User:Michael Bard/Tales of Euper Investigations

{{#ifeq: User |User| CSI: Euper | CSI: Euper}}[[Title::{{#ifeq: User |User| CSI: Euper | CSI: Euper}}| ]]
{{#ifeq: | |

 {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | | 
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | || 
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}| ]]
   }} | 
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | |
     Author: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} |
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}| ]]
   }}
 }} |
 {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | |
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | | Authors: ' | 
     Authors: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]] 
   }} | 
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | |
     Authors: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} |
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]] 
   }}
 }}

}} {{#if:| — see [[:Category:{{{category}}}|other works by this author]]}}

---

{{#if:Work in progress.png|}}

Icon	This story is a work in progress.

{{#ifeq:User|Help||}}

{{#if:|}}

[[Image:{{{icon}}}|30px|center|Icon]]

Author's Notes: New additions will start with a few words of green text. Keep in mind that significant revisions are possible, and sometimes necessary. The entire text is therefore in flux.

{{#if:Speech balloon.png|}}

Icon	Add new comment {{#ifexist: User talk:Michael Bard/Tales of Euper Investigations | (read old comments)}}

October, 707 CR

The dagger stared at him. Mocking. Oblivious to the faint drumming of rain against the stone tower wall.

Jim threw down the scroll on the battered desk and flopped his goat form onto the tied-together wooden square which creaked alarmingly under the pressure. Join the town watch they said. March through the town to cheering crowds and thrown rose petals they said.

Instead there were crappy hours, rotten fruit, and the endless mud under his cloven hoof.

And when he'd been promoted to head of Euper Investigations, it was all now you can relax and enjoy life.

Until the murders started.

Oh, there were always murders. Sometimes action was even taken. A body washing up under the docks once a week was usual. Same with a half rotted corpse in an alley. He'd have just lefty them, except for the standing order for cremation to make sure necromancy didn't raise them.

He stared at the dagger.

But now-- Entire families. Last night almost twenty in three groups. All with their throats slit. Entry forced by a pro, the murders quick and thorough. Evidence of a careful search. Nothing taken and the door or window closed as the bastard left.

And then. Two days ago, the dagger, edged in dried blood, left on the floor.

Higher ups wanted the murders solved. Or, in the real meaning, stopped. Else heads -- in this case his -- would roll.

He would have sworn the dagger was mocking him.

He glared back, scowling at its leather-bound hilt. His eyes slid down its length to the bound book it was thrust into: CSI: Metamor.

Ha!

He'd read the first one. Or tired to. A building full of highly trained mages and clerics. Careful records. Undisturbed crime scenes. Elaborate illusions recreating complex murders in agonizing detail. The criminal always being caught--

Ha!

He had one guy directly under him, well former guy now girl, this desk, a room it could barely fit in. Eli! He'd sent to the keep two days ago for a mage or somebody to do a reading on the presumed murder weapon.

And this was all in addition to his dirties running the watch.

And, so far, nothing.

He turned his hatred to the latest episode of CSI: Metamor -- the Dollhouse Murderer. The printing house up by the keep kept sending him complementary copies. Eli damn--

There was a knock on the door. Jim yanked his eyes away from the book, from the dagger as the knock repeated, his ears flipping to catch the sound.

"The door's open, Chrispher." The shy knock had told him it was his arrant female assistant knocking. She'd been male before the curse, and now she refused to touch a weapon.

Now she was his secretary.

She pushed the door open, her cute little girl face blasted with a scowl. "That mage is here."

Finally! "Send him in!"

"Okay--"

Her tone of voice struck him as odder than usual, and it didn't take long for the reason to make itself apparent. The mage who came in could barely be seen behind his desk, and Jim didn't get the full impact of the wizard's appearance until said wizard hopped or climbed onto the desk.

The magic worker looked like a fox, but was dark gray in colour and wrapped in a soaked silver-threaded black wool cloak. His eyes glittered, and glared, hating the entire world. Jim almost laughed, the fox looked young enough that he had to still be nursing, except he noticed the Patrol Captain badge.

Jim saluted. "Sir."

A big blob of muck slipped from the mage's cloak onto the edge of the desk, and then fell off, splatting on the floor.

"Blasted rain! When I find out who's brain-deceased idea it was to send a fire mage--" The fox shook himself, the weight of the cloak almost dragging him backwards off the desk. "I'm here. What do you want?"

Jim blinked, tail pulled up against his spine. "Umm-- sir-- That dagger," he pointed. "I need a reading. Who owns it? What did they do with it?"

The fox blinked back. "Reading? I'm a fire mage, not a blasted CSI specialist!" The wizard's eyes sparked as water dripped onto the floor.

The damn fox probably loved those stories. "I'm sorry. I did specify--"

"Whatever--" The mage said, rolling his eyes. "That dagger?"

Jim nodded. "We've tried to minimize contact with it as much as possible. The blood on it was there when we found it."

"You think?" the fox said dryly. He produced a long piece of chalk and tapped it against the underside of his muzzle. He circled the murder weapon once, toeclaws digging into Jim's late grandmother's desk. It was his only memento of her! The goat cringed when he bent over and began drawing circles and odd glyphs upon the wood.

"Uh-- you're scratching my desk."

"I know." The fox continued, plea unheeded. Soon the wood surface was a tangled mess of chalk lines, and with little foot room left he moved onto Jim's vacant chair. From his farther vantage point, he leaned over and waved a claw over the dagger as the symbols resonated with a faint glow.

"Pay attention. I'm only doing this once."

Jim leaned forward, his ears angled in rapt attention as fox waved his hand in a circular motion.

"I was made--" the mage began, "made in fire and heat and pain. Hammered. Folded. Again and again. Yadda, yadda-- yeah, yeah we know--" He pursed his lips for a moment as if scanning some directory. "Made in love and honour by a smith of greatness. Oh, please--" He rolled his eyes. "Oberon-- Oberon-- he made me, sold me. Sold me to-- to-- Blast it! It's hidden-- Magic cloaks? Secrets, secrets-- tell me, blast it! Flying through the air. Blood, hot blood, flowing, dripping. Soul death, taken. Taken-- yeah, yeah-- Found, found, magic, great magic, and hate, hate! Ooo-- hmmm-- A hard power, a form, white glistening burning white. Holy life giving white and ivory. A unicorn. Used. Used. A--" The mage clenched his teeth, his voice straining. "Take life-- all life-- all-- GAH!!"

The dagger exploded, shattering into hard shards that flew across the room, clattering from the walls and floor and ceiling, sounding like hail in a storm.

The wizard tumbled backwards off the chair, falling into a tumbled pile of fox and wool and mud as Jim wiped blood from his forehead. Squeezing around the desk, he kneeled, reaching down to check the fox's pulse. There--

"Get off me! Blast it!" The fox thrust the goat's hand away. "I'm fine!"

"You're sure?"

The only response was a death-glare.

"Well-- Thank you."

The wizard mumbled so softly that Jim strained to hear it. "They don't pay me enough--" His voice returned to a normal volume. "Next time, tell them to send a blasted scrying mage!"

With that, the fox wizard left, black tail-tip peering from under his dragging cloak. The door knob turned of its own accord and swung open for him, then slammed behind as he muttered about his "only blasted day off."

Only when the door closed, did Jim turn to look at where the dagger had been, now only a soot-black crater on a smoldering book.

"Chrispher!"

The girl's head poked in. "Yes?"

"Tell the Euper Watch captain's to keep their eyes open for a unicorn. Probably--"

"A-- unicorn?"

"Yes, a unicorn! Probably anthro. If--"

"Sir, I remember hearing--" She scratched her chin. "It was about a month ago. Heard it in the lunch room. Some tavern -- the Bronze Unicorn I think -- watch had been summoned. They were saying they saw a white anthro unicorn, female, she'd been in the basement. She shoved her way out, tavern keeper refused to press charges."

"Then it is a lead! Tell the Captains to keep an eye out for an anthro unicorn. Probably white, but I don't trust anything in this case. Check with the gates, see if anybody remembers a white unicorn, or any unicorn, coming or leaving. Check the gates up to Metamor Town too." Jim started pacing back and forth in what little space he had.

"Nobody is to approach her. Just keep her in sight. And fetch me. And reinforcements. Lots of reinforce--" He stopped, leaned down, and picked up a fragment, a large one, between two hoof fingers. It was the hilt, intact, even with a bit of the guard. "I'm going up to the keep. I think I've heard of an Oberon -- I want him to look at this dagger."

"That's all sir?"

"Yes, that's all!"

As Chrispher turned and left, Jim tossed the hilt onto his desk. It thunked and slid to a stop against the latest CSI book, which was blacker than a few minutes ago, and starting to smolder.

It seemed that today was his lucky day!

---

Or was it?

Jim's stomach was stabbing him with pain by the time he found what was, hopefully, Oberon's forge. He'd been wandering the keep for hours, once even reaching a dead end that led into a thoroughly trashed room with, of all things, both reading primers and a dagger target. It was like the keep wouldn't let him go where he needed to go.

Finally he'd ran into somebody, and had been told that Oberon had been advanced into the <Long Patrol> and had quarters with them. Chocking down both a scream, and a hunk of cud, Jim had made his way to the central keep, and to where the Longs laired. Then it was endless security checks, ID checks, verification, delays, argument, disagreements, harassment, and everything else conceivable, before Jim had finally been let in to the damn long house. After that, at least it had been a reasonably direct path he'd been led upon to the forge where Oberon was likely working.

He chewed the last of his cud thoughtfully. On his way up he'd checked the gates onto The Killing Fields and one person remembered a white anthro unicorn, female, passing both into Metamor Town, and out of it a few days later, all a couple months ago.

Jim was fairly certain the unicorn was his murderer.

He'd arranged for the gate guard to spend an afternoon in the keep with an artist. Jim didn't want to start posting wanted posters everywhere yet. Give it a few days to see if the Euper Watch could flush her out.

Swallowing the last of his cud, his first stomach grumbled its annoyance. His escort pointed at the forge and there was, indeed, a monstrous white tiger working on something on an anvil. Each *clang* of the beasts hammer rang through the room, making Jim pull his ears against his head.

"Good luck," his escort said.

Yea, I'll need it Jim thought.

With that he walked towards the forge, his hooves clicking on the stone floor. Eli but the tiger was big. Insanely huge. He had to force himself not to flee. The damn tiger could probably twist him into a pretzel with two fingers.

How could anybody be that big?

Preceded by: The Culstists Strike Back!

This story is part of a series{{#if:| (First: {{{first}}})}}

Succeeded by: None