A Town Called Clueless

Jarvis stood around carrying a stack of papers, nodding his head at the general noise of the room. In order to not make the higher-up Magsy officials suspicious, he briefly release Spicy to fetch the newly required paperwork required for the deceased two days ago.

Today Spicy returned, and Jarvis managed to recapture the bird using nothing but the power of teamwork. Unfortunately, Jarvis' skills do not include assembling teams, so he was a one man team.

After a bit of walking around, he found Officer Donny's desk and gave him the folder containing the papers, apologizing for the mysterious stickiness of whole thing.

Not sure what to do next, Jarvis paced around the headquarters with a generally cross and irritated expression on his face, which is generally recognized as the universal sign of business.

"Look Tortimer, toes!"

Artur beamed at his recently de-taloned feet and wriggled the aforementioned digets gleefully. Tortimer tilted his head slightly leftward.

"You're right, I ought to show off these little piggies in town! They're much nicer than those old piggies. I should replace my body parts more often!"

With a flourish of his wand Artur was dressed in shorts, a t-shirt, and sandals. Naturally, all these articles of clothing were also a brilliant white, with baby blue highlights. His shorts retained the sheath into which he stuck his wand and gallivanted out the door, tortoise under his arm.

Opal sighed as she walked home. She and her brother had been roped into helping out with the alibis, and had had a long few days. She still had to study, and make dinner later as well. She sometimes wished that her brother did more around the house, but she also knew that he had more important things to do.

As she walked she decided to stop and grab a bottle of wine. She redirected her steps to a different street and turned a corner, lost in thought.

The Temple of Vot. Or rather, a Temple of Vot, and not a particularly large one at that. Clueless was known for its wineries, not its religiosity. Perhaps the common citizens of Clueless were too busy with their cocktail parties and wine tastings to pay proper respect to Vot, but there were those who were still willing to pay him his due respects.

These, of course, were the Virgin Priestesses of Clueless. And with the two horrible deaths that had occurred over the last few days, the Priestesses had many sacred rituals to perform. Today’s ritual? The Sipping of the Wine. It was Clueless after all, and there was no reason to let good wine go to waste!

“Sister Mirabelle,” one of the priestesses said, “You’ve done us a great honour by visiting in our time of need. I have discussed it with the other priestesses and we have decided that you should be the one to lead today’s ritual.”

“Me?” Mirabelle said, “Are you sure one of you shouldn’t do it? I mean, it is your temple and all.” Her voice seemed somewhat hoarse.

“You are out guest,” the other priestess insisted, “Please, we would be honoured if you would carry out the ritual. Vot’s temples belong to all his people.”

“Of course,” Mirabelle croaked, “Vot smiles on you honourable Sister Bianca.”

Mirabelle followed Bianca to the altar and took the ceremonial scroll that she handed to her. She turned to face the half dozen other priestesses standing across from a table with six cups of wine. Between Mirabelle and Bianca, on the altar, was another cup of wine and the bottle from which it had been poured.

“Greetings fellow virgins!” Mirabelle said confidently, though her voice still seemed to be hoarse. “Nice weather we’ve been having!”

“Read the scroll,” Bianca whispered, nudging Mirabelle with her elbow.

“Right, of course,” Mirabelle said, unrolling the parchment and being met by an incomprehensible mess.

“Behold the words of Vot, as written in the ancient Vottian text!” Bianca cried, and Mirabelle realized that was her cue to speak.”

“Erm… Zippity, zoppity, boppity, boop. Glippitty, gloppitty, floppity, shoop. Rim tim timble flip. Roley poley doley. Gesundheit.”

“Gesundheit,” the congregation of priestesses repeated.

Bianca looked at Mirabelle incredulously, “Sister Mirabelle! That was… words can’t even describe it! That was… beautiful!”

“It was?” Mirabelle asked, hardly daring to believe her ears.

“It was! I’ve never heard a more wondrous interpretation of the Scribbles of Vot. They truly spoke to my soul!” Bianca seemed almost reverent
“Well… I try,” Mirabelle smiled.

“And now we sip the wine!” Bianca said, “Gesundheit!”

“Gesundheit!” the priestesses echoed, and they all raised their cups to their lips. Bianca had taken the cup on the altar, so Mirabelle decided her best course of action would be to drink from the bottle. She took the bottle and turned it bottom up in her mouth, gulping down the entire contents.

“Whoa. Strong stuff!” she said, shaking her head.

Bianca eyed her strangely, “Cluelessian Brainbuster. A local favourite. Now, I must go get Vot’s Crown from the vault so we may finish the ritual. I will return in a few minutes.”

When Bianca returned, she nearly dropped the bejeweled crown she was carrying onto her foot.

“-And anyway,” Mirabelle said, “How many of you are actually virgins? I know I’m not!” Several of the priestesses glanced at each other uneasily.

“Sister Mirabelle?” Bianca said, “I don’t believe you should have drank that whole bottle of wine.”

“Cluelessian Brainbuster ya called it,” Mirabelle laughed, “My brain’s fine, jus’ fine. Oooh, nice hat.” Mirabelle took the sacred ornament from Bianca’s grasp and plopped it into her head. “A crown for a princess!”

“You’re a priestess, not a princess!” Bianca said.

“Whassa man princess called again?” Mirabelle hiccupped.

“A prince?” Bianca said.

“Yeah! That! Issa crown for a prince!”

The crown fell from Mirabelle’s head to the floor. The priestesses gasped collectively. Now, normally they would have gasped in this situation because the sacred crown of Vot had struck the floor. However, in this instance they gasped for another reason altogether. The crown had taken a companion on its trip from Mirabelle’s head to the floor, and that companion was Mirabelle’s hair. Or rather, Mirabelle’s wig. For Sister Mirabelle was in fact… a brother!

“I can definitely explain thish,” Mirabelle said, then belched. “Ah, that feels a lot better.” She, or uh… he looked at the priestesses in awe. “It’s a miracle of Vot! I have become a man! Behold Vot’s grand power!”

“Who are you?” Bianca said, moving towards him very threateningly for a virgin priestess.

“That my dear, depends on who you ask. Some call me Dashing, others call me Heroic. A select few call me Princey-Poo. But you, dear girl, can call me Siraj al-Din, the Prince of Thieves! Now, I’ll be taking that shiny headpiece if you don’t mind!”

“It’s the Prince of Thieves!” One of the priestesses shouted.

“The Sheriff! Somebody get Sheriff Iris!” Another priestess said.

“Forget the Sheriff! Somebody get Samuel Ronit! His stratagem at the Battle of Waffle Point could very well be adapted to this situation. We’ll need twelve ballistae and a lot of maple syrup!” A third priestess said.

Whatever they did they would have to act fast, as the Prince of Thieves had already bolted out the door.

Generally, Louisa Geemer wasn't one for regional politics. She could care less about mysterious riders and murders, just as long as the charming messenger came around every so often to deliver her monthly subscription of Newsmooncycle(Sometimes she wondered why they didn't just shorten it to Newscycle, but she decided that some questions were better left unanswered).

An immigrant from the relatively more peaceful and quiet parts of the Chaos Lands, where the chaos was mostly derived from the rampant infestations of shark-locusts, Mrs. Geemer later served in the Cyrillian Defense Forces before moving to Chayne Sa for a relatively more quiet retirement.

...Granted, if she wanted to retire, she wouldn't move to some backwater town like Clueless. Instead, she was dispatched to keep an eye on Samuel Ronnit. According to her commanders, the retired captain was using his isolated location to leak information to the Godwinnians.

What sort of information, exactly, wasn't exactly elaborated upon, but Louisa Geemer was loyal to her adopted country and took on the duties. Of course, though, the murders kept Sammy occupied in Clueless' offices where she couldn't spy on him, and obviously something had to be done about that.

She noted that her neighbor, Ms. Sapphire, wasn't exactly in a frenzy like everyone else about the murders. Granted, she was always quiet, which previously led Louisa to assume that she was harboring an illegal Venoan, and forcing him to do things like housework and recreational floramancing. Now, she was led to believe the Ms. Sapphire had something to do with the murders and she was determined to find out. She baked a nice SO "Sweet Orange" pie, and whistled.

"Voooo! Spicy!" she called. "Over here, sweetie!" The Magsy bird landed comfortably on Mrs. Geemer's shoulder and squawked after she tossed him a cracker.

She grabbed a cane, and began tutting her way next door.
-----

Jarvis, on the other hand, was at the local Vot Temple, interviewing Sister Bianca about the stolen crown, so he could report the missing artifact to the appropriate Magsy department. What made the task rather more difficult, however, was that there wasn't exactly a specific form to fill out. He could fill out the FC-19, which notified the Magnificence Center of Religious Crowns and Other Notably Rare Headwear, the 819-W6, which alerted the Magnificence Vottian Tolerance Society, or he could just cut out the middle man and scribble on some paper before placing it in a drawer before promptly forgetting about it.

At around this time, Jarvis wondered when he became the town's insufferable bureaucrat.

The man who wasn’t Mirabelle groaned, rolled over, and fell with a thud.

“Awake, are we?”

“Did somebody get the license plate number of that horseless carriage?” Not-Mirabelle mumbled, sitting himself up and rubbing his nose, which had been rather forcefully and intimately introduced to the floor.

“You drank an entire bottle of Cluelessian Brainbuster, I hope you realize. Enough to knock out a moderately-sized elephant. The Virgin Priestesses of Vot have developed a resistance to it, but it would seem you aren’t one despite your choice of attire.”

Not-Mirabelle looked down at himself to realize he was still wearing his priestess disguise, though his wig was long gone. The man speaking to him was a cheerful-looking fellow dressed in white robes.

“It was quite fortunate for you that I arrived when I did,” the white-robed man continued, “You very nearly lost your life, you know.”

“Alcohol poisoning?” Not-Mirabelle asked.

“No, no, you drunkenly wandered in front of a horseless carriage. Weren’t you just asking about that? The license plate read HOTROD by the way. How uncreative.” The white-robed man took a seat in a squishy-looking chair.

“I see…” Not-Mirabelle said, not quite at terms with reality yet.

“I’m Artur Lore, by the way.”

So this was Artur Lore, the man the witch had told him about. He didn’t look like a powerful sorcerer. Not-Mirabelle wondered where the object he’d been contracted to steal could be.

“I’m-” Not-Mirabelle began.

“Siraj al-Din, the Prince of Thieves. You only shouted it a dozen times or so. I’m not quite sure they heard you in the Godwin Kingdom.” Artur smiled. “Looking for something?”

“No,” Siraj said, “Just admiring your home. What colour are the walls? It’s a lovely shade of green.”

“Malachite,” Artur chimed, “My tortoise chose the colour. He’s quite fond of it.”

The tortoise. Where could it be?

“Still admiring the walls, I see. Are you sure you aren’t looking for something?”

“They’re just very lovely walls,” Siraj said, “I might paint my house this colour.”

Artur smiled, “I don’t think you could say ‘good morning’ without lying twice, could you? You won’t find it here.”

Siraj’s heart sank. The magician knew what he was looking for, didn’t he? The witch would not be pleased…

“I returned Vot’s Crown to the priestesses. Prince of Thieves or no, I don’t approve of stealing priceless artifacts.”

Siraj sighed a breath of relief. Going after the crown hadn’t been a total waste of time after all. At least it had thrown the magician off his primary objective.

“Ah! Tea’s ready!” Artur said beaming. A moment later Siraj heard a whistle coming from the kitchen. “I’ll just be a moment. Do you like sugar in yours?”

“Uh, yes please.” Siraj said.

“No sugar for you then, Mr. Liar,” Artur said grinning.

As Artur stepped into the kitchen Siraj slowly stood up, hardly daring to believe his luck. Here he was, right in the heart of the magician’s home. The tortoise had to be here somewhere…

Jarvis sighed, exasperated after a full day of dealing with a bunch of drunk, crazy priestesses worried about the location of their precious crown, he needed a drink that wasn't going to kill him without years of devoted worship to Votshissname. He straightened out his tunic, since it was rumpled particularly by one named Bianca, and exited the temple, the half completed forms in one arm. He went down the stairs thinking about the details of the theft, somewhat impressed at the bravado in it, and the lack of magic.

In fact, the heist's fashion vaguely reminded him of something he saw long ago.

"Sweemothero'Vot!" Jarvis yelled as he stumbled over as he approached the base of the stairs, falling on his face, but keeping a firm grip of the forms. No highwayman could ever get their hands on those. "By the Eight Irons..." he mumbled to himself. His clutch on the forms grew tighter, and he bit his lips. He managed to trip over the Crown of Vot. It was the first time he actually saw it, really, despite it being one of Clueless' most treasured possessions. Granted, the last of the town's treasured possessions he saw was the magically preserved head of Isaac Elones, the town's first wine grove owner. He talked a bit too much, for his tastes.

Despite it, though, Vot's Crown still looked beautiful. It lacked the shimmering qualities of its maternal counterpart, but the clean metallicness of the object was its most glamorous aspect. The polished silver and green metal was said to be forty percent recycled from the original Eight Irons. The rest of it was taken from the rafters used in the building housing the original Eight Irons, after it exploded due to one of the Irons being left on too long.

The waffle, though, was magnificent.

Jarvis looked around. He picked up the crown in his free hand, and sighed. A very old part of him told him that it would fetch a pretty currant at a market in Cyril, but he bit his lip again. He wondered if there were any bite marks there now, after this week.

He shook his head, and began the ascent of the stairs.

"Bianca!" he called out. "I have something for you!"

Opal got all the news of the attempted theft at the cafe she went to to get coffee and wine. The employees there were prone to gossiping, and somehow knew exactly how to find out everything that went on in and around the town. She hurried home to tell her brother the gossip going around town, and found him sitting on their front porch, watching the birds. He thought it made him look normal, to sit on the front porch and watch birds.

Opal walked up the few wooden stairs to the porch and sat next to him, setting down the bag that she was carrying. "Do you want to hear the latest, Em? Or are you busy?" She asked, smiling at him sweetly, though there was something of a more adoring look in her eyes.

Her brother shook his head. "I've already heard. One of your gossip friends passed by here on her way home from the cafe. You just missed her."

Opal looked slightly disappointed at this, as she had been hoping to be the one to tell her brother, and earn some attention from him. He was so caught up with his plans right now that it was hard to get him to talk to her. "Oh. Alright. I'm going to go study now, then. Dinner will be at seven." She said, smiling once more and standing to go inside. "Will you need anything out here?" Her brother shook his head once more and she entered the house, first going to the kitchen to put away the coffee and wine, and then to the attic, where her small study was.

There was a large window on the front wall of the attic that let just enough light into the room when the sun was out, and gave her a wonderful view of the street below, as well as a few streets over, as most of the houses did not have a second story, so she could also watch the neighborhood from there. There was a desk right in front of the window with her textbooks, a bottle of wine, and a small pair of binoculars on it. She pulled the chair out and sat, setting down a clean wine glass, pouring herself some of the wine, and then pushing aside the binoculars to make room for her notebooks and many many pens. She had a bad habit of running them dry and never wanting to get up and get a new one, so she just kept them at her desk and didn't even let Em touch them. She opened her textbook and took a sip of her wine, glancing at the house across the street before putting her mind to the diagrams and magical texts that she had to study.

There would be less than a minute to act as Artur prepared the tea. Siraj was acutely aware of the vial of the sorceress’ blood hidden within his sleeve. He’d kept it with him even during his sojourn with the priestesses, not knowing when the opportunity to use it would bring itself forward.

The thief’s eyes darted about the room once more but the tortoise was nowhere to be seen. Glancing out the window, Siraj noted the cottage was fairly high. Possibly floating, or perhaps on the top of a steep and narrow hill.

“Oooh!” Artur’s voice emanated from the kitchen, “That’s a wonderful idea Tortimer! Tea always tastes better with a bit of honey!”

That’s when Siraj saw it. Just beyond the kitchen entrance, near the window was the tortoise, nibbling away at a pot of lemongrass.

The thief crept up the entrance of the kitchen slowly, dreading the potential wrath of the magician within. Artur seemed to be chewing on the tip of his wand, though his face was turned so Siraj couldn’t be sure.

“The honey… where did I put the honey,” the wizard said, looking back and forth between two cabinets instead of simply opening them both to see where the honey jar dwelt. The tortoise gazed at Artur for a moment with a bemused expres​sion(Siraj hadn’t been aware that tortoises were capable of expressing bemusement on their faces, nor any other expression, but then he reminded himself that this was no ordinary tortoise) then turned back to nibble on the lemongrass.

It would just need to be one deft movement. No sense backing down at this point.

Siraj darted into the kitchen and grabbed the tortoise, gagging the creature with his hand. He bolted back towards the entrance and had made it halfway to the door when he realized, with a jolt of pain, that the tortoise was crunching down of his finger. Siraj proceed to howl a prodigious profanity, trip on the hem of his skirt, and fall crashing to the ground face first. Despite the clearly passionate love affair going on between his nose and the floor, Siraj forced them apart and stood up dazed, Tortimer still hanging on to the finger by his beak.

“What in Magnificence is that racket?” Artur said, and walked into the sitting room carrying a jar of honey.

Cover blown (not that he had much cover to begin with), Siraj couldn’t help himself from reciting his moniker: “The racket, my mystical friend, has been caused by none other than the Prince of Thieves!”

“We’ve already established that I know who you are,” Artur said, “Now why is Tortimer attached to your finger?”

“Courtesy of Miss Red,” Siraj winked, flicking the vial up his sleeve into his hand, uncorking it with his teeth and pouring the contents over the tortoise.

Artur, for the first time in a very long time, was at a loss for words.

Bradley whistled, checking the front yard for signs of Mandy. He was a bit concerned, since she had been away at the police station for several hours, and he wondered what was taking her so long. But, he realized, this was a good opportunity to open the envelope that had arrived that morning.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved the long, thick envelope. He shook it for a moment, smiling at the sound of metal clinking. Cutting it open, he turned it and let the contents fall out: a small, dangerously-sharp dagger; a sack of coins; a thin, square, wooden box labeled 'SG'; photographs of the two murdered Clueless citizens; and a letter. He fingered the items, opened the box, pleased that the contents were just as labeled, then proceeded to open the letter. It was written in code, and unsee-able by eyes not as strong as Bradley's. It ran:

„Dear Mr Vincent,

I have acquired the items you requested, and enclosed them. I hope all is as it should be. How is our dear Mandy? The images the Transporter sent us were not satisfying.
Have you done what we need you to do? The Dynads are growing impatient, and so am I. Send us the information we need promptly. Every citizen of Clueless should be included in your report. And remember: do not get yourself embroiled in this murder situation. The last thing we need is for Clueless and it's top citizens to know we are still alive. Do not show yourself to anyone! What you did the other day, taking Mandy to the Station while visible, was stupid. You know our plans for that girl; do not let your recklessness ruin our mission. We're depending on you.

Sincerely, R.D.“

Bradley crumpled the letter, and threw it back in the envelope.
Damn! What were the doing, pushing him to finish his work so soon? Didn't they trust him to do everything in good time? He knew what he was doing. If his own plans came before the Dynads', they would just have to deal with it. Angrily, he shoved the items into his bag. Then, hearing Mandy tread up the porch steps, he vanished into thin air.

--------------------

Mandy unlocked the door timidly, afraid to find Bradley ready to mock her. Thus, she sighed in relief when the room was empty. Where she usually would have wondered at his whereabouts, she now couldn't care less. She had bigger things to worry about. Sitting down, she laid her head on her arms on the table in front of her, and let out a small, chocked sob.
She was a suspect! In both murders!
As Bradley had predicted, someone had seen her slip to the alleyway and leave the crime scene. Of course, the person had asked to remain anonymous... and who could have been that person? Mandy scoffed, as she had done at the station upon hearing that bit of information. Bradley Vincent.
She had been so relieved when Bradley had suddenly changed his mind about going to the station, just when they had reached it and were about to enter, that she hadn't questioned it. Later, she had, and now she knew her answer: Bradley just wanted the fun of letting her think she was safe, then blow her socks off by letting the police know about her getaway.
And since she was a suspect in the first murder, she was a suspect in the second. She had no alibi for that one either, Bradley naturally having to leave urgently for some errand or another, and she had spent that day alone in her office.
Well. How would she get out of this? She couldn't think of a way, and her head filled with imaginings of being arrested, proven guilty by some 'evidence' Bradley would surely conjure up, thrown in jail with who knows what kind of hardened criminals... and rats in th cells, probably!
But, why did Bradley want her in jail all of a sudden? He wanted to torture her on his own, not have her sit in a cell with no way for him to get to her.

-----------

While she was considering possible reasons, Bradley made his way to where to SG was located. After some moments of fiddling with the small wooden box, a shovel, and several large rocks, he stood, made sure no one was around, then ran into the woods. Under the cover of darkness, he took his blade, cut off a dozen or so twigs and branches and stuffed them into his bag. This done, he vanished once again....

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The Dynads were once a strong, powerful, magical group. They wielded great weapons, fought dangerous battles, and lived as great rulers of their kingdom. Then, however, another force came, fighting them and bringing them down as no one else had ever done. Defeated, they wanted revenge; they turned dark, hating everyone, fighting unprovoked battles with any land they could. Clueless was among those lands. They became crazed, and lost many battles.
Many years later, the last of this once great power were thought to be defeated. In reality, the Dynads had only faked their demise so that they could become more powerful, able to take out every known land in existence.

A great many years had passed by the time the mage once known as Artur Lore returned to the town of Clueless. He had allegedly been away “on business” but perhaps in actuality he had been much less busy than he would have liked to have been.

He wanted to say something poignant and meaningful, but knew everyone else had moved on with their lives as well. But he did know that every year or so (or several), one or more of his old friends would pass through town and reminisce about old times with themself. And so, the old mage decided to leave a note on the bulletin board at city hall, for the next time one of them passed through.

He kept it clean and simple:


I wound up finding the H.

Lots of love,
Arthur Lore