>>6139064To say the investigation went well is the overstatement of a century. The priestess herself was cooperative enough, but the moment you ventured out into the fog the following day, you were met with weariness at best and outright hostility at worst. The ragged and rough people of the coastal village you’ve found yourself in were not big fans of an Inquisitor poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, well probably more so than usual. You get it, you really do; you’d hate having a fed breath down your neck as well, but if said fed was trying to help find your missing son and daughter? Well, you probably wouldn’t have resorted to throwing stuff at him off the bat for merely mentioning their names. Then there’s the fact many seemed to say many of the people you investigated never existed at all, or at least they claimed to have never known them.
You have half a mind that if you weren’t carrying a sword with you everywhere you went, the villagers would have run you out of town themselves. Maybe that’s why Inquisitor Abram left? Got fed up with the mission here and forced a “rookie” to take his place? You’d certainly like to do that yourself if you were in a position, too. You shake your head and sigh. There is only one more house to go to tonight. Specifically, the house of a laborer near the outskirts of town, far from the lake. His aged father amongst those who’ve recently disappeared.
You know, on the door and wait. You hear some shuffling and a few curses before the door opens just a tad bit, “Who is it?” comes a man's voice from the tiny crack in the “open” door.
“Inquisitor Asher. I have a few questions for you relating to your father. May I come in?”
He opens the door, a look of relief on his face, but his words do not match, “You should leave, Inquisitor. You’re not wanted here,” He says as he moves away from the door, letting you in physically. And as he shuts it behind you, you see him set down a crossbow by the door, subconsciously your hand inches towards your hilt. “My father died a week ago from natural causes,” He says as he walks towards a chair and grabs a quill and worn copy of a fairy storybook. He opens the front cover and begins writing.
“I take it he had a funeral then? A grave, perhaps?” You question as he writes.
“I buried him myself in the forest. That’s all you need to know,” As you look around, you see much of the man's valuables seem to have been put into crates, which brings your mind back to the partially loaded cart outside, poorly “hidden” behind the house in some bushes. Mostly, I wouldn’t pay mind to details like that, but an Inquisitor does. But as you ruminate on why the man might be moving, he holds up the story, ‘It isn’t safe here, he’s everywhere,’ written on the cover.
Thankfully, you’re smart enough not to blurt out something like “Who’s everywhere” or anything else stupid. Instead, you just continue, “Then do you know anything about the disappearances around town? Anything at all?”
