Zi’da 3, 717
Tracking animals through the woods was not entirely so dissimilar from tracking persons through the utopian cities they constructed for themselves. Both left tracks that could only be discerned by those who knew where to look, or perhaps more correctly, what exactly they were meant to be seeking. An animal spent a surprising amount of time ensuring that its dwelling was hidden from the world, that it was kept away from the assorted predators and beasts that might threaten both its life and its sovereignty over any given territory. People weren’t altogether so different in that regard, when they felt that something might threaten them, they took extensive steps to hide where they resided.
Skinny Jim for example.
Like an expert tracker traipsing through the vast jungles of Rhakros, however, he had tracked the venomous fellow, had learned his name despite the attempts he had made to remain hidden and out of the public eye. Admittedly, a name was only half of what he needed, and it had taken him a rather long time to locate a service that would allow him to track the whereabouts of the man. To simply ask around with the inhabitants of the city was out of the question. Firstly it was an inefficient process, especially given the relatively high population of persons around Scalvoris, and second it held the chance that he might accidentally reveal to an ally of the murderer that he had located him. That was something that men had learned which animals seldom performed; the ability to lay an ambush, to wait in shadow with knives like glittering jaws, dripping in poisons and concoctions of death.
The thought that the entire ordeal thus far might be a cleverly constructed trap had not occurred to him, especially since it would have required such complex steps and consideration for the psychology of its bait that whomever would implement it would have to either be exceedingly brilliant, or else possessed of ridicule inducing idiocy. Uncomfortable uncertainty was thrashed against the edges of consciousness until it yielded, dissipating into the smoky miasma of oblivion, acute awareness focusing instead upon the task at hand.
It was a particularly useful facet of civilization that the bureaucratic sorts enjoyed keeping records. Noth admittedly understood at least to an extent why someone would want to have decent records kept, because ensuring logistical stability was a large portion of success in many endeavors, but at times it seemed almost tedious and without rhyme nor reason. Thankfully, the wanton wishes of the establishment came in handy as the hybrid approached a public office, a structure of government which possessed a great many records. It might have seemed somewhat strange to have a fully-armored Avriel enter into the building in search of the location, but thankfully the inhibitions that might have prevented some of the workers from assisting him were altogether irrelevant. Crimson eyes bored into the nearest legislator, an unspoken condemnation passing between them for her kind, the sorts who sat in privileged rooms stock full of accoutrements, the type who passed laws without ever seeing the effect they might have on the common plebian.
Twas an unfortunate reality that the heavens were so far from the mire that their light seldom penetrated the dusk.
Talons clattered against the stonework underfoot, creating an auditory litter as he approached the workers who sat at the front desk, captivating their attention with the slight rapping of the death-dealing implements.
“Hello. I’m not from around here,” He began, his statement brilliantly obvious except to the utterly oblivious. “I’m visiting a friend who’s having a wedding. He sent me an invitation to join him at his home, but I’m afraid he forgot to actually list an address. Perhaps you can help me? His name is Padren Oakley.”
The pair of workers, the one a young man, and the other an older woman afflicted with a constant frown began to scurry off in search of documents, wordlessly beginning their search. It took only a few moments for the oldest of the pair to locate what she desired, and she cast a glance over to the hybrid, her frown deepening for a few instances as she gazed down at some unseen parchment in her palm. Eventually, she appeared to grow weary of her silence, and promptly summoned the younger man to her. She whispered something conspiratorially into his ear, and dispatched him to some unknown region in the back of the building before returning to the front desk.
Information was regaled to the hybrid, each note of direction drafted with fastidious hand upon a notecard of paper which was promptly granted to the Avriel at the conclusion. He smiled appreciatively, taking brief notice of the fact that the woman’s reciprocating expression did not quite reach her eyes, a sure sign that it was a falsified facial gesture meant to alleviate any concern he had. Had he perhaps unintentionally signaled an agent of the murderer? Could it be that in his desire for caution he had accidentally ensnared himself?
Only time would tell.
