Amy and Raoul Scene of the Crime Log

They didn't even pass the Slaughtered Lamb, but rather turned on a smaller street around it. All of the shops were darker around her, catering to a specific clientele. Raoul looked through some of the windows as they went by and occasionally pointed something curious out with a laugh, but for the most part he tried not to say too much. When they did arrive at the theater, with its Gilnean architecture and velvet drapes, much of the crowd had already gotten inside. A few
watching generic torch jugglers, but their envy was obvious as they watched the rare ticket-holders move by. A thin, almost skeletal, old man with a jutting chin stood at the door with a greasy smile. Through the open door and beyond the velvet ropes, groups stood on the sidelines one could see the entire theater was dark except for small glass lanterns and strings of sparkling red and orange lights. They looked like ribbons of fire running along the dark hall. A smell of perfume and melted butter wafted out towards them.



As they walked she was all smiled, laughing lightly at the oddities and making her own comments on things that caught her eye. It didn’t feel awkward to her and she knew he didn’t expect anything of her outside of their professional relationship. It was -nice- to feel so at ease and she frequently smiled up at him during the quiet lulls in conversation. Common decency he’d cited for his kindness. It was something she could get used to. When they reached the ticket man she offered hers with a sweet smile in return for his own less than charming one and peered past him to admire the “ribbons” of fire. It was beautiful and she squeezed Raoul’s arm lightly in delight at looking at them, a quiet “Ooo” of anticipation leaving her.


He chuckled weakly and handed over his ticket before reaching to take hers and hand it over to the doorman as well. As soon as he had both tickets, he held out a creaking arm and undid the velvet rope just long enough to let them pass. It was much cooler inside the building, away from the heat of the torch jugglers and the overall beating from the Midsummer sun. As he tried to guide her down the hallway, which was sloped at an angle leading down, flickering lights and shadows traded off around the walls. In the briefest flash, it revealed the real reason for the coolness. Enslaved air elementals were tasked with creating the lightest current of breeze, and had been positioned wherever the wall was cut inward so that they didn't block any of the hallway. Music came from the end of the hall, which sectioned off into numbered doors. Raoul looked over his shoulder for a moment, having to squint at the bright light of the doorway. "Ah, hmm... He didn't tell us which one to go in. So what do you think, feeling lucky? Lady's choice." The curtained doorways were numbered 1, 13, 7, and 2. They were evenly spaced away from each other, and all seemed equally lit by the trails of 'fire' on the ceiling.


The ingenuity of the elementals made her quirk a brow in appreciation and she smirked at his question. “I hesitate to pick any number. One is so lonely, two eludes to something more, and thirteen is traditionally held as an unlucky number. Seven has a good reputation but it could be a ruse. But tonight...hm.” She tapped a finger against her lips, the amused expression still upon them. “Two I suppose. We’ll say it’s for second chances.” A wink and she nodded to the door, eyes almost smoldering in the fiery lights.

"Second chances, for who? I hope I haven't made a faux pas already." He arched his eyebrows a bit but lead her there as she asked. He reached out with one arm and brushed back the curtain. It revealed no door, only a much colder darkness than they already stood in. Clearly not taking it all very seriously, Raoul mock shivered. "Chilling! I wonder what frightful things they have in store for us, Hawkins. Do you think it's a trap? Maybe they plan to gobble us up. Who knows with these people, right?"

“My own second chance.” She winked and peered at the sight he’d unveiled and finding nothing but a cold breeze she giggled. “I don’t know what’s in store but if it -freezes- your courage, Raoul, perhaps you should go it alone in number one.” With a teasing smile she slipped her hand off his arm and took a step inside. It wasn’t anything akin to courage that made her do so but more a reckless madness and carelessness prompted her to cross the threshold. The chilly air made her rub her bare arms as she stood in the darkness.


"Well hey now! I'm no coward, Hawkins!" He laughed and hurried in behind her. If this was Valerie, he would have slipped his arms around her waist from behind and nuzzled her there before they continued. It didn't even cross his mind to try that with Amavia, but rather made him miss the girl he'd once called his. Though he was behind her, even in this pitch darkness the ♥ ring glittered seductively. "Do you want my jacket? It's rather cold in here." His eyes remained on her enchanted pin, watching the fireworks in the darkness. He wasn't sure what the show was planning, but he hoped they wouldn't ask her to take it off. He liked it. It was clever, whether she had created it or purchased it, and made him smile even in this unsettling place. The curtain fell behind them again and the music picked up from behind what seemed to be a second curtain. This time it was of crushed velvet and quite heavy. Almost like a stage curtain.

“Glad to see you joined me.” Amavia winked and shook her head at his offer. It was polite of him but she couldn’t accept it. Certainly she’d warm up soon, especially if it was indeed a fire show! That glittering ring of his caught her eye and she quickly averted them back to the second curtain. “Do you think we’re supposed to go past that one too?” She took a tentative step forward and let her fingers caress the fabric. It felt odd, lacking that barrier of cloth or leather she always kept her hands behind, and she liked it enough to repeat the action. There had been no way to wear gloves with her sleeveless dress and not look foolish but instead of cursing it as she had she was thankful now.

"It couldn't hurt to find out, right Hawkins?" He chuckled and reached around her for the curtain. Their hands brushed and caused his own to freeze, but he politely laughed it off and took hold of the curtain instead. "Sorry about that, blind as a bat in here," he whispered apologetically, suddenly lowering his voice as he began to pull the curtain. A shiver that he couldn't place ran up his spine, but as the stage (it had been a stage curtain, hadn't it?) was unveiled before them, he almost let the curtain drop again. It looked like the stage was only ten or so feet away from them and he worried they were in the wrong place. Thankfully he glanced down and noticed people were in rows of seats that sharply sloped up around them. The place was packed above, but it looked like some rows closer to the front were still available. "Front-row seats, eh?"

At the contact she drew back slowly and dropped her hand to the side. A murmured “Don’t worry about it.” left her and she smiled as she looked at the stage. This place was -rather- curious and she could just see George’s strange glee at the oddity of it. “I hope we don’t get burned sitting so close though I could use to freshen up my tan.” Another playful comment and she nodded at the rows as she quietly spoke it. Sure, confident steps lead her in that direction and she paused after a few to check that he was following, smiling over her shoulder at him.

Every time she looked over her shoulder with that smile, he smiled back. The people around them were the patrons you'd -expect- to attend this sort of event. Tall, skinny women with spiderweb earrings and black painted lips. Men in top hats and blood-red monocles like the one she'd given Jeffrey- Lantern. Like the one she'd given Lantern. It was surprising he hadn't signed the contract with that name. Raoul interrupted the idea by placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding her into one of the rows. He smell? Raoul looked out of place as he stood there, not even particularly dressed up for the festival let alone for this strange theater. There was a spotlight on the stage, showing the vibrant red of the stage curtain, the shiny gold of the tassel...but the stage itself was empty. Low murmurs rippled through the crowd and Raoul looked around again.


Amavia felt a little out of place herself; her cream colored dress was bright in comparison to the dour clothing of the other patrons. But it made her tan skin seem so much deeper and prettier in her mind yet now she felt silly. Out of place. Could those monocles stare through illusions too and see the silver band that rested on her left hand? It had been impossible to make herself take off and each time she tried while changing at her mother’s she’d wept a little harder. The girl wet her lips as she sat and gave her best confident grin at her partner. “Join me?” An inviting pat was given to the seat next to her and she lazily beckoned him with her other hand. That melted butter smell reminded her of popped corn to be had at the end of the harvest season and some faires. It made her a little hungry and she shook her head. How could she want to eat today?


"Oh, right." He hushed himself and sat down beside her. One leg was crossed over the other as he so liked to sit, and he adjusted his position in the chair to avoid wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Instead it was stretched behind his head and he flicked some of his hair idly. A few more minutes passed, but he was hesitant to make conversation. He wasn't sure what to say, for one, and he figured with the 'break up' (how could it even be termed something so light?) that she probably wanted some peace to herself at least every now and then. Without realizing it, he found himself staring at the ♥ ring on his hand, looking lost in his own troubled thoughts. Valerie would have liked this place. The drama, the intrigue. The dark glamour of it all. She probably would have rambled about her hopes they'd ask for volunteers.

Her own thoughts were not pleasant and she longed for him to joke or tease but didn’t know what to say either. She felt like an awkward child and her mind drifted to the photo of Valerie from his dossier. What a gorgeous woman she had been. He was probably ashamed to be seen in public with her and annoyed with George for even presenting the chance. Tan fingers laced in her lap and she idly played with her ring, her wedding ring, spinning the invisible band round and round. It hadn’t been easy to make but why would Jeffrey care? It wasn’t like he’d even given her a ring. It didn’t need to be golden or rare, she’d have proudly worn a string that he’d gifted her with like it was elementium. No matter. Her hands stilled and she stared up at the stage, trying and fumbling at making whispered conversation. “Have you been to many things like this?”

"Never. I'm more of a... ah, smorcs and ghost stories kind of guy myself." He flashed her a smile that seemed as smooth and genuine as all the others. Maybe he hadn't realized just how far his thoughts had wandered before. "I'm beginning to think George dropped these tickets off as a 'reward' because he didn't want to go himself." He chuckled again and looked at her hands in her lap. "What are you doing?" Her fingers spun something around, but he couldn't see it. It looked more like she was rubbing an itch.


“My hand itched. Nothing more.” A clever lie and she rested her hands flat against her thighs. Burned was more like it. No matter how professional this would be she -knew- Jeffrey would rage to see her out and looking so well-dressed with another man. The only saving grace was she lacked the painted charm of a more mature woman. A pretty woman. “He’s probably at home with some of his snapdragons telling them how he tricked you into taking them while they sip sun-kissed wine from Uldum and laugh at the folly of mortal youths.” The idea made her chuckle and she muted the gesture in part with her fingers pressed to her lips. “I’m more a smorcs and a good book and the beach kind of girl myself.”


"A good book of ghost stories at least? Compromise?" He looked at her curiously for a moment, but then waved whatever he may have been thinking away. Just as his mouth opened to say something else, no doubt a disparaging remark about George's love life, the spotlight blinkered out. It left them in darkness once again, except for the stray lights from patrons with glowing jewelry or eyes. There was the faintest sound of curtains parting, and a stream of torches floated out on to the stage. All that could be seen of them was their flames and just a bit of their handles. The music sank low and a young woman, almost a girl, began to sing in a haunting fashion. With her every repetition, the torches bobbed up and down. If they were being held by people, the individuals were clothed too darkly to tell in the shadows. Every murmur in the crowd went hush at once.

Whatever she had to say in reply was silenced by the beginning of the performance. She’d wanted to tell him about her friend who delighted in spooky tales but at the young woman’s voice she couldn’t manage words. It was soothing in a way with the repetitive words but her voice held tones to it that made the other girl shiver. A finger reached up and tapped her pin, the sparks dimming so that only someone as close as Raoul was could see them at all. Her eyes stayed on the torches as they moved through the darkness, curious mind wondering how they managed to remain unseen.

The young woman, or girl, singing continued on and on. One could have sworn she on occasion sang 'Love' instead of La. But no, no, just hearing things. As one torched passed by on the stage, it had some illusion of depth that made it look like it passed -right- in front of her face, filling her entire sphere of vision with hot orange and yellows. When it passed, the world was hazy and blurry, heat vapors warping everything. But it wasn't the stage she saw. It was as if she was staring through a scrying bowl. Jeffrey was there, hunched over a furnace with a darker shadow at his back. "Burn it to dust. Melt it down to the base. She means nothing to you now. Her own words. She never meant anything to you." The shadow insisted, and as she gestured her hand, it could be seen she was somehow connected by an ethereal chain to the cheap locket he'd worn since they brought it back with them. "Melt it down. Melt it down. Melt it down. What is love worth anyway?" Indeed, Jeffrey seemed to be holding a ring over the little furnace pot, revealed through the magic of whatever the torch had done to her. The shadow continued to insist, gripping his shoulders then and trying to simply shake it out of his grasp. It almost won. The ring fell out of his hands but he caught it at the last second, the heating visibly burning his hand. For a moment, as if his will was not his own and he had only temporarily won that freedom, his hand remained there in the searing heat, gripping the ring. "She didn't mean it... I didn't mean it. Please go away." He sounded weak and afraid, with a bleary choke to his voice like he'd been crying. "I'm not like him, please. I would never kill her. Never. Never... never. Please go away." In disgust, the shadowed form let him go. Instantly, his hand recoiled away from the heat and he clutched both burned hand and ring to his chest as he doubled over there. "You -are- like him. You are disloyal. You are false. And now you prove yourself worthless as well." The young man crumpled to the floor in pain, though if it was a pain of the heart or the physical pain of having held his hand so close to a forge, it could not be told. The entire scene drifted away in a hundred different trails of steam and the stage came back into view. The lullaby continued, the torches still danced. It felt like hours had passed.


Though she’d protested to herself for hours that she was -okay-, that it didn’t matter, it certainly did. As she watched the pain he suffered and the way he protested she let out a quiet gasp and raised her fingers to try and touch the illusion before her eyes. Finding no hold her hand fell back to her thigh with a gentle sound. Baby...she almost whispered it, her lips moving silently with the word. Was he truly off suffering somewhere like that? Did he really regret his words as much as she was growing to with hers? As it faded away her lower lip quivered and her hand that had so wanted to caress his stubbly cheek wiped away an errant tear. It wouldn’t do to let Raoul see her so. Imagining crazy things when they were trying to have a nice date. NOT A DATE. Trying to have a nice time as friends.

Raoul seem preoccupied in his own troubled world. Was he even watching the show? He stared ahead, but his eyes didn't follow the torches. They followed something else. In fact, if she bothered to look around, no one was watching the torches themselves. They all seemed caught in some kind of vision. Raoul ran fingers over the V on the ♥ ring. "V for Valerie, a heart for love." He mouthed, but no sound left him. The torches began to twirl instead of bob, being swept across the stage in arcs and dazzling patterns. It was a -good- show. Too bad she was the only one watching.


At his mouthed words she dropped her eyes to his ring and shook her head. He was worse off than her in so many ways. Did he still love the woman who had abused him so very much? -How- could he? How could -she- love Lantern still? The glimmer of a red monocle caught her eye and she shuddered. He certainly didn’t love her anymore. That was made abundantly clear today when he’d left and the words he’d said to her. Bleary eyes watched the torches again and she refused to let any more tears escape. A nice evening. Somehow it would be a nice evening.

The act ended abruptly there, with the spotlight blaring suddenly and falling back on to the shade. The torch-holders were finally 'unmasked' revealed to be specters not unlike the ones Jeffrey had mumbled about in his sleep on the few occasions they slept beside each other. Powerful magic. Their glowing yellow eyes were nothing but embers as they glided in a thrumming row back through the parting curtain. Everyone else's illusions broke simultaneously, a few people groaning from the sudden light. Raoul shielded his eyes for a moment and looked slightly confused. "Sorry, Hawkins, I- I dunno. I guess I kind of dozed off for a moment. I didn't drool or anything, did I?"


Amber eyes stayed on the curtain and the stage as he spoke and she shook her head. “No. I think everyone entered a little personal trance. I saw...something that upset me and it seems I lucked out enough to get to watch the rest of the show.” The specters unnerved her and she laced her hands tightly in her lap. What kind of place was this? No wonder George didn’t want to go. To use something like that was unseemly. Curious. Leave it to Gilneans to behave so. Though...the girl tried to lean closer to Raoul and to anyone observing them it appeared to be nothing more than a cute young girl resting her hand on her date’s shoulder and whispering something to him. “The torch throwers were specters.”

He looked down at her and swallowed. "Specters of Unveiled Truths. It's a divination spell that makes the 'victim' see things they don't want to accept or admit... it's also illegal." He mumbled something about telling George but it was lost under thunderous applause as people finished breaking out of their trances. The clapping petered out as the next act began, but this time the spotlight stayed on the stage. The smell of melted butter seemed especially strong now, and the perfume had begun to fade beneath it. Someone in a black skin suit rolled out a weathered looking carriage. From the other end of the stage, another stagehand in the same skin suit carried out a stool. The carriage, or roller, its design seemed to have elements of both, looked especially rural. It looked familiar even more than that, with a style of the West Plains. Westfall. Why did it look -so- familiar? Raoul raked a hand through his hair and exhaled in a slightly nervous way as a woman walked out on to the stage. She had a mask on her face, it seemed to be made entirely of a mirror. Perhaps as creepy as that, it had a masculine build rather than a feminine one to match her body. Her hips swayed dramatically, causing her billowy white skirt to shift. The country blouse she wore was untied and revealed perhaps more of her than anyone wished to see, leaving almost all of her breasts exposed. Raoul cringed and looked away, decided to seize upon this opportunity to scout the crowd. The woman's clapping filled the now silent auditorium. She began to sing, the two camouflaged stagehands echoing the words from their places just off to either side of the spotlight.


While she had meant to say something witty about what her vision had revealed she was once more caught up in the show. Westfall dirt would always cling to her and she’d snapped so at Jeffrey today. He hadn’t understood what she’d meant though! Her roots, her humble beginnings, would forever limit her and he refused to acknowledge that while she was in perfect understanding. As the mirror masked woman began to sing she sucked in a harsh breath. The style of dress was indecent but she wanted to hear -more.- To quell her curiosity on what sort of perversions of her own memories she’d be forced to witness now. Eyes narrowed and she moved her hand off Raoul’s shoulder, fingers trailing slowly away as she did.


The woman swayed and continued clapping. "Go to sleep, little baaaaby." She turned her face down to the baby carriage, clapping and leaning over it in the creepiest display Raoul had ever seen at least. It began to roll back and forth on its own, or perhaps there were strings she couldn't see. "Go to sleep, little baaaaby." A strange hand reached down and crooked a finger at the inside of the carriage. Raoul glanced back for just a second, eyes narrowing dramatically as something dawned on him. He nudged Amavia's shoulder suddenly, trying to get her attention.

The girl was too entranced for a moment with the show to look away. It was without a doubt the strangest, weirdest, most unappealing show she’d seen. (And the only.) Campfires and smors were sounding pretty good right about now. After a moment she turned and looked at Raoul, a slightly confused expression on her face. “What?” She asked it softly, barely a whisper.

Mirror Man. He mouthed silently, repeating the gesture just in case she didn't understand the first time. He looked like he wanted to do something, but he didn't know what. After a moment of indecision he let her shoulder go and reclined in his seat again. What to do? What if it was a fluke of coincidence? They couldn't do anything stupid. The woman on the staged leaned in further towards the carriage, one spindly and unattractive hand clutching the bar across it and bringing its rolling to a stop. The movement brought attention to the motif painted across the baby carriage. Little brown hawks.


Recognition lit her features and she nodded at him to let him know so. Mirror Man. It was logical. The face of the mask was so very masculine while the body obviously not. Amavia wet her lips and crossed her legs in a much more ladylike fashion than Raoul’s posture. Perhaps she’d been too full of herself in thinking George sent them there to try and get them on a date. How foolish. She’d yelled at Jeffrey for the same fault today. Not everything on Azeroth was about -her.- An apology formed on her lips but she didn’t know who to even say it to.

"She's long gone with her red shoes on." The woman leaned down as close as she could then, letting go of the bar and reaching into the carriage. There was a bubbling laughter from within the carriage. It sounded like a baby. Suddenly the stage didn't seem so dark, full of half-shadows. The golden spotlight waned just as much as it cooled, turning into a silver spill of moonlight. Behind the woman and supposedly a baby, the curtain took on the texture of old wood. The room looked as familiar as the carriage. Hawks. Hawkins. "You're a sweet little baby." Her hands pulled back out of the carriage, one of them clutching a kitchen knife. The blade flashed in the 'moonlight' as she lifted it up.

Amavia’s eyes widen and before she knew what she was doing, the girl had reached for Raoul’s hand and tried to squeeze it. This was -too- much to be coincidence. But if the Mirror Man was involved how did they know? They hadn’t been on the case a week! How would they know so much about her? Regardless of whether or not he pulled away her hand trembled as she wet her lips again. Hawks, hawks, -Hawkins.- Her surname. (Or it had been. If Jeffrey left her it still would be.) She flinched and never looked away from the knife and the scene on the stage before her.

There was something more than just the motifs of the hawks and the song itself that rang of familiarity. The illusion of the room looked like her old bedroom in Westfall, without the trappings of a bed and dresser of course. She'd been a baby once. She hadn't needed those things. All she'd needed was a carriage. There was a flash of a dark, still night. Mama was away on business, horses and gunfire echoing across the night. Grandpa had gone out to check on the ruckus. Couldn't let the bandits get their apples, the garbled memory spat. His voice was shaky and broken. The mirror hovered over her. She could see her own, three-year-old reflection in the 'man's' mirror mask. "You and me and a devil makes three..." The knife was lifted up high and her grip on it changed. She looked like she was going to stab it down. She was going to stab it. Whatever was in the carriage, she was going to stab it. She was going to STAB IT. Suddenly everything in Raoul's head began screaming that. SHE'S GOING TO STAB IT. DON'T JUST FUCKING SIT THERE. SHE'S GOING TO STAB IT. Disbelief held him frozen. No. No she wouldn't. Not in front of all these people. "Come lay your bones on the alabaster stones and be my ever lovin' baby..." A few gasps rippled through the crowd and one woman in the back screamed as the knife plunged downwards. Raoul returned the grip on his hand in a death vice, flinching and staring in wild-eyed fear.

Breath came in fearful, ragged gasps and she pressed back in her chair to try and put as much distance between herself and the stage as she could. This. Was. Not. Happening. She could remember her grandpa’s words and the tone and the fear and confusion only a small child can feel in such depths. Nails dug into her partner’s hand and she whispered hurriedly in his ear. “That’s me. That’s my room. That was my -home- when I was a child, Raoul. Hawks, -Hawkins-!” They needed to do something! They had to do something! What what what?!

He had been gripped by fear, paralyzed really. Amavia's words in his ear woke him up though. Immediately he stood up and hopped over the empty seat in front of it, using one arm on the back of it to give him balance. A barrage of arcane missiles rocketed towards the stage and the woman, his blood both boiling and rushing. A child. How could someone hurt a child? And even if they were wrong, even if this was just a sick display, who would do this? They DESERVED it. "Kirin Tor Investigators! Stop!" He shouted, fumbling as he tried to remember the rest of what they were supposed to say. There was an official phrase, but his mind drew a blank on it now. He felt like he should scream or cry, and as soon as he'd made it to the front row he moved all the faster. How could he let that happen? Why had he just sat there? His inaction might have cost an innocent child its life. Guilt and frustration wracked him so much that he didn't even notice the arcane barrage get reflected off the mask the woman wore. She drew the knife back up, its blade soaked in bright blood, and took off between the curtains as the barrage shot back to the chair Raoul had first stood over. It burned away in the arcane energy, decimated as that woman probably deserved to be. The stagehands scrambled out of the way as Raoul reached the stage, and he punched one with a fistful of frost just before the spotlight shut down. The entire theater was left in darkness but for the glowing of jewelry.

The only benefit that came from Amavia’s boggling at the Mirror Man was that she noticed the spel reflect and what it reflected off of. A quick mental note was made and she started to dart after her partner and made it to the edge of the stage before the darkness fell around them. “R-raoul?” Was the Mirror Man watching them now in the darkness with that bloody knife? It would be so easy to silence them with such an advantage. Amavia cursed and quickly conjured her favorite sort of light; the “fireflies” inside the globe were a pure, white and emitted a bright light that followed at her shoulder as she hesitantly approached the carriage. There was no way they’d catch the perp now and she didn’t want the scene - that poor victim, oh Light it was all their fault wasn’t it? - to be mishandled.

"Don't you weep, pretty baby. Don't you weep, pretty baby." The woman sang. Half of her voice sounded close and the other half of it sounded far away, as if two twin-sounding women were singing in unison. As the light followed her, it was obvious Raoul too had moved immediately toward the carriage after knocking out the stage hand. In the darkness, the rest of the audience panicked and began to clamor to get away. A sense of nausea and sick terror welled up inside Raoul as he slowly approached. He didn't want to see. They had to see. It was their job. It was their FAULT. That knife had been bloody. Something had died. Even if it was just a cat, it had DIED. It's life was EXTINGUISHED... and it was their fault. He cringed and looked away before finally steeling himself to peer inside the carriage. The terrified screaming and chaos of the audience was a suitable backdrop to the symphony of horror in his own head as he saw it. The face had already been carved off and there was a gaping stab wound in the babe's poor chest. He remembered the laughter and as he turned away, feeling sick, he thought of the old man that had walked into the beer gardens. Had the child laughed at seeing their own mutilated reflection? Numb to the pain? Too intoxicated to see anything but the warped colors? His hands shook violently and he tore his eyes away to stare at Amavia. "She's long gone with her red shoes on... gonna need another lovin' baby..." The voice finally faded away, a chilling and ominous repetition of that particular line. Need another one? Of course. The killer wasn't going to stop. They would never stop
until they were forced to.

She shivered at the sight and felt the tears she’d managed to hold at bay fall down her cheeks. “This is my fault, Raoul. I shouldn’t have let damn Jeffrey warp my mind all day. I need to forget him and keep my head in the game. I -can’t- let this happen again.” It was hard not to reach out and bundle the child up and weep into its poor mutilated flesh. Even if they’d stopped her would they have been able to save the baby? It’s face was gone and who knows what toxins were in its system to make it giggle as it had. That didn’t excuse their lack of action or the death. Their own ineptness had -killed- this child. Lips pressed into a thin line and she scrubbed the tears away, embarrassed that she’d let them fall at all. “I don’t have my kit on me. All my work things are at my mother’s house.”

Raoul held his head for a moment, obviously needing time to gather himself. He shook the fear off and trembled. His coat was shrugged off next with a heavy swallow. He covered the carriage with it so neither of them would have to look at it again. A device that looked like a handheld radio was fished out of his pocket and he grimaced as he held it up to his lips. "George, this is Raoul. Amavia and I are at the scene of what we believe is vic eight. We don't have any jurisdiction here but I'm going to try and keep the scene closed off. All the evidence seems to be contained on a mobile platform, but I would suggest getting a team of sentries out here to check the entire vicinity." George replied something. It didn't sound happy.

Amavia hung her head; she didn’t even need to hear what George said to know they both had let him down. Him and this poor dead baby. “I- I’m going to see if the stagehand you took care of is rousing. Maybe he’ll have details on the woman. If you could find the person in charge here and flash your badge maybe you can get some answers on this act. They were coordinated enough to make it look like a show - they had to have rehearsed or have some sort of contact details.” Her tone was distant and ice cold as she approached the area she’d seen the stagehand crumple to. It wasn’t that she was mad at Raoul or upset with him but she couldn’t handle the gravity of their inaction and was shutting down inside. Jeffrey had been right; he was a part of her and no matter what she was squirming under he’d always be in her mind. She needed to be rid of those distractions until the case was over. Or it could be her beneath that knife next.

Raoul looked her direction as he simultaneously listened to her and George. George didn't say how disappointed he was. He didn't call them failures. He didn't have to. The body between them and the faint echoes of the terrifying sound all said it for him. He closed his eyes for a moment as he put the comm device back in his pocket and took a deep breath. "George said he's sending an analysis team to take over the scene from us. He wants us to investigate the area to make sure none of the people are still here. If they are, he wants them them polymorphed and tied up somewhere, chained if possible, until an arrest team from the Stormwind Guard can come get them." The auditorium was almost empty now. It was tragic to Raoul to think that the crowd had probably tipped off half the staff and the doormen. What was going on? All the other killings had been private. No one had seen. What did it serve to do this publicly now? His fingers curled into a tight fist and he was grateful that he wasn't still holding the device or he would have crushed it. The stagehand squirmed on the ground, clutching a badly bruised and almost frostburned looking cheek. Raoul had struck him with everything, and it was hard to feel pity for the man. One green eye looked up at Amavia, the other already swelling shut.

“Done.” Fingers wove the spell quickly to turn the stagehand into a turtle. Even if it somehow escaped the bonds they’d be putting on it, turtles were painfully slow. She dusted her bare hands off and nodded the way the killer went. “I’ll see if anyone is backstage. You check the front.” Before waiting for his response she slipped behind the curtain and took her globe of light with her. What if the killer was waiting? What if they had a syringe full of toxins waiting for her too? Amavia shivered and pulled arcane energy around to wrap herself in the strongest mana shield she’d ever wove.

"Wait!" He reached after her uselessly, fearing the worst as she did. Thankfully neither of their fears were realized. When she didn't scream and nothing leaped out of the darkness to devour her, he sighed heavily and relaxed back. A glance was spared to the tragic carriage before he turned to deal with the 'turtle'. It was bound excessively in heavy rope from the side of the stage, but he paused before heading off the stage. He could have greeted the guards, explained the situation, but George no doubt would have already informed them. And frankly, leaving Amavia alone would have been idiotic. They were not fully-fledged investigators capable of spliting up and holding their own. If they were, they wouldn't be apprentices and George wouldn't have
assigned them as partners to each other. He worried about the woman's sanity. He worried about -Amavia's- sanity. She had mentioned a room, and it being her room, but there had only been the stage. There had only been a stage and a spotlight. No room, none of Westfall. Even now the woman's hick voice echoed a bit in the auditorium, and it made him walk with a faster pace as he tried to catch up to Amavia. He'd have to tell George -everything- that transpired tonight. Light give him strength, he'd even confide the vision about Valerie. George would be able to make more sense of this than anyone else. At least, he hoped. His stomach began to hurt as he crossed through the parting in the curtain and beheld the backstage. It was a wide room with a narrow hallway. The walls were damp, dark brick and it was poorly lit, but it was serviceable enough. The hallway had two doors on either side and one door at the end that had 'EXIT' painted sloppily over it. It was true the killer could be hiding in one of the rooms, but why hide when they could flee? No, it was far more likely the killer and any cohorts were long, long gone. He gently put a hand at Amavia's shoulder to let her know he was there.


Her eyes had been glued to the exit sign and she jumped when Raoul touched her. Thoughts had taken her elsewhere a moment and she held up a hand and began to weave a polymorph before she realized it was him. The spell fizzled and died, just sparks of arcane magic fading away. “I’m going to check for employees in the side rooms. Can you please make sure no one escapes out the back?” She opened the closest door and peeked her head inside. Without her focus now the firework hair pendant was sparkling as bright as it had when they first met at the Tower and the glitter trails left by the “explosions” made her hair shimmer. It didn’t matter though. In the light of what just happened how could anyone think anything remotely kind about her?

He grimaced, but nodded. At least this way he'd be /close enough/ to help her if she was in trouble. /Hopefully/. He opened the exit door and glanced out briefly, seeing nothing but the street lights and the orange-red sunset. It was getting late. He wouldn't go see Valerie tonight. Too much stress already without adding more. See no one, he closed the door again and locked it before leaning his back against it. The room she peered into was an actress' dressing room. It almost looked like a room Valerie might have had, given the information in the dossier about her theatrical talents. The large vanity mirror had light bulbs all around it and several differently styled carriages were lined up against the wall. They were all wildly different fashions. Why had this one been chosen tonight? A vase of long-dried roses was on the vanity corner, and a note was sticking out of the top drawer.

Amavia strode inside and looked over the carriages with a sigh. The girl shook her head and carefully removed the note before reading it. If Valerie ever had participated in a show like this the girl didn’t want to think it. From the information in the file the other woman was just as depraved - oh, more so her guilt whispered - than her own love and knowing what he was capable of she was amazed that Raoul could still love her. Amavia berated herself for wandering thoughts and stared hard at the note, forcing herself to read it in truth now.

It was an old note, yellowed and crinkled, with words too faded to read in bright light. Pulling it out though, another page inside the drawer tugged with it. It didn't come out all the way though, stuck on the closed drawer. The edge that could be seen was in block print, a news article.

She removed the other paper and skimmed it. These things could be better attended to later and she marked this room in her mind as one she wished to investigate. The hall was her goal again now and she nodded at Raoul once as she passed into the next room. “No one in that one.”

He simply nodded back. The next room was empty except for a few boxes piled up. It looked like a storage room. None of the boxes were open.

Amavia clucked her tongue and went to the third door. Light damn, if the stagehand was their only witness she'd be livid with herself. Not that she didn't already deserve more guilt than what was building in her chest.

The third room seemed to be another dressing room, this time with plentiful amounts of costumes on racks and a few on the floor. They were glitzy and gaudy, showgirl dresses. There was some makeup on the vanity table and it looked like a few magical reagents. Maybe the performer from the show before the masked woman?

Another mental note. If that spell was illegal it'd bear to get more information in regards to the caster. The fourth door was passed through and she shook her head, unable ot meet Raoul's eyes as she spent only a second in the hall.

Nothing. He could imagine she was finding nothing. It made him cover his face with his palm. The fourth room was equally devoid of people, though it did have a small table and some glasses. There was a cigar in an ash tray, still smoking. Someone had been here once. A few people. Gambling if the cards were any indication. But they were here no longer.

Another sigh and she curses loudly enough that surely Raoul could hear her in the hall. She wanted to rage and tear at her hair but instead she takes a shake inhale of breath through her nose and storms back to the first room. The drawer is opened fully and she begins to review the contents.

"MURDER IN MOONBROOK" was the headline. Reading on, it described a series of grisly, unsolved (as of the printing time) murders in Moonbrook, ones that would precede the uprising of the Defias to come. People were in terror. A young girl and her parents were off to the side of the black and white artist's rendition. The young girl was unrecognizable, but the woman matched portraits of her grandmother, and the man's back was already beginning to hunch over. "Bodies mutilated... strange happening at the Midsummer Festival... children missing... one girl escaped captivity... tortured..." The words began to swim in front of her eyes, clouded by vapors similar to the ones with the torches. Raoul knocked on the frame behind her. "Are you alright, Hawkins?" His tone was extremely sympathetic. Even after his interruption, the letters continued to float and dance. Something rolled around in the drawer after she'd pulled it open.

"F-fine Raoul. Thank you." Her hand trembled and she added the paper to the other yellowed on in her hands. Was this another strange happenstance? Was this another layer of a grisly plot? Or had this killer been working for years and left this as a slap n the face? At the rolling sound she looked down and bent over slightly to peer at whatever was inside.

He approached behind her and put a hand at her shoulder. "I don't think you're fine, Hawkins. If there's no one here, we should make a round outside and then meet the Guards at the front." His blue eyes were full of empathy, as was his expression.

"Just a moment. One more." She reached in the drawer now, trying to see what made the sound. "I want to look at the othe room too. I think it belonged to whomever cast the divination and if we can track them down perhaps they will know our perp."

"Maybe you should leave that to the analysis team, Amavia. They're going to be crawling all over this place and we could be sabotaging their work right now. What did you find, anyway?" He didn't let go of her shoulder, but rather tried to give it a reassuring squeeze.

The article regarding Moonbrook was passed over her shoulder. "That's my mother in the photo. And my grandparents." She leaned down and directed her light into the drawer, trying to illuminate whatever was inside.

"What photo?" He took the article from her, using the end of his shirt as a makeshift 'glove'. There wasn't any photo or drawing of any kind that he could see on the page. Just the block letters. He scanned them though, reading about the murders, the tortures, the kidnappings. He tried to draw connections in his head. It was possible this was a copycat or a repeat killer. He'd have to ask George if those cases were ever solved. When illuminated, the thing rolling around in the drawer appeared to be a Winter's Veil ornament. It was a glossy red, covered in thread, with glittering gold swirls.

Seeing it now she frowned and merely touched it with her fingertip. Curious thing but she shouldn't tamper with evidence. "The front then? You sure you don't wish to inspect the other room?"

"That's not our job. I think we've been through enough already tonight, don't you?" He moved his hand from her shoulder now and tried to wrap his entire arm there to forcibly guide her away if he had to. She was clearly working too hard. Something. "Let's go outside and round the building just in case. Okay? The killer might have tried to ditch the weapon somewhere... and a walk would do you some good."

Rather than tug away she leaned against him a little and allowed herself to be guided out. "That's a good idea, Raoul." She gives a weak smile and follows his lead.

He rubbed her shoulder in a friendly way, trying to be more comforting than suggestive. He pushed the door open and smiled at her weakly. The air was warm and humid, and he was perspiring within moments of stepping outside. A glance was spared around, but this back alley had nothing but festival trash in it. Ribbons, confetti, used midsummer ground flowers. There were no garbage bins or mailboxes a weapon could have been dumped in, and there didn't -appear- to be anything discarded on the ground.

The girl wet her lips and stared at the piles of trash. "Light damn it. I don't think we'll find anything back here Raoul." She was warmer than she enjoyed and she stepped away from him to try and cool some. Sleeveless as her dress was she still felt stifled and kicked at a used ground flower near her foot. "I suppose we shouldn't disturb this. The sentries will do a better job than us anyhow."

He frowned and stuck his hands in his pockets. "We couldn't have known, Hawkins. I know it doesn't make you feel any better- I know it doesn't make -me- feel any better, but there's a good chance that child would have died even with our intervention. The important thing is to not lose sight of our job. OUR job is to find out the identity of the victims. That is how we're best going to help George catch this psychopath."

"Well. We have a new sample to scry with." Her shoulders shrugged and she leaned lightly against the wall. "I'm sorry Raoul. I really wasn't at top performance back there. My day has been utter hell but that's no excuse. I won't let you down as a partner again. Promsie."

He paused with her, shoulders slumping at her words. Whatever self-pity he was sinking into was quickly shrugged off though. His hands came out of his pockets and went to her shoulders, one averting to try and lift her chin to make her look up at him. "Hey... hey... Look at me, Hawkins. You did -great-. For what we through? For what you've been through? You did better than I did. I had -no- excuse not to act. I panicked. We both did. At least you had a reason. But that's not what's important. What's important is that we try very hard not to let it happen again. People depend on us. George is depending on us. Let's just focus on what we can do now instead of dwelling on what we couldn't do before." From her chin to her cheek, he brushed with his thumb in a comforting way. The other hand released her shoulder and was offered to help her away from the wall. "You look good tonight too, Hawkins. I don't think I remembered to tell you that earlier. Pretty even."

At his kind words she laughed and shook her head, eyes rolling. "You and George both are far too kind. I look plain but the dress is lovely and it thanks you for the praise." Despite her dismissal of his kindness she did slip her hand in his and stepped away from the wall. "We'll focus on what's important and get it done. You're right about the people and I refuse to let them down again."

"Aww, come on now, Hawkins. Don't make me drool and kiss your cheek all creeper like to prove how pretty you are." He stuck his free hand in his pocket and gave her hand a squeeze. "That's the spirit, at least."

"I am well aware of my physical short comings, Raoul. You don't need to tease me." She stuck out her tongue and squeezed his hand back. "There's only one gentleman daft enough to like me like -that- and if you've read my file you know he isn't stable." Gently she tried to move her hand and glanced around the alley now. "Should we head back indoors?"

"Let's round the corner at least." He let her hand go like she seemed to desire, but before his hand went back in its respective pocket, he brushed her hair behind her ear tenderly. "One day you're going to have to stop being so hard on yourself, Amavia. I read the dossier and there are some things at least Sangrey and I would agree on."

The words coupled with the tender gesture made her cheeks flush and Amavia didn't seem to know where to look. Her eyes were bright and the sparkles from her pin reflected in them as she met his a moment before dropping her gaze to the ground. “You are very sweet. Perhaps a little addled too, but sweet.” A shy smile curved on her lips and she nodded at the alley after his hand moved away. “Shall we?” He’d called her Amavia. It had made her heart stop a moment and she wasn’t sure she cared for that.

Pleased with the reaction, and possibly himself for causing it, Raoul grinned and whistled innocently as they neared the corner. "Right. Hawkins, when we get there, make sure to have your badge or at least remember all your info in case you forgot it today. We'll just have to officially turn over the scene to them as this was in their area. Once it's confirmed this is our guy, they'll give it back to the Kirin Tor."

Her badge. She hadn't brought it felt foolish for it now. "I remember my info. I left it in my satchel because I was going to ask if you wanted to make smorcs at my mother's house after the show. I'm sorry." All the giddy pleasure in her chest dissipated at her stupidity again.

"Don't worry. I don't think either of us were expecting this to happen tonight. Truth be told, I only remembered because I always keep my badge with my communications radio." He grinned at her again and bumped her shoulder with his side playfully. "I'd
[23:06:43] [Officer Darlington] whispers: love to go make smorcs though, if that answer still stands."

“It does. I think she’d like you. You’re a nice person. And -very- easy on the eyes.” She gave a little bump back and winked at him. His good moods were infectious and she was so drained from the going on’s of today that she was easily susceptible to it. “And I’m glad you have pockets. Dresses aren’t really equipped for working. It’s part of why I prefer pants to robes.”


"I TOO, prefer pants to dresses! I don't think the skirts compliment my luxurious legs as much as these slacks. Light forbid I ever get shorts. I might become the leading cause of blindness in Dalaran, and oh no that just wouldn't do for my career." He huffed out his chest for a moment in mocking arrogance as they rounded the corner. The guards were already swarming the small theater, responding in number. They were questioning hysterical 'witnesses' and it looked like they'd already cuffed the stagehand. Raoul pulled his hands out of his pockets, badge in hand now, and flashed it at the groups of guards so they could get by. One of the guards even had a lion at his side.

Badge-less, Amavia nodded at the guards and passed along her information. "Amavia Hawkins, Apprentice Kirin Tor Investigator." She rattled off anything else requested if questioned. In the throng of people she felt strange and wanted to slip her hand on Raoul's arm but she resisted. Eyes strayed to the lion and she gave a nod to the guard who had it with him. She'd never seen a lion in person before and part of her wanted to stroke its mane. But heavens! That wouldn't be professional.

The guard turned a particular side of his head towards the conversation and joined the group shortly. Perhaps it was the lion's agitated growl that kept the Captain from waving him away. "Darlington, tonight you need to get that bloody beast on a dog to eat or something. I don't want it scarfing down civilians." Rather than talking, the guard just saluted and went back to watching Raoul and Amavia. Raoul cleared his throat. "Right then. We believe this is the work of a serial killer, the case being predominantly handled by Kirin Tor investigators. As this happened here in Stormwind..." He fished in his pocket again and drew out a card, "The scene is technically in your hands. We will be sending arcane sentries to help collect evidence, but until you're done we'll be hands off and out of your way." The Captain sighed and rolled his eyes. "Just what this city needs, more bloody elementals."

Amber eyes tried to meet those of the Darlington guard and she glanced to his lion, giving a quick, approving smile as she did and a wink at his master. It was an attempt to be friendly or kind - which she wasn't sure. "Apologies, Captain. They'll be quick and out of your hair without delay."

The guard had only one eye with which to return her wink, but he didn't. His glass eye flashed in the sunset.

That struck her as curious but she didn't gawk. He was probably a noble veteran of the Wars and it would be rude. A polite nod was given his way before she looked to Raoul. "And what is our assignment now?"