"Damn it." I curse to myself as Ned Ted Fred disappears up the stairs.

Given the circumstances, my colleague from General Department was almost certainly here for the Fat Man. And given the pair of swords Ned Ted Fred was carrying, the man was ready for trouble. The prospect of following him up the stairs caused by stomach to churn unhappily. Getting into a fight with Ned Ted Fred wasn't a smart move, especially when he had backup sprinkled around the block.

"Third floor." I grunt to myself, mentally counting the flats before ascertaining which one the Fat Man should be hiding in. If the stairs were out of the question, I'd just need to take the direct way up. A window with curtains drawn. That is my target.

Gritting my casting focus, I channel minor polymorph. A sharp, piercing sensation travels through my arm as fur begins to sprout along its entire length. The sensation culminates in a wet ripping noise as claws tear through my finger tips. Adam the semi transformed furry was back. Flexing my cat arm, I take aim at the Fat Man's window.

I'm probably going to regret doing this later. In fact, I've been regretting many of my life choices lately. But its always been one foot in front of the other. And if I stop moving, I end up dead. So there's no point in having regrets.

Only the iron clad law of survival.

"Soul Fire!" lambent purple flames engulf my cat arm and the spell sends me hurting upward toward the targeted window. I hear gasps of surprise from someone standing behind me as my body is catapulted with inexorable force. One of the watchers had spotted me. That's fine though. Thanks to my new composite spell technique, I'll handily beat Ned Ted Fred to the Fat Man's apartment.

And that's all that matters right now.

I slam into the window like a battering ram, glass shattering all around me. I grit my teeth, expecting to get cuts all over, but the armored jacket does its job. Huh, so you do get what you pay for.

Still feeling sore about the dent the jacket made in my bank account though.

The thick curtains wrap around my body and I grab at the fabric in an attempt at controlling my momentum. The curtain's rail can't take my weight though and it is quickly torn out of the mounting. I'm sent sprawling across the floor with the curtains landing squarely on top of me. Not too shabby all things considered. The thick fabric is surprisingly comfy.

"OK. Time to find this Fat Man." I grunt, throwing the curtains to the side and getting back to my feet.

Huh.

I wasn't really clear on what to expect in the Fat Man's home, but the dedicated prayer room confronting me still takes me by surprise. A well worn mat is laid on the floor, clearly heavily used for kneeling and bowing. A subtle scent of myrrh and frankincense hangs about the air. From the ashes left in a golden bowl, I can tell it isn't the cheap synthetic stuff either. The Fat Man had shelled out for genuine incense, a shocking contrast to the working class dowdiness of the neighborhood he lived in.

Setting the golden incense bowl to the side, I take in a series of paintings mounted on the wall. Again real paintings made with paint. Not prints made on glossy paper. Decking this room out would have cost a small fortune.

ANDREW I

That's what the the bronze tag on the first painting proudly proclaims. A regal old man with an equally regal beard stares back at me from the canvas, his eyes evoking a sense of compassion and disappointment. HIs crimson red robe nearly causes my head to spin, the deep rich color incredibly disorienting. Cupped in the old man's hands is a gem, its speckled with a hint of red.

Stolen story; please report.

"Classy guy" I grunt, my eyes drifting to the next painting in line.

ANDREA II

This one's a painting of a scared looking girl, barely out of her teens. She wears the same crimson robe, clearly several sizes too big for her tiny frame. In her hands is the same gem, this time gripped with a fierce protectiveness. There's a lingering scent of ashes coming from the canvas. Like an overcooked dinner.

And so it goes on, painting after painting of men and women. Each wearing the same red robe and carrying the same gem. An unbroken line of Andrews and Andreas. Right up to ANDREA XII. But there's a clear trend of degeneration. As the line proceeds onward, each subject looks less noble, less imposing and overall just less impressive. Their clothes become more ordinary and I would go as far to say outright poor. ANDREW I resembles a god emperor, I almost feel like kneeling before the painting. While the last Andrew, ANDREW XI, is bloated and overweight, nearly out of breath from just sitting -

Wait a minute.

ANDREW XI is the Fat Man. Drawn in a more flattering light than the photo given to me by Breath, but unmistakably the same man. He's less oily and sweaty in the painting, looking friendly and cuddly instead of plain gross. The red robe barely covers ANDREW XI's impressive girth and the gem is squashed in between his flabby fingers.

So what about ANDREW XI's successor, ANDREA XII? Despite myself, I can't help feeling curious and take a closer look at her painting. The Fat Man's apartment is as quiet as a tomb. As if the world had put time on pause as long as I remain in the prayer room.

Its a painting of a woman obviously. An attractive but generally unremarkable woman. But in her arms is a baby swaddled in that red robe, playing with the same gem. ANDREA XII is the baby obviously. But why isn't she portrayed as an adult like all the other subjects? There's a tiny script written at the base of the painting.

"From Protector to Protected, your duty is at an end. Prosper under the guardianship of the Jurists."

I don't really get it. But what the script is hinting at is pretty obvious. The ANDREW / ANDREA line lost whatever power they had by the time ANDREA XII was born. ANDREA XII wielded no power, so the painter portrayed her as a helpless infant. The degeneration, or rather, infantilization was complete. She was nothing more than symbol, controlled by someone else. The "Jurists" referred to in the script most likely.

The Fat Man is involved in a crazy cult. That's my best guess at what this ensemble represents. Maybe at one point the cult leader. Those days are long behind him though, if the current head of the cult is ANDREA XII. In name at least. All very interesting, but I still need to find and talk to the man himself. The search for the missing Mrs Moira still takes precedence.

"Not bad. Your guesses are fairly close to the mark."

I know. I'm a smart guy after all. The sort that survives on his wits. In the distance, I can hear someone knocking on the apartment's front door. The smell of myrrh gets stronger and I sneeze.

"There's no need to rush."

Of course there's no need to rush. I snort at the obvious observation. Ned Ted Fred can stand at the front door and wait and wait and waaaaiiiittttttttt

ANDREW I winks at me from his portrait and graces me with a cheeky grin. Man, you're really breaking character now you know? And here I was thinking that you were some kind of king.

"Oh, a king of men maybe." ANDREW I shrugs, "I never wore a crown, but then again, not all kings do."

As his mouth opens, a sweet cloud of frankincense envelopes the prayer room. I nod along. What ANDREW I says makes sense. At least as much as anything in this world makes sense.

"Why have you come here, Jurist?" ANDREW I's eyebrows rise theatrically, giving him a look of exaggerated grandeur.

Jurist? I'm no jurist.

"Really? You're a card carrying Jurist. And a bad liar." the disappointment in the painting's expression deepens at my answer.

Scattered across the floor is all the cash and cards carried in my wallet. Man, I've got a lot of plastic in my wallet. Never realized it until now.

"Your wallet was crying." ANDREW I shakes his head, "The way you keep so much junk in it."

Sorry sir.

My nose itches again. Before I can sneeze, I hear a muffled cough from somewhere nearby. But there's no one here.

"Correct. There's no one here." ANDREW I nods in approval.

Thank you sir. Thank you.

"But let's talk about you, Jurist." ANDREW I's voice booms and my attention is drawn to one of the cards in the pile.

My membership card for Phoenix Guild.