Chapter 616 - Interlude - Fenrir - Overthrowing the Tyrants IX; Investigative Files II (Patreon)

AN: Sorry this one ended up much shorter than a typical chapter, without it being a particularly heavy hitting one. I just got through the entire plot and outline much faster than I thought I would.

Enjoy!

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It was a dark and stormy night.

Lightning flashed by the window, illuminating Detective Fenrir, Private Weyevern, in his cramped office. Pictures of old glories lined the walls. Yellowed newspapers with dates of his most famous deeds were framed next to them, not a single word of his exploits written in the pages. The infamous detective was reclined on his plush chair, hat pulled low over his eyes and swirling a glass of whiskey as hard as his heart.

A melancholy look out the window stared at the deluge of rain coming down, trying in vain to wash away the sins of the city. A grime that was impossible to remove.

He considered the stout bottle that had started the evening sealed. Responsible drinkers took a month to polish off the whiskey… Fenrir was trying to decide if he should take the last shot now, or later. A crunch of his jaws, and the whiskey burned twice as much as the shards of broken glass. Just like the cruel hands fate dealt out when the fickle mistress was in a mood.

A scream came from outside Fenrir’s door in an octave usually reserved for breaking glass. Annoying, but it meant Fenrir had a case. A case meant the sweet, sweet sound of arcs clinking down onto his wing, and that was music to his ear anyday. Arcs paid the bills. Specifically, Bill, the bartender that kept Fenrir afloat, and Bill, the debt collector. 

So when a fiery redhead opened the door, Fenrir’s heart did a few flips, his mind transported back to a better time. A time when his old flame was at the Private Weyevern’s side, when they did everything together. That lady was the one for Fenrir, and he glanced at her picture on the wall. Standing next to her was like holding his wing to an inferno, and the picture wasn’t even a match.

The dame sounded like a case herself, but Fenrir couldn’t be picky about his clients. It was the same as nearly every other case that walked in through his door. Her spouse was a low life, cheating on her, and the dame wanted evidence of it. It wasn’t glamorous, but the sweet melody of arcs clinking together were more than enough for the Private Weyevern to get off his seat and hit the sinful streets.

The only surprise to the case was the dame wanted evidence of the infidelity. Finding a faithful man in the city was harder than finding an honest politician. Kept him well lubricated though, so maybe Fenrir wasn’t in any position to throw too many iceballs. He had an address and a picture, and it wasn’t too hard to find the horned playboy.

The woman he was with was radiant, and Fenrir dutifully followed them around. No seedy motel for them, no. Glitz and glamour was the order of the day, the shining gold and sparkling crystals utterly failing to hide the corruption running deep inside. High stakes games of poker were played with the elite, and Fenrir narrowed his eyes as a cold case of his suddenly became hot again.

He’d been sent here on a long case, and it looked like it was finally time for his big break. The radiant woman the scoundrel was cheating with was one of the 512.

Detective Fenrir was nothing if not professional, and he continued on the case he was on. Once the game was over, and more arcs than he’d see in three years were passed around like a brothel’s most popular pick, the horned scoundrel and his lady left the table.

It wasn't hard to track the lovebirds to their nest. Fenrir got several unfortunate eyefulls of flailing limbs doing their best to tie themselves in a knot as he watched from a nearby rooftop. The Private Weyevern made a number of detailed, accurate sculptures out of Ice, a frozen moment of fiery passion. His biggest challenge was stopping the never-ending deluge from freezing to the delicate details and morphing it into a shapeless blob. The case had been easy… too easy.

“Well well well, looks like there’s a peepin’ Tom up hereabouts.” One elf spat, smacking his truncheon into the palm of his hand. “We don’t like peepin’ Toms around these parts.”

The second elf spat.

“Not at all, not at all.” He agreed, raising his truncheon over his head.

Fenrir’s first move was to preserve the statues, the immutable evidence of the dirty deeds. That did him in. He was unable to outrun the thuggish goons. The pair of orthopedics in training got a solid workout on his frame, and when they were done, a full marching band was playing for the Queen through Fenrir’s skull. The acoustics were incredible, and Fenrir had an all-pain pass.

He took his trophies home, and the dame was a fix of furious and ecstatic at his prompt work. Fenrir hadn’t mentioned he’d made a second set, and it was the work of the night to track down the jilted husband. Another one of the city’s elite.

His scream of rage at discovering his wife’s infidelity was sweet to Fenrir’s ears, but nothing quite as nice as the steady clinking of arcs and whiskey bottles as his cold case was closed.