The Hölle District was constructed in
the name of progress, the apotheosis of civilization, and was, by
necessity, a place of fire, steel, and transmutation. When hell
poured into Berlin, none could have imagined a positive outcome among
its flames and darkened keepers.
Here, along one of its red-brick
sidewalks, a faun advanced with singular purpose. A young woman, no
longer a child but hardly yet an adult, shadowed her cloven hoofed
master by a few steps behind. A handkerchief over her nose and mouth
was of little defense against the sulfurous odor of tortured
elements.
“Katja,” The faun maintained a
steady saunter as he spoke. “What
do you know of Hölle?”
“That
it's hot and smells of rotten eggs.” she replied, her dreadful tone
betraying misery. How any could live here was to her a mystery.
He
sighed, rolling his horizontal pupils. “A comfortable environment
has resulted in an entire species of whiners. Truly, you are the
epitome of your race.”
Clearing
his throat, the faun returned to his point. “Anyway. Kobolds were the
first non-humans to be encountered by the German people - and they
arrived with a bang. The ground ruptured, breathed fire, and grew to
resemble the hell of human myth and superstition. Devils, your people
thought, and your doomsayers for once seemed vindicated. Humanity
struck first, though I am able to understand how they would have seen
things differently, and thus ensued a dreadful bloodba-”
“The
Massacre at Mitte. Falkenrath taught me about it.” she interrupted.
“Good!
You've actually learned something, if not manners. May I please
continue?”
“Of
course, Mr. Pox. I apologize.”
“Right
then. As I was saying...” he paused, his gaze falling upon a
gathering of kith. “Eh. I'll save that tale for another time. I do
believe we've arrived at the scene of the crime.”
Golems and pickelhelmed constables
barred access to the alleyway. Faces grim, they moved aside to allow
the pair to pass without speaking a word. The officers barked orders
at the crowd, their demands for dispersal inadvertently luring more
to the scene. Katja saw their gawking eyes peeping through the gaps
between black uniforms and man shaped metal.
It was early, her tired eyes red from
lack of sleep and the brimstone fumes of industrial transmuters. She
stopped suddenly in her tracks, an audible gasp escaping her lips.
“You'll get used to this,” said
Pox, donning a pair of rubber gloves. “Eventually.”
Katja was paralyzed. Her stomach
churned and she covered her mouth against a rise of vomit. Loose skin
and viscera cloaked the victim but a radiant light reflected from
various fissures. Retrieving surgical scissors from his side satchel,
Pox proceeded to snip through strings of sinew. The remaining
epidermis unraveled with a sickening schlop, revealing a golden skeleton preserved mid-contortion.
Averting her gaze, Katja leaned up
against a soot-stained wall. Pox had already begun to speak while she
scrambled to find a notebook and pencil.
“Decedent resembles human female.
Dark hair; fair skin; facial features unrecognizable. Clothing has
merged with what little flesh is left. I am able to discern the
remnants of a corset among the mess. Possibly a skirt as well.
Nothing else. Soles of the feet are well preserved; heavily calloused
and blackened by grime. I also detect the heavy aroma of cheap
perfume – something obnoxiously French. Victim was likely a
prostitute and one that was fairly active in this district. Will
likely find many who were familiar with her, if there was only some
way to identi- ”
Pox stilled his tongue, shifting all
attention to the soft remains which he lifted from the ground and
unfurled, letting the flayed hide flutter like a banner in the wind.
Katja turned to the wall and vomited.
“Toughen up, girl. Take a closer
look.” said Pox, responding to the noise of slurry on stone.
Katja wiped breakfast from her lips.
After a moment of mental preparation, she turned to face his ghastly
display. It was a grotesque effigy of the woman that once was,
distorted by lack of shape and substance. Pox pulled the skin,
rendering it taut and its details more perceivable. There were deep
cuts and lesions; they had not healed well but they had at least
healed.
“Scars?” She hoped her answer was
enough to satisfy that persnickety old goat.
“Explicate. Remember what I told you
before.”
“Scars...” She paused, mindful of
his expectations. “Scars tell a story. They represent the history
of an individual and their relationship to others, as well as their
environment.”
“Close enough but what do you see?
Read the scars. Be precise.”
“The scars aren't too distinctive.
Lots of cuts – probably from a knife. This woman likely lived a
traumatic life. And what's that? Above her left breast. It doesn't
look like the others.”
Pox turned over the husk and studied
the mark. His yellow eyes narrowed and then abruptly expanded. “A
brand.”
“Someone branded her?”
“Quite crudely. It appears to be the
letter M.”
“But why?” A question almost
childlike in its innocent naivety; it felt out of place among the
blood and flesh and that auric enigma.
“Because they could. It is not
unheard of for a pimp to mark their so-called 'property'.”
Katja shifted her gaze to the golden
statue. “Okay. So - cause of death?”
“Death
by chrysopoeia.
Human transmutation. I've only ever heard of them happening in
industrial accidents. A worker falling into a live transmutator –
that sort of thing.”
“Putting
the 'how' aside for a moment – but why wasn't the rest of her
converted?”
“An
astute observation! That, however, is outside my area of expertise.
We'll have the body delivered to Shimndglurm. That old kobold will
know what to make of it.”