[A] Blood for Blood: Missing Persons (Updated 4/21)

"Have any reporters caught wind of this, yet?" Martial Bridge grimaced as he lifted the sheet again to look over the pale body of Tiffany Goldstein.

"No, sir." The investigator didn't look up from his clipboard as he responded. It was a small scene; a drunken party of Goldshire regulars had stumbled upon the oddly pale body of Mrs. Goldstein some time early in the morning. The overworked Martial and his team were sent in quickly to clean up and document the mess.

"She's been stripped of her clothes. Was it sexual assault?"

"No, sir- and Lowhill says her time of death couldn't be any more than five hours ago. Dar'ethim claims that the vegetation disturbance behind her means she was alive when dumped, though." 

Great. More cheery news. Bridges ran a hand through his graying hair. "So then what was the cause of death?" The woman was as white as the sheet covering her. In life, she was the kind of person with cheeks that were always red to match her cheerful demeanor. 

"Blood loss, Martial." Investigator Krinn added something to his notes as he spoke. "From the looks of it, the killer literally took almost all of her blood. By the time she was released, she didn't have enough to drag herself to the closest town."

"Fuck, Krinn. Do you have to say it as if you're describing your morning routine?"

"Just compartmentalizing, sir. You know how it goes."

"Right. Fine. Let's wrap it up, folks. I want this body sent to the spooks to be analyzed, the scene cleared, and the paperwork done ASAP." He was responded to with a chorus of 'Yes sirs'. 

"We have a problem, sir." Margot Freeley saluted Martial Bridges before entering his office. Evening was creeping over Stormwind, and shadows cast from the few trees in the outskirts of the Old Town and setting sun cast long creeping fingers of shadow along Martial Henry Bridges' paper covered desk.

"A problem?" The middle-aged man looked up from his work, the lines of age on his forehead creasing as he frowned up at the woman. "I don't think that it's fair to call any situation we handle a problem, Freeley. Our job is to deal with problems." The Martial leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms across his chest. "So tell me, Sergeant, what new job do we have."

The young guard hesitated to respond. Slumped shoulders and a troubled look was enough to give away that this wasn't an ordinary problem. "Sir, the series of bodies we've been finding? The ones that are marked? They've stopped appearing. Higher ups says that it means whoever has been doing this stopped because they didn't want us on their trail. They're closing the case."

Henry let out a long, tired sigh. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples as he replied. "Despite the rulings of high command, what does the halt in the turn up of bodies usually mean?"

Margot bit her lip, and shifted her weight from one foot to another. "It means that the killer is getting better at hiding."

"Precisely." Bridges had spent three decades of his life working for the Stormwind Guard. Most of the time had been working with the homicide investigators. If there was one thing Martial Bridges knew, it was the mind of murderers. "What do you propose, Sergeant?"

"We're no longer permitted to spend Guard resources and time on this investigation. It would be against regulations to pursue the matter any further."

"-but?"

"But, I don't think spending our free time looking into this would be a problem for High Command." She kept her expression straight as she continued. "Not to mention, sir, but there will continue to be disappearances which means missing persons reports. I do believe that that will require much attention from the Guard."

The tired and resigned grimace on Bridges' face faded into a smile. "Precisely."

Deep in the dark forest of Duskwood, high on top of a hill there was a house. This house looked like any other of the decrepit and abandoned variety. The people of Darkshire had long since accepted that things such as flickering lights and shadowed movements in windows was to be expected from such a place.

Just as flickering lights were to be expected from an old and rotting house on the top of a hill surrounded by a graveyard, the idea that a resident of the undead variety chose the place as home was to be expected.

But sadly, the assumption made by the people who spent most of their life in a place that housed the stuff of scary stories and grim fairy tales was quite wrong. For the resident in the house on Raven Hill was anything but harmless, and he had work to do.

Bound and pale, a young man rested just inside the entrance to the house. Sanguination and fear had long since overtaken the boy and he lay there limply and uncaring as a robed figure stepped over him. He had already seen hell, what was the worth that a being of such a place could bring besides death? It was a blessing.

Still wary of the deal made nights prior, the emaciated figure inspected the gift at his doorstep like a farmer inspecting livestock about to be slaughtered. Just as she promised, the boy was alive. The witch might not have mentioned him to expect his near complete lack of blood, but it was nothing a day and some force-fed drugs couldn't handle. Details, details. 

The markings carved into the lad's chest and neck would soon be marred and split by the sharp instruments that rested on his steel tray soon, anyways.

"Stormwind is neck deep in murder, and you want to be transferred to the missing persons unit?" Lieutenant Rovanitch stared Sergeant Freeley down as if she had a second head.

"Yes sir," she replied. "The number of missing civilians has been rising rapidly in the past two months, and there are enough rookies trying to get into the homicide department. I'm willing to be moved for the sake of the city and for the sake of new blood."

"Fine, then. But I swear on Tirion's blessed balls if you're just doing this because Bridges has s-"

"That won't be a problem, sir."

"... very well, then. Now get out of my office before I have half a mind to discharge you on grounds of fucking insanity."

"Yes, sir."

That is now proved,

what you asked of the runes,

of the potent famous ones,

which the great gods made,

and the mighty sage stained,

that it is best for him if he stays silent.

---

The months have not been kind to Muirnall MacMillan. Taxing magic and seclusion has made the old woman look even frailer than ever. The task of bringing back old memories has also let the many winters, springs, summers, and falls return to weigh on the back of the witch. Dreams, memories, and the waking world are slowly melding into one painful story, and yet she carries on.

Runes for fertility, for warding, for nurturing, for growth, for warnings, for sadness, for fear, for wrath, for mourning, for joy, for the sun, the moon, the countless stars, for the countless gods and creatures of the twisting woods. More markings than any book could hold. More stories that go along with them than any bard could remember.

Muirnall had always found it odd how both the runes for corvid, fox, and hart were needed in creating the final circles of magic needed to draw a spirit from the other world. The raven brought the souls of the dead to the next world, the hart guided the new ones ready to be born, and the fox did everything in its power to trick the two into giving them to itself. And yet, it took all three. This was not new life, which the hart guided. It was neither a soul no longer bound to the mortal world that the raven guided. Why would the trickster even take part?

 

Corvid, fox, hart, mourning, joy, binding, warding.

That's what it took to bring her daughters back.

Corvid, fox, hart, mourning, joy, binding, warding.

Blood. So much blood.

 

Two guides and a trickster. The yearning and sorrow for what is gone and the joy of seeing it return. The binding to keep what has returned with you. The Warding to fend off those who seek to return them. 

Blood. So much blood.

 

Perhaps it was the fog that came with age that made the simple puzzle something that didn't garner the witch's interest. So many years of learning to understand. She was done with that. 

Her robes were stained and crusted with blood. Her words were laden with magic and bridges to other places. Her body was dancing the line between here and there.

 

Soft cries from the figure on the floor came to a halt.

The shrouded figure on Muirnall's old stone table moved.

Leisha.

---

No bread did they give me nor a drink from a horn,

downwards I peered;

I took up the runes,

screaming I took them,

then I fell back from there.