‟Thank you for your time.” John gave a bow as Morgan watched on.

The pair had been going through the town of Grimmel's 209 populace that day, trying to get testimonies from those that had been tangentially related to the killings. It was nearing twilight by the time they left the home of their 14th witness.

Morgan piped up to John as the doctor wrote in his third notepad of the day. ‟And where is Sherl Octavia in all this?”

‟Ah,” John looked almost embarrassed talking about his partner's absence. ‟Sherl's not exactly a... people's person. And she says these testimonies are trivial to the case.”

‟Are they?” Morgan asked. ‟If the famed detective says so...”

John closed his pad and started making their way further down the streets. ‟She's just lazy. She won't admit it, but these things do help her at times.” His tongue clicked. ‟Besides, I doubt I could get through these testimonials at any decent rate with her grandstanding all the while through.”

Despite their bickering and opposing personalities, Morgan thought the doctor and detective made a classic pair and worked surprisingly well together. It also helped that she was not the only face on the investigation, considering her face being... well, her face.

The walk to their next witness was a longer while away, so she decided to make conversation. ‟And that third victim you were looking at that day? Anything outstanding?”

John sighed. ‟Sherl's probably right. It was nothing. The wounds doesn't fit the M.O. They were two slashes in opposing directions, not five in the same,” John explained. ‟And the wounds were sheered cleaner, likely from a blade instead of torn like a claw would.”

‟What about their background?”

‟Nothing special. They were travelling through and did not have enough to stay at the inn, so they camped outside the town. Just got unlucky, I guess. Probably found by highwaymen or bandits. A guard passed by and found the killer going through their stuff. But the killer ran into a field and disappeared. It was also raining, so visuals weren't great.”

‟Guess Sherl was right.”

‟She usually is. Don't tell her I said that.”

Their next stop was a small single house that did not stand out of the ordinary buildings around. John stepped up to the door and paused a moment, shimmying his shoulders as if shaking off anxiety. Then, he knocked.

From beyond, a shrill woman's voice came through. ‟Who is it?”

‟Hello, Miranda Pickett? I'm John Watson with Knight of the Round's Morganna Dresden. We're here to ask you about Samuel Pickett, your husband.”

Samuel Pickett was the second victim. A farmer whose body was found in the grains warehouse eight days after Goldilocks the photographer was killed. The wife had witnessed the killing from afar before running off for help.

Slowly, the door opened a peek. Morgan couldn't see in from her angle, but it was obvious the woman was not particular attempting a visual conversation either. The shadows of her feet were hidden underneath the crack, with a gap just large enough for sound to come through.

‟Yes?” Miranda Pickett greeted. ‟What do you want?”

John explained empathetically, ‟I'm sorry, but we need to gather your testimony about your husband's murder.”

‟I already told the town guards everything I know! Why can't you just leave me alone?” The woman whimpered.

‟I understand, but we are investigating the entire serial killings. If anything, there may questions that were missed during the initial investigations.” Morgan was impressed at how calm John managed to keep. ‟We don't have to do it right now. We can come back later, but we do need to conduct this interview eventually.”

The woman peeked one eye out from behind the door. ‟I'll talk to you, sir. But not you...” One of her fingers prodded out and pointed to Morgan. ‟You have the mark of a monster.”

Morgan had been looking away partially, but her attention was then fully drawn. ‟What did you say?” The marked side of her face turned to her and she cowered back.

‟Your face,” the woman almost hissed. ‟That's the mark of monsters, and I won't have it in my home.”

John tried reasoning, ‟Ma'am, that's just how her skin is. It's not contagious or anything.”

She barked back, ‟Don't lie to me! I have kids in here. I won't have you bring that plague in with you! That monster that killed my husband had the same skin.”

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John and Morgan exchanged glances. Calloused atrophied muscle mutations like hers are known to only happen in humans. A lizardkin would not be affected by them.

‟Ma'am, I'm sure you know that can't be possible. The current suspect is a lizardkin.” John was lying, of course. She knew he was on board of Sherl's theory that the true killer wasn't a lizardkin. ‟This is a Knight of the Round.”

But the woman was outside the depths of the case. ‟I know what I saw! Ain't no tail on that monster. And I don't care if you're a knight or the Queen, you're not bringing that curse in!”

It had been a while since Morgan heard her mutation be called a curse. Perhaps it's the distance the town was away from major population. The swamp and rainforests of the Tinderland were not easy places to travel, even for knowledge. But it is true that her mutation was often considered a curse, that most people with it end up being criminals in one way or anything. Even herself found an occupation as a killer, albeit a soldier of the nation.

John pulled Morgan back and whispered. ‟Miss Morgan, my apologies, but I doubt she would talk to us if you were around. And I have the feeling she has more information that we could.”

Morgan nodded. ‟Agreed, as much of an annoyance it is.”

‟I would not worry too much about it. We're all born monsters, after all.”

After a few parting words, Morgan left John to continue needling information out of the widow. But she was herself listless once more. She could move on to the next witness alone, but she was not all quite sure how personable she could be.

Perhaps she could head to the town's archive and have a look through the belongings of the third victim. All the other victims died within the town or at their homes, so nothing was taken. But the outsider's belongings were the only thing kept by the town itself.

Before she knew it, her feet had already bought her to the town hall. Smacked in the corner of the town square, the building overlooked a round garden with webbing roads that spread out to the other parts of the municipality. At 3 stories up, it was one level taller than the tallest other building. The bricks of the first and third floors were the brown of clay, with windows slightly opened for ventilation. The second floor had walls of stone white, with a balcony that protruded out as an overlooked.

Morgan shrugged to herself, not really knowing what else to do. So she entered the building where a receptionist greeted from a desk before a pillar that stretched up. The foyer wasn't large, but it was enough to have the ceiling reach to the second floor and still keep its scaling. A round set of stairs spiralled up around the pillar - with bridges connecting the corridors of the second level - disappearing into the floors of the third.

‟Ah! Knight Dresden,” the man at the reception stood and bowed. ‟Can I help you with something?”

She walked up to the desk and got straight to the point. ‟I need to see the belongings of the third killing victim.”

Without further platitudes, the man bowed and gestured for her to follow, leading her to one of the rooms behind.

‟The mayor had asked me to prepare the articles in case you needed perusal.”

‟Soira?” Morgan replied, surprised again at the man's initiative. ‟He doesn't seem the type with foresight.”

‟I'm not one to speak ill of those not here, Knight Dresden,” the receptionist laughed. ‟But I do think Mayor Soira does his best to help the town in his own ways.”

He opened a door into a small meeting room where she walked in. The space was not extravagantly decorated. Just a long wooden table with a dozen chairs lined around. There was a tray table in the corner, likely to serve refreshments for guests while assemblies were taking place. At that moment though, it was empty. On the main table were the belongings of the victim laid out bare on a mat, still with dried dirt stains of travel on them.

The receptionist bowed. ‟I'll leave you to it, then.” The man closed the door behind him.

Morgan approached the table and scanned the belongings. The parts of the drakin's tent took up most of the space - despite being disassembled and laid bare. A rucksack was emptied out; A travelling pot for cooking; A pair of knives for carving - though not the type used for combat; Dry spare boots; A small case which opened up to an ink and quill set; Two sets of spare clothings; And finally, a folding handle-sword.

She had seen that type of weapon before. It was popular during the Skirmish for The Frozen Quarry five years ago. She picked up the weapon which consisted of a 3-handed length grip that had a protruding straight guard. She gave the weapon a shaking uppercut motion like one would do a large switch-blade, and the sword flipped out of the guard and snapped loudly into place, forming a long handled shortsword.

‟Okay...” She investigated the weapon. It was still dried, likely kept in the pack. Did that mean the drakin did not see the enemy coming? Or was he just unable to reach his arm in time? There were questions now coming to her mind. ‟First off... what's not here?” She had learned that crucial lesson from Sherl and the photograph.

A soft commotion came from outside, but nothing directed at her.

There were no money pouch of any currency in the inventory, likely taken by the bandit. But even if there were, it seemed the drakin travelled light, which would be in line with the report that they were unable to afford the inn. The spare boots looked similar to the one they were buried in, though far cleaner, likely having been washed and left waiting for the next change of use.

It seemed there wasn't anything missing.

She picked up the quill case. The ink bottle and quill were of high quality. The nib of the pen was made of titanium, an exceedingly rare and expensive material. Even the ink bottle had a cap made of glass and sealed with a leather ring. Equally expensive spare nibs and a cap was kept in a smaller compartment.

Expensive. Treasured. Well used.

‟But what was it used on?”

There were no parchments, scrolls, or books. No journals or diaries. Were there none to begin with, or were they missing? And if they were missing, why? She tried to piece things together with the missing photograph. Was there a connection? Both cases happened at separate dates, location, time, and with different methods.

Frantic knocks on the door jolted her out of her thought. She turned as the receptionist burst in.

‟Knight Dresden!” the man exclaimed. ‟Something has happened at the lizardkin encampment!”

She set the quill case down and rushed out the building.