Arcane handcuffs placed onto the gnome’s wrists, enchanted metal automatically sealing themselves to the thinner diameters of bone and flesh. Suspect secured by raw magics and manufacturing, now in the possession of the four officers of the Arcane Crimes Unit’s Heavy Response Division.

“P-please we can work this out!” Kindfern begs. “Please!”

Sergeant Jarka pulls a hand onto her voice caster, a form shadowed by the light emanating from the storeroom. “Dispatch, H.R.D. zero-one. Requesting search and seizure unit on primary point. Prepare for address and specify from H.R.D. zero-two.”

The dispatcher responds as she shuffles papers together, a pen ready for correspondence. “Copy H.R.D. zero-one, preparing for address from zero-two.”

Officer Underfoot reaches for his own caster, a memorized statement begun. “Dispatch, H.R.D. zero-two. Address on: five-two-three-six Augustine Road, Diamond Bay. Break.”

He resets the rune, continuing the message. “Following: establishment name Club Dazzle. Request primary Precinct Fourteen on site.”

A message written quickly on paper, the dispatcher replies with due speed. “Copy H.R.D. zero-two, request for Precinct Fourteen S&S unit received. Please hold for confirm.”

“Copy all.” Officer Underfood finishes, clapping his hands together. “Alright! Doing Precinct Fourteen’s weekly job for today.”

Sergeant Jarka chuckles to herself, turning to the rookie in their midst. “Very happy how this is turning out actually.”

A mind watching the arrested suspect, Jason Ford’s consciousness pulled by the words to a current reality. “M-ma’am?”

Explanation of activities condensed down into a handful of sentences, the superior attempting to ease the rookie’s nervous face. “Served a warrant, did some paperwork, explored the city a bit, and experienced a detainment. That’s a full first day, basically doing everything we do everyday.”

“R-really?”

“Yeah.” Jarka compliments with a bright smile. “You’re getting used to it, which is good. It takes time to acclimate to police work, especially ours and especially right out of the academy. I mean, Officer Ican here was a transfer from an MP, and it took her an entire month to get used to how fast we clear cases.”

The gaze of the tiefling officer remains on the suspect, her focus upon the world placed amongst the now cleared central chamber of the strip club.

“Alright let’s go!” The Sergeant announces suddenly, slamming the storeroom door shut behind her. “We’ll let Precinct Fourteen handle the rest of this search and seizure. Gonna end our day early!”

Underfoot nearly collapses in rejoycement, the screamed tone echoing into the hall. “AHHHHH finally!!!”

Officer Ican pulls the suspected gnome to his feet, a low growled tone sending instructions to a fearful soul. “Up.”

The gnome gulps, a final attempt at salvation spoken through a broken tone. “W-wait… ok I can give a better donation! Please! Twenty gold each!”

“That’s felony bribery.” Sergeant Jarka announces as Underfoot shoots a gaze at her. “We’ll just add that to the list.”

A form kicking and screaming, a sudden panic washing over the small body as Officer Ican begins to drag him up. “P-please! I can’t go! You don’t know! You don’t know how bad it is! Ok! You don’t know anything! Please! I’ll do anything! They can’t find out! Please!”

Ican just stares at her superior, the Sergeant answering the implied question. “Don’t knock him out please. The paperwork’s already going to be crazy for this one.”

She narrows her eyes, musculature flexing as she just grabs the gnome by the scruff of his neck.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Dragged over stained hardwood floors and through the continuous sound of banging music. Away from private dance booths and past the bathrooms once more; the squad follows their primary vanguard in a memorized pattern of the club.

You have a bad feeling about this.

Jason Ford pauses as the thought is spoken within his mind, the short form of the half-orc stopping mid-stride as the division reaches the main hall.

A fighter’s instinct built upon flesh, the five senses checked once again for confirmation of safety. Nothing comes up, a different feeling entirely occurring within his mind.

Something more, something different; something trained by the city itself.

Blue eyes just stare with blankness, time itself warping around a simple feeling in his chest.

“You alright rookie?” The Sergeant stops as she notes her subordinate’s empty gaze. “Something wrong?”

The young man honestly admits it, a core aspect of his personality regurgitating against a possible white lie. “I-I… I have a bad feeling…”

The words stop the entire division.

All eyes affixed to the half-orc, cold gazes forcing a personality to slink back. From the reddish amber of Sergeant Luria Jarka, the brownish irises of both Corporal Pippin Underfoot and Officer Alise Ican; they all just stare right at him.

The pounding of the music, the exoticness of poorly maintained lights, the stench of fluids within the room.

Seconds pass in silence, Jason Ford’s remembrance of his own personal memory bringing forth another instinctive line. “I-I-I’m s-sorry I didn’t…”

“No.” Sergeant Jarka turns back to the room. “A bad feeling’s a good thing.”

Empty with all employees and customers gone; a misnomer to the supposed activities of a redlighted establishment. All superimposed atop a shut and locked front door.

Yeah, you see it now.

“Let’s clear the front and the roadsides first. Ford, secure the suspect please.” Sergeant Jarka orders her party with immense care. “Be ready for anything.”

From her back holster she removes the instrument of combat. Five steel strings upon a solid form of enchanted blackwood; a minimalist lute created for a purpose more terrible than musical production. A steel reinforced neck projected from the main body of the instrument, the five strings tapering off as a handle wrapped in grip tape bounds itself around cold wood and steel. The instrument’s sound chamber created from a solid cylinder of arcanite-reinforced steel; the concentrator barrel sealed away with a safety rune that the Sergeant switches off with a flick of her thumb.

Jason Ford’s fighter instinct matched with raw intelligence gives the name of the lethal instrument.

That’s a Newland Arms B-1478 Assault Lute. Seen action in the hands of combat bards from ambushes in the Iron Jungle all the way to the trenches of the Northern Frontier.

“Oh no we’re doing this.” Officer Underfoot groans.

Oversized shoulder pauldrons igniting with a soft glow; the color shedding slightly in the thin lighting of the ambient environment. Coolant circulating through copper tubes wrapping around negatively charged arcanite fins all beneath rough leather; craftsmanship removed from military laboratories and placed upon the judiciary elements of South. The weave concentrates upon the small body of the police mage with a minor warping of reality, his hands freed in the readying of spell craft as he tosses away the half-finished wizard tower cocktail. “And here I was about to leave the barkeep such a nice tip…”

A suspect transferred to another member of the squad, the tall lanky form returns to the party with due haste. Concealed weapon unfolded from the deceptive form of a standard nightstick, Officer Alise Ican’s personal armament found in a maul nearly six and a half feet tall. Somehow folding forth from its original shape, the rounded steel club at its apex suddenly glows with sparkling blue energy; the Officer grasping the thick handguard and twisting the mechanisms within. The weave concentrates power, arcs of electricity flowing through the arcanite spiked item.

“Get your sword out rookie.” Sergeant Jarka orders as she notes Jason Ford’s paralyzed form holding onto the suspect’s cuffs. “This might go bad.”

Orders followed, a hand reaching to the item safely nestled at his back.

Worn grip leather of endless training with family and academics, the sound of singing steel echoing through the soul as he pulls forth the weapon from its sheath.

Sigils, runes; notes of arcane fashion carved and branded into magically reinforced, mastercrafted carbon-steel. Words written in orcish remain untouched, the entire weapon defined by the statement written across the blade in a language born of ancient shamans in vicious, brutal warfare.

Mainsh krak onsgart-u colnc mansgov - Dadok chekoc

Jason Ford translates it instinctively, the generational language from half his bloodline better understood through its common translation:

May this blade protect you in my stead - Love, Dad

Officer Underfoot takes notice of the weapon, recognition of the sigils for a mixed abjuration-evocation enchantment laid together haphazardly arriving in a half concerned, half excited glance. “Oh that thing’s sharp, be careful with it kid!”

“Y-yes sir.” The young rookie nods nervously.

Sergeant Jarka’s voice snaps towards them, tone serious against an unknown threat. “Alright we all ready? Let’s do this.”