“Simply dreadful business, with this… man.” Willem Huis, Wastelander by birth and mind, once more proved his gift in lilting words. While the man was approximately forty years of age, Adebar was never quite sure whether the owner of the Rising Gale was not already touched by the loss of mind expected of older men. Some of the local residents had assured him, however, that “the old Huis” had always been a bit odd, in his own, foreign ways.

“Grisly stuff, y’know, all carved up like that and all. Wonder what they’ll do with the poor sap. Wouldn’t imagine they’re too keen on people finding out about it.”

Schimmel, as his name suggested, forced his words through the thick porridge he’d been wolfing down for breakfast. Huis, with his usual, endearing drawl, disagreed with a slight chuckle.

“I can assure you that all of the people already know about it. A shot in the dark, a mutilated body, it, how do you say…it makes folk wonder.”

Von Bolstedt grimly stared ahead, past the two men, though he made an effort to follow their exchange. His eyes gazed through the milky glass of the taproom window, where vague shapes moved around their early business.

He’d returned to the Rising Gale maybe three hours ago, after wrestling with the watchmen, trying to explain to them that he, alone, without a ladder, would likely have had great troubles trying to hang up the recently deceased in the venerable tree.

Only with the arrival of a Sergeant had the soldiers relented, though their distrust remained apparent. The body was, so he’d been told, to be brought to a local physician for inspection.

“Could be those students are at it again, y’see? I’ve been thinking about them, as you do in our profession, heretical cults and all are our bread and butter after all. Could need our hand.”

Huis shook his head, a glimmer of indignation flared through his otherwise calm features as he rose from the table. He was strong, beneath all that lard. He made a note of it, though he was halfway certain the Wastelander had no interest in cloak and dagger murders, or secret gatherings under baleful moons.

“Those young fools learned their lesson when their leaders burned, years back. We all make sure they do not forget. Would not pay for anyone to forget. They would be foolish to be so… so brazen!”

The uprising of Streissen was a sore spot for many here, though it lay back many years. The quaint town had stood apart from the rest of Averland, then, having bought its independence at a high price. Famine, demagogues and neglected watchmen would bring this prosperity to an end. When the authorities of the then-Elector-Countess stepped in, Streissen entered the annals of history, and had, though it was a careful place now, never lost its association with rebellion, atrocity and mass slaughter.

It was natural for Huis to deny the possibility of a return to those days, but Adebar had eyes, and he certainly had ears.

While none would say it openly, Streissen and its university carried the whiff of young resistance, a scent the Witchhunter had not perceived since his own days as a student.

A murder, and such a brutal one at that, however? And how did his pursuer fit into all this?

“Did anyone leave directly after me last night?”

The question seemed to startle the other two men, tearing them from what seemed to be a contest of feigned indifference.

“Herr?” Huis seemed intrigued and confused at the same time, though Schimmel already shook his head. “Noone I’d have called remarkable Herr, y’know, daytalers, porters. Something tells me we’re not looking for that kind of man though, are we?”

Adebar simply nodded. “I was followed last night. I know not why, but to make matters short my stalker led me directly to the Old Oak.”

The statement stood in the room like an ill scent, further muddying the already unclear waters. “But eh…who? Who would gain from this?” The innkeep’s question was warranted, and occupied von Bolstedt as well.

The Witchhunter rose from his seat, breakfast largely untouched.

“I have an appointment with Doktor Sabler. Schimmel, do what you do best. I want leads when I return.” The Wissenlander only grunted his assent.

The house of Doktor Sabler was, as was to be expected, upstanding and well-tended, though not ostentatious. While von Bolstedt had originally been confused that the watchmen’s preferred doctor was situated so modestly, Streissen’s unique history seemed explanation enough for now.

Adebar rapped at the dark door, decorated with inlays of driven iron. While it took a moment, the thudding footfalls of a heavyset man soon reached his ears, as well as the unmistakable clatter of an armed man. He wasn’t the first investigator, it seemed.

The door swung open and his suspicions were confirmed. Before him stood the surprisingly squat figure of a man in the uniform of a Captain: a gold-plated sun of Averland decorated a cuirass that, by all accounts, should have fit far worse. The man looked more like an overgrown halfling, with a bulbous nose and full moustache, looking up at the younger man with the loveliness of a well-groomed boar.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“The good Doktor is not seeing anyone at this hour, Herr. I suggest you bother someone else.” The Captain’s words were solid, though his delivery spoke of the amount of time he had already said them that day. Luckily for Adebar, he was used to being turned away.

“I am here for the body. As I was the one to find the deceased I thought it my duty to offer my assistance in the solving of this heinous crime.” The boar-man’s eyes narrowed.

“And who might you be, your highness?” The question, though warranted, nonetheless did its part to annoy the Witchhunter, though it did not surprise him.

“Adebar von Bolstedt. You may have heard of me, Captain…?”

“Burlin,” replied the Captain sharply, “and yes, indeed I have.” His tone betrayed no fondness for the stranger at the door. There was silence for a moment, uncomfortable and rather rude.

This stalemate was disrupted by the appearance of another pair of feet, and the rather wearied, gaunt features of, who von Bolstedt assumed, must’ve been Doktor Sabler himself. “Just let the man in Rainer. An extra pair of eyes can’t hurt, especially if it is indeed a Witchhunter…”

The man fumbled for a pair of glasses, setting them on his hawkish nose, to inspect von Bolstedt like one would an actor in a theatre.

“You will forgive me, Herr von Bolstedt, when I expected someone more…ecclesiastical, considering your reputation.” Another, expected, annoyance.

“A common mistake, Herr Doktor. Not all who do this righteous work are of the Order.”

“So I see.” Sabler stood aside, though the Captain seemingly made to protest. “Please, do come in. I am sure your expertise may be invaluable.”

The body was in a terrible shape. It was a pallid thing, but for the red, exposed viscera, only partly the Doktor’s work.

“The torso has been through great trauma. Most ribs have been broken, the lungs and innards are perforated. The neck has been crushed, and, as you may see, the skin is decorated with these…incisions.” Sabler indicated the many, careful indentations in the corpse’s skin. Von Bolstedt drew closer, inspecting the wounds closer with gloved hands. Most of the cuts seemed deliberate, though others were clearly more incidental. Many seemed to be symbols or letters, though they meant nothing to the Witchhunter. If they were ritualistic in purpose, or bore the touch of witchery, they lacked the innate air of evil that he had come to expect from such things over the last years. A mage’s opinion would be needed, and those were in dreadfully short supply in Streissen.

He turned his eyes toward the rather unsightly throat-region.

“Would you say these wounds could be inflicted by the rope he hung from?”

Doktor Sabler simply shrugged. “It may be possible, if the corpse was dropped from considerable height. Perhaps the Old Oak was not the first resting place of our friend?”

Von Bolstedt inspected the face of the deceased. His eyes had been closed, though a strange sense of calmness adorned his well-shaved features.

“Did you set his features to be more palatable, Doktor?”

“No, Herr. I had wondered about that too, if you mean to inquire about the apparent sense of tranquillity. Unfortunately I cannot explain it. I could not even tell you in all confidence what killed the poor sap, if I am honest. A lot of injuries on him that could have been potentially fatal.”

An odd case indeed. Adebar noted the corpse was entirely bloodless, though that was likely due to the fact that the carcass had hung below the Old Oak for so long. Feverishly he tried to remember how large the pool of blood below had been, though he found it hard to fathom that the puddle had been large enough to contain all of the man’s vitae.

Doktor Sabler seemed right in his assessment. The man had not lost his life at the Old Oak, though that did not narrow down the subjects, even by a smidge.

“So, Herr von Bolstedt, what would be your expert assessment?” Captain Burlin’s question was as distracting as it was pertinent. Adebar stepped away from the victim, resting his head in his left hand. None of this seemed right.

“I can say with confidence that I am puzzled, Captain.”

Burlin’s face twisted into a rather ugly mask of mockery and satisfaction, as he drew closer to the young nobleman, putting an ill-intentioned hand onto Adebar’s shoulder.

“I thought as much. I told you Tibald, it was no use. For shame!”

The Captain more or less gently escorted the Witchhunter to the door. Despite his flabby appearance, there was an underlying strength to Rainer Burlin that Adebar had not expected. It was the fashion of many in his position to let wine and women destroy them.

“It seems the guard can take care of its own business. I appreciate your great efforts, of course, Herr von Bolstedt. Truly you were a great help.” They had reached the door, and while Adebar was of a mind to resist, it would not do to go against the Captain of the watch.

“I trust that concludes your interest in this case? Unless, of course, you already knew the killer?” Burlin’s raised eyebrow carried with it notions of accusation. A childish play, though von Bolstedt had to admit surprise at the Captain’s apparent disdain.

Now was not the time.

“Of course, Captain. Sigmar knows that my services are required elsewhere.”

With a flourish of his hat he bade his farewell. The undignified slamming of Sabler’s door contained all the words he required.

It seemed his days in Streissen were numbered after all.

Adebar turned his steps southward. He would not miss what little work he’d had here.