math classes." He couches and picks up a sheet of paper, where a series of large numbers -betting cash maybe?- have been accounted for from not very long ago.

"At this point young one, I am quite confident we are looking for a horse, and quite an important one at that," Elora said to the boy as she looked over the area. Her family back home had horses, so she knew the remaining ones were well taken care of and impressive in their own right. Meaning the missing one must have been quite a specimen. A few things caught Elora's eye, including but not limited to the fact that Piero seemed all too pleased about all of this. That didn't automatically make him guilty, but it was definitely something Elora would keep note of.

"Freyic, why don't you go check out the grooming station? I can see a strange mirror it seems someone tried to hide, poorly." Elora's tone almost sounded like she was disappointed that the criminal was so bad at hiding evidence, "I'm going to take a look at the empty stall, I spotted a few things that interest me." And with that Elora made her way to the stall, first trying to determine if the latch was breached from the inside or outside, as well as checking out the splintered frame. Then she moved on to the strange blue silk, which almost seemed like it was hidden accidentally rather than with purpose. Finally, she uncovered whatever was glinting silver under the nearby shelf. All of these were likely important clues, and would help when questioning the employees.

Skills used: Perception F

Marcus nodded as they were dismissed, his forced smile still on his face. The second they left the room however he let out a sigh of annoyance. He always hated having to talk to important people, the room always felt suffocating. Still he had gotten some of the questions answered so he considered that a win and followed the others through the city.

He glanced briefly behind them as they walked. Unseen by Marcus, or anyone, his entourage of befriended ghosts followed after him. For now they merely watched and waited until the spirit medium addressed them directly.

Once they entered the stables Marcus slowly paced through the building. There was a lot to look through and several people to interview. He wished he had found a small journal to take notes in, it'd be more authentic to the experience. While he walked a subtle glow also filled his eyes as his vision expanded to see past the mortal world. He had no idea if a ghost lingered in the stable but it didn't hurt to check. From his experience the living had a million reasons to lie to you, but the dead? They often told you anything you wanted if only to ease the boredom that happened with being a ghost.

After a quick walkthrough he joined the others. "This should be interesting," he noted to the others. "Still seems a bit odd Big Dom wouldn't give us a description for what we're looking for, horse or no. I'm hoping we'll get some more information from these people." He glanced over to find they had already started to examine the stable in greater detail.

"I guess that's my queue to handle the talking," he muttered to himself before he put on a friendly smile. He approached the watchman and noted the injury. "Good afternoon Toma, looks like you've had a rough night. My name is Marcus and I was brought on to investigate what happened here. Want me to take a look at that wound? I've picked up a little healing magic in my travels." If the man didn't object the spirit medium pulled out his short staff and focused his energy. The end of the staff started to glow with a bright blue light before he gently applied the healing spell to the bruise.

"So I'm told you were on watch during the incident. Would you care to tell me everything you remember that happened that night? Every little detail you can provide us might help us figure out what happened," he explained in his friendliest tone. As he listened to the old man talk Marcus watched for signs that the watchman might be hiding something.

Actions:
1. Activate [Sixth Sense: See Spirits] F - Grade F - Cooldown 0 to see if any ghost is in the stable
2. If allowed cast: Spirit Healing: [Magic] E, [Healing] E - Grade E - Cooldown 0
3. Use the ability: Let's be Friends: [Persuasion] F, [Insight] F - Grade F - Cooldown 0 to get info from Toma

So there Freya went, listening to Elora like if she were his caretaker from the city before. He searched the grooming stable meticulously, finding absolutely nothing useful. "Hay, brush, comb, horseshoe, hay again, raines, screws, more hay, human shoe..."

Until, finally what felt like an eternaty to a kid and was probably about a couple of minutes, "Mirror!" Freyic declares aloud, to both no one and everyone at the same time. For a second he winders whether he should actually bring it to the others, or if he test the new toy's durability. Though like every little boy, even if he is an aspiring assassin, Freyic is curious. He can clearly see the cracked ivory, but that doesn't stop him from unsheathing one of his knifes and popping off the back of the mirror.

Equipment used: Knife F

Titles: Prime, Prime - Mundane - ed1c24

Hwicce let out a loud whistle of appreciation when the group entered the stables, his curious hazel eyes wandering around. "We absolutely should have charged extra." He chuckled. With Elora and Freyic looking around the stables for clues, while Marcus was 'interviewing' Toma, the mercenary decided to take on a different approach.

First, he walked towards the stall with the missing occupant, his gaze hovering over Elora for a moment, giving the woman a nod. He then grabbed the rectangle that had been left behind after the removal of the nameplate, yanking it out of the wood. (Strength D) With the piece of metal in his hands, he tapped it against his palm ever so slightly, making his way not to one of the three workers of the stables. Rather, he approached Piero himself.

"So, you said Big Dom liked me. Good, always good to make a good first impression, eh?" His hand moved, tapping the man's colorful tie with the rectangle. "How about yourself? Must be pretty high on his opinion if he chose you to accompany us while the possibility of a traitor is still out there." Retreating, the man went back to tap the rectangle against his palm. "What do you say, then? Is there any enemy... organization, group, or individual you can think of bold enough to try 'this'?"

The Calabrese stable was the sort of place that made even wealth look disciplined. Brass fittings gleamed in the lanternlight. The timber had been oiled so well it almost shone. Even the hay smelled expensive. Freyic’s soft amazement was not misplaced. The place was broader than some homes, warmer than others, and filled with enough leather, feed, tools, and polished stallwork to remind anyone that whatever had been taken from here had not belonged to an ordinary owner.

Piero, for his part, seemed almost offensively at ease among the tension. He lingered near the aisle with his hands behind his back and a smile that never quite decided whether it wanted to be helpful or smug. That expression only sharpened when Hwicce tore the remaining plate free and came strolling over with it, tapping the bright rectangle lightly against his own palm before thumping it once against the lieutenant’s gaudy tie. For the briefest instant, Piero’s smile went flat.

Then it returned.

“Bold enough?” he echoed. “Plenty. Competent enough is the shorter list.” His eyes flicked toward the empty stall and then toward the yard beyond. “A rival family would have made noise. A common thief would have taken silver, tack, or feed contracts. This was neat. Fast. Quiet. Somebody either knew the routine here or paid for the kind of knowledge that usually stays bought.” His gaze slid back to Hwicce. “And yes, Dom likes you. You ate the gabagool, you didn’t flinch, and you know how to be disrespectful in a way that sounds useful.”

Not far off, Marcus found the old watchman more willing to accept healing than pride. Toma grumbled something about not needing magic for a bruise, then sat still all the same when the blue light of the staff washed over the purpled side of his face. Some of the tightness left the old man’s jaw at once. He rolled his cheek, blinked, and gave Marcus a look that was not exactly gratitude, but was close enough to count in a stable full of nervous men. When Marcus asked him to recount the night, Toma tugged his cap once between both hands and stared down at the floorboards as if the answer might still be there.

“It weren’t loud at first,” the watchman muttered. “That’s what keeps eating at me. Should’ve been loud. A fit, a kick, something. But it weren’t. Just a strange quiet, like the whole place was waiting. Then one of the other horses started fussing. I got up, came around the side, and somebody hit me before I could shout.” His fingers touched the fading bruise. “Didn’t see the face. Cloak, maybe. Tall enough. Moved like they knew where they were going.” He swallowed. “But I remember a smell. Sweet. Not stable sweet. Not hay. Not feed. Something fancy. Perfume, maybe. And after they were gone, the blue silk was there on the straw. That weren’t there before.” He paused, then looked up at Marcus with a troubled squint. “And this is going to sound stupid, but I swear I heard laughing. Not from the yard. From inside the stall.”

Marcus’s widened sight found no fresh dead clinging to the place, no obvious murder victim still haunting the rafters or sulking in the stalls. But the stable was not spiritually empty either. The air carried the dull residue of strong feeling. Frustration, vanity, routine, impatience. The sort of emotional imprint that clung to places where the same will had passed over the same space again and again, leaving its shape behind without quite becoming a ghost. Enough to say that whatever had occupied the stall had left more of a presence than most beasts ever did.

At the far end, Elora’s eye for the physical details paid out better than the stable hands’ nerves had. The latch told a story first. The wood had splintered inward at an angle that made the breach look clumsy from a distance, but close up it was clear the force had not been wild. It had been placed. Someone had damaged the frame to make it look rougher than it really was. The blue silk was no ordinary scrap either. It was fine, expensive, and too clean on one edge to have simply lain in the straw all night. It looked dropped in haste rather than torn in struggle. And the silver glint beneath the shelf turned out not to be tack hardware at all, but a small engraved hair clasp, thin and curved, with a chipped blue stone set into its middle. On its inner edge, barely visible in the light, was a delicate maker’s stamp from a fashionable shop in the upper district, nowhere near the stable quarter.

Freyic’s search of the grooming station seemed at first to amount to a child’s inventory of hay, tools, and horse things said aloud to the world. Then came the triumphant cry of “Mirror!” and the crackle of curiosity turning immediately into action. When he popped the ivory backing free with the point of his knife, he found the mirror had indeed been altered. Tucked within the shallow false back was a narrow folded strip of paper, no bigger than a finger joint, carrying nothing but a hastily written number and a short note in sharp ink: Midnight. South service gate. No handlers. Come alone. The number matched the kind of figures Freyic had already seen in the stable papers, high enough to look like betting money and recent enough to sting.

The note, the clasp, the silk, the staged damage, the perfume, and the old watchman’s uncertain recollection all pulled in a direction that did not sit neatly with a simple smash-and-grab.

Behind them, Bassi the head groom had been watching all of this with the tight misery of a man waiting to be blamed by professionals. When the mirror note was discovered, he swore under his breath. When Elora straightened with the silver clasp in hand, he looked actively ill.

“That ain’t stable gear,” he said at once, voice rough with too little sleep. “And if there was a note in that mirror, then somebody in here was keeping secrets.” His stare cut across the tack room, the stall, the yard, and finally toward Piero, who raised both brows as if refusing responsibility on principle. Bassi clenched his jaw. “I told Dom from the start. This wasn’t some alley snatch. Somebody arranged something.”

Piero’s smile thinned.

“Well,” he said lightly, though the lightness no longer quite reached his eyes, “that sounds expensive.”

And all around them, the other horses shifted in their stalls, restless under the growing sense that the stable had stopped being a place of routine and become, fully and properly, a crime scene.

All signs pointed towards this being an inside job, which Elora already suspected, but it was nice to know her instincts were still sharp. It was strange though, the suspect was clever enough to make the gate and latch look like they were smashed with force rather than precision, but not clever enough to make sure they didn't leave behind very obvious physical evidence. Almost as though it was left on purpose, maybe to try and frame someone? She needed more information, and she knew just who she wanted to talk to next.

She approached Nino, as he continued to try and be invisible. "Hello Nino," Elora said gently, "don't worry, I'm not like the people you normally interact with, I'm not looking to make an example of anyone. I just want to know what has you so bothered?" Elora glanced to the empty stable then back before continuing, "people who don't know anything usually don't look so nervous." Elora rested her hand lightly on her rapier, not as a threat, just a reminder to Nino that just because she wasn't like his boss, it didn't mean she was weak either.

Marcus scratched his chin as he looked at the assembled evidence they had gathered. This definitely felt like something that had been planned, although perhaps not by a professional? A laugh was a good way to draw attention to yourself which seemed at odds with trying to quietly steal something. The imprint he had gotten from the stall had puzzled him as to what had been stolen.

"Perfume, fancy silk, and a clasp point towards a noble woman. Not exactly an appearance that'd be discreet in this part of town." He realized what he'd said and glanced at the people who worked here, "no offense. You all look like perfectly fine, clean people."

An inside job seemed most likely based off the note. Marcus glanced at the stall hand, the only person so far who hadn't said anything. Before he could do anything he saw the sword-wielding woman approach the boy. The spirit medium nodded briefly, glad someone else had the same thought he did.

With the primary 'suspect' being grilled Marcus decided he should distract his boss. If either employee had been involved in the crime it'd be best if they were separated. With that in mind he approached Basi. "Would you do me a favor and show me how these ledgers work? I noticed that a page seemed to be missing. Do you have any idea what might have been there?" He asked with a smile.

Once they were away from the others Marucs lowered his voice. "Sir, with how this is unfolding if you have any information I highly suggest you tell me now. If your boss thinks you're hiding anything I have a hunch he might be a bit drastic with his actions."

Actions:
1. Use the ability: Let's be Friends: [Persuasion] F, [Insight] F - Grade F - Cooldown 0 to get info from Basi

Freyic, being Freyic, got bored. He left the others to investigate, while he went out to play ball with fellow children in a thicket of trees. It was outside however, right as he tossed the ball, that he noticed the prints in the dirt. U shaped, not human. "Hmm... You all can keep playing without me. I guess I should go report this, huh?"

He bounced back inside, wavy black hair bouncing with each step and baby blue eyes twinkling. He did a little twirl while saying, "Ta da! I found footprints outside. I'd like head pats now as a reward." He places his hands on his hips, eyes closed.

Titles: Prime, Prime - Mundane - ed1c24

Hwicce kept his smug smirk as more bits and pieces were uncovered. He held it long enough, even after Piero's own smile thinned. "That took an unexpected turn, didn't it?" He still tapped the metallic plate against his hand, looking around and seeing the kid had disappeared momentarily. "Curious ..."

With arms crossed, he caught right as Freyic returned, already heralding his discovery. "Footprints, huh? Maybe we should see where they lead us." And the kid was obliged just as he had asked, but perhaps not as he expected. Hwicce's gloved hand reached Freyic's, the leather on it pretty coarse. "Nice going, shorty. Keep it up like that and we might wake up tomorrow." He said with a grin while ruffling his hair.

Elora’s gentle approach only made Nino look guiltier. The stall hand swallowed, eyes darting from her face to the empty stall and back again. “I didn’t do nothin’,” he blurted, which of course sounded exactly like a man who had done something adjacent to something. “I just... I saw somebody hanging round the south side earlier that evening. Fancy shoes. Didn’t belong here. I figured they were with a sponsor or one of Dom’s people.”

Across the aisle, Marcus drew Bassi off with the ledgers. The head groom rubbed both hands over his face before muttering, “Missing page had the late access notes. Deliveries, visitors, special requests. Gone by morning.” He lowered his voice. “And if Dom asks, I told you because I enjoy breathing.”

Then Freyic came flying back inside like a herald from a much sillier battlefield. Footprints. Outside, U-shaped.

Hwicce rewarded him with a rough ruffle to the hair, and for one brief moment the investigation almost looked functional.

“South gate,” Piero said at once, his smile thinning. “That note keeps getting uglier.”

Before anyone could move, the stable doors swung open.

In stepped a woman in suspenders, tie, fedora, and a grin sharp enough to count as a weapon. Heavy mechanical gauntlets wrapped both arms, their metal joints glowing amber as she flexed one hand with a low whir. A scar crossed one cheek. Smoke curled in after her like she had brought some of the back room with her.




“Boss says you’re all doing cute work,” she said. “Name’s Gina Gearaldi. Most call me Gears. I’m joining the party.”

Piero closed his eyes like a man experiencing spiritual pain.

“Oh, terrific,” he muttered. “Now it’s a parade.”

Marcus nodded slowly as he listened to Bassi. If the head groom was hiding something he had a good poker face. The info about the note was interesting, if the culprit had been here the day before that surely narrowed the list down. Presumably that meant it was someone who was allowed to enter.

The spirit medium glanced over at Elora and the kid. It seemed the kid hadn't spilled his secrets, if he had any.

Before he could speak the doors swung open and his attention turned to the woman wearing odd machines on her arms. For a second his hand moved to his axe until she said she'd been sent by Big Dom. Marcus glanced at Piero, who looked annoyed but not frightened, and decided the woman was telling the truth.

"Umm, hi? I'm Marcus, we've just been poking around the scene," he said as he gestured to the stable. "I think the Freyic discovered some tracks? Sounds like a good idea to follow those. Maybe give the people here a second to think of anything else that might be relevant?"

The spirit medium's eyes glowed as he mentally reached out to one of his Haunters. 'Do me a favor and stick near the stall hand. He might say or do something when there are less people around.' The spectral ghost nodded before it shuffled into the stable where it'd perform his task silently.

Marcus moved to follow the track when he turned to Piero. "Care to join us? I'd like to hear more about this 'Comet'. Obviously Big Dom cares for her but is there any other reason someone would take her? Anything besides being a good racer? Would anyone interact with her aside from the people in the stable?"

Actions:
1. I See Dead People: [Telepathy] F, [Sixth Sense: See Spirits] F - Grade F - Cooldown 0 Command a minion to stick to Nino.
2. Follow the tracks with the others
3. Let's be Friends: [Persuasion] F, [Insight] F - Grade F - Cooldown 0 - Ask Piero some questions

Freyic was entranced. He finds this new lady is so cool his eyes sparkle. Literally. "Joining our party? We'll, I'm sure we can mutually decide that I'm the party leader, so I say you're in!" Though his confidant smirk was quickly replaced by surprise as he tripped over something sticking out of the ground, landing with an "Oof" and a faceplate.

Titles: Prime, Prime - Mundane - ed1c24

Hwicce's mustache twitched twice as Gina made her appearance. One of the mercenary's hands came to rest atop the pommel of his sword, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly. "So you heard about it and decided to join us? Aren't you a surprise?" His voice carried the usual sarcasm, but no extra malice with it. "As long as you don't take it out of our pay, you can tag along."

The mercenary was ready to continue, using his honed Street Sense to glimpse whatever information it might grant him.

Actions:
1 - Street Sense F