Edgar Fisher was not officially dead. Supposedly, the aging manservant was currently attending to his master, Marquis Farmaul Coldwood, in Frostfall Keep as the Marquis discussed business with the House Lord. Officially, he was pouring tea and plumping pillows all the while lamenting his poor pay and unfortunate circumstances. Just yesterday, Sylvia had written to Alxand and informed him that Edgar had been muttering about Coldwood's "rudeness" towards him; the man's face had been marked by a very clear handprint. Alxand found this information quite interesting considering the fact that Edgar Fisher's bloated corpse was laying at his feet.
Alxand mildly studied the stripped body laying before him. Fisher's skin, probably once a milky white, was ash gray, laying like folds of wet clay against his bones. His short hair was still wet- Alxand had pulled him out of the river -darkening it from its silvery color to a dark gray, and his flesh had several pieces missing, probably from when wildlife took a nibble. Judging by his coloration and the amount of bites, Alxand figured Fisher had been dead at least two weeks. Question was, if Fisher was here, who was the man with the Marquis?
Alxand had a pretty good idea.
"So, what do you think?" a slender, white-haired elf prompted from behind him. Alxand grunted at the other man, lightly kicking Fisher's side. His boot seemed to meld into the flesh a moment before there was a quiet crack, the sound of frail bones breaking. The elf made a disgusted sound.
"It's him alright," Alxand said blandly. "Look at the burns- that was magic." The elf, whose name was Glynhorn, grimaced from his perch on the lamppost. The raven on his shoulder was cleaning its black feathers nonchalantly, but Alxand knew better than to discount the bird. The moment he looked away was the moment the bloody thing stole more of his money. Alxand had warned Glynhorn off, but Glynhorn swore the raven acted of her own violation.
"Can't help herself," he'd claimed, "She's got a disease, honestly."
Alxand didn't trust the damn bird or her owner.
Unfortunately, Alxand had been forced to reach out to Glynhorn in this case because as much of a thief as he was, Glynhorn knew his streets better than anyone. More importantly, he had something in common with Alxand's target.
"Harbinger doesn't usually kill innocents," Glynhorn muttered, "So why'd he dump Fisher's body? Especially in the Harmony- that's sloppy." Alxand was half-listening; he crouched down beside Fisher, eyeing the burned flesh along his torso. The color of the flesh was wrong; rather than the black supposed to accompany fire, it was purple, the clear sign that the burns weren't natural. Alxand tapped the body, and ash came away with his fingers. Glynhorn made another noise that made Alxand roll his eyes.
"Edgar Fisher wasn't innocent," he told the other man, "He was a Seeker. That makes him the enemy."
"He was an initiate," Glynhorn argued, "Nowhere near as corrupt as the Marquis." Satisfied with his consideration of the body, Alxand stood again.
"Which is why Harbinger killed him," he said. Then he looked up at the elf directly. Glynhorn still didn't look convinced, his brow drawn together over his unnaturally pale eyes in a look of doubt. Alxand shot another glare at the grooming raven, a glare that was met with a laughing caw.
"Harbinger doesn't kill unless he has to," Glynhorn insisted, and Alxand fought back a groan. Glynhorn usually knew what he was talking about, and though his hesitancy was irritating, Alxand knew better than to disregard the elf's insight. Glynhorn had been following Harbinger's exploits much longer than Alxand had, and moreover, the elf had inside knowledge that Alxand himself would never understand fully no matter how thoroughly Glynhorn explained it, and it had everything to do with the small raven that followed the elf wherever he went.
For Harbinger had a raven too.
Alxand had never seen it himself, but the rare story he was able to coax out of those who had managed to catch a glimpse of the enigma he chased after always spoke of the raven. It was the only consistency Alxand had found; nothing else remained the same. Gender, race, age- it all changed as quickly as Harbinger disappeared. Alxand and Glynhorn had taken to referring to Harbinger as a "he" only out of habit; the truth was, they had no idea who Harbinger was. They only knew what he was.
Warlock. The mere word sent shudders through Alxand, and Glynhorn's bird didn't ease his nerves. Alxand had only met two warlocks, one being Glynhorn and the other being dead. As far as he was concerned, if he never had to fight another warlock, it would be too soon. The more he investigated Harbinger though, the more he felt sure that he wouldn't get his wish, especially when he dug bodies out of rivers. Worse though was that Harbinger wasn't just any warlock; he, like Glynhorn, was Zetmer's warlock. Alxand didn't know much about the god, but what he had seen of his power was downright terrifying. It was why he aimed to stay on Glynhorn's good side most of the time, and it was why he hunted Harbinger.
No matter what Glynhorn said, Harbinger was a murderer. Alxand didn't much mind it when he took out Seekers, but they weren't always the only victims. Fisher himself had a granddaughter he'd been sending money to, money that was feeding her two children; obviously enough those funds were currently few and far in between. Alxand would have to figure out a way to help the poor widow now that her grandfather was dead.
It was something Alxand had learned over his years fighting the Seekers. It didn't matter how corrupt, how immoral, how evil a person was; there was always someone that would miss them when they were gone. It didn't stop Alxand from killing- it really was inevitable that he'd have to take a life here and there -but it did make him consider the consequences. Any innocents, or rather civilians, that he affected were taken care of; Alxand made sure of it. Harbinger, on the other hand, didn't seem to care much. There was a reason for his name; he came through, did his work, and left without another thought for what was left behind. It hadn't been the bodies that had caught Alxand's attention; it had been the living. He'd tracked Harbinger from Shadesong to Goreflame, and now it seemed that he was in Frostfall.
Alxand hated Frostfall. Glynhorn wore only a simple frock coat, but despite being born in Frostfall's wintry embrace, Alxand found himself forced to wear several layers to stay warm. He'd been away for a long time; being forced to return was agitating to say the least. It may have been a petty reason to hate a person, but Alxand added it to his long list of irritations towards Harbinger anyway.
"You don't think this was Harbinger then?" Alxand asked the warlock. Glynhorn hesitated and then shook his head.
"That's the problem, Alxand. It looks like Harbinger, but it doesn't feel like him." Alxand tried to remain patient; Glynhorn's odd explanations were something he was used to. Zetmer, being a god of secrets, did not always take kindly to his folk sharing information. Alxand had plenty of secrets to give in return, which granted him most of Glynhorn's information, but there were still lines that Glynhorn wasn't allowed to cross.
"If you don't think Harbinger did this, who did?" Glynhorn was silent at the question. At first, Alxand thought he had hit one of this lines again, but as the silence continued, he realized the expression Glynhorn wore wasn't wary or apologetic. It was genuine concern, and that in turn worried Alxand.
Glynhorn didn't know.