Moxxie had a coffee to his side. The couple had returned to their apartment; whatever brevity they hoped to achieve was slowed by the borrowed rust-bucket their family called a 'tractor'. Rain, the lifeblood of Wrath and the seasonal weather for the ring, pattered instead inside Pride, against the decaying windows of the couple's apartment.
A massive book, filled with businesses and phone numbers, was in front of the weapons expert, and as he took a sip of a barista's horrifying concoction, he began dialing. The page had been flipped to 'medical', a section with every single name, phone number, and address for medical institutions within the ring.
He put the phone up to his ear. A tone could be heard. It stopped. Another tone. "…hello, you reached Pus n' Boots Barber-Surgeon Clinic, front desk. My name's Barbara, how may I help you?"
"Hi, yes, uh, I have a bit of a predicament here. See, one of our serfs on the family farm has gone missing. He was injured, so I was just wondering if you might have seen him?"
A few short moments of pause. "…what's he look like?"
"He's an imp. Tall, tan, he was wearing a farmhand outfit last we saw him. He's got a pencil moustache and his eyes have this rather distinct look to them, like…" He clears his throat after failing to find the words. "He goes by Striker."
"Mmh… if you could hold for me while I talk to my colleagues here, that would be fantastic."
"Sure."
Smooth jazz, crunched by the lack of bitrate, played softly on the phone's speaker. Moxxie sighed.
Millie rubbed her husband's shoulder, whispering. "How's it goin', hun?"
A small smile, coupled with the wrinkling of the husband's eyebrows, meant to signify vulnerability but looking more like it signifies pain. "I'm on hold."
The music stops. "So I've talked with some of the barber-surgeons in the shop right now, and unfortunately, your description isn't ringing any bells. Would you like to leave your name and number in case we do see him?"
Moxxie mulled it for a moment. On the one hand, it would save him a call if he needed to go through the numbers again. On the other… he was pretending to own serfs… "No, that's okay, we'll keep calling around. Thank you for your time, Barbara."
"It's no problem, and I'm sorry we couldn't help any. Have a good rest of your day."
"You too, take care."
The line disconnected. He looked to Millie. "Nothing… but they checked."
"Dang, is that there really all it takes?"
"I… guess they don't want to mess with serfdom contracts…" He unrolls a piece of parchment, on it scrawled an impressive map of the city. "Behemoth Street… that would beeee…" He marks it with a pen. "Here. So he didn't show up there. Strange, that's the closest to Tumbleweed."
"Is it strange, tho'?"
Moxxie looks over his shoulder to his wife. "What do you mean?"
Millie leans against the chair that Moxxie was sitting in. "Well, if I were that sunuvabitch, what I'd do is go to tha place ya'd least expect. Buy some time, right? Well, fuel providin', a' course…"
"He has our van… which is a guzzler…" He traces a path to the other end of the city. "If he went to the place we'd least expect, he'd probably think it'd be at the other end of the city. He'd have to fill up with gas first, even on a full tank. That means that we could find a gas station on the route and track him that way. He'd probably know this…" A loose circle is drawn across one half of the map. "If he drove any further than this, then we know he used a gas station somewhere. Could be, but… I'm going to bet that he'd want as little tied to him as possible. That means he probably stopped driving within this range."
"He whacked them gas station attendants last time he filled up, tho'."
The weapons expert thought for a moment, letting out a sigh. "Okaaay, well…" He tapped his hand against the desk. "I don't know, the news would have picked up on it if he did. Right? I mean… it's sensationalist, probably multiple people killed… I didn't see any of that." A little nervous chortle. "That would have made this a lot easier."
"So… ya gon' narrow tha search down, then?" The southern belle takes the cup of coffee.
"I'll have to. The sooner we can get a location, the better… we can't let the trail run cold." He grit his teeth, his eyes squinting into a glower at the map in front of him. "Not this time."
Millie slowly sips on the hideously sweet 'coffee'. "…why is he in tha city?"
"…why is he… to get away from us, right?"
"Sure, but… why'd he go in this here direction? Why not tha other way? I mean, ain't like there aren't barber-surgeons deeper inta Wrath Less peeps too."
Moxxie was handed the coffee, and he took a sip. He blinked a few times. "…he… might have business in Pride."
"An' what do we know 'bout Striker?"
"He…" Moxxie's eyes widen, and he looked towards the centre of the map. Petri Crucem, the heart of Pride. The imperial residence and the Goetian Assembly. The vast manors owned by various Goetia surrounding it, an appendage of royal power attached to the core. A significant chunk of these houses of power were in the range the weapons expert had marked out.
Moxxie stared for a couple of moments. Millie peeked over. "Moxx, hun? Ya alright?"
"…" The realisation of the situation had started to dawn on him. "Oh fuck."
Octavia laid in a stranger's bed, staring at the ceiling, hands clasped in front of her stomach. The disgustingly vivid pinks were graciously muted by the darkness of her room, and if she closed her eyes and thought very hard, she could imagine that she was back home. Back in the manor. She was only thrown out of this fantasy by the silkiness of the sheets below her.
She was wide awake. Her head raced through the events of the past couple of months. Her father was killed, morbidly displayed at the Assembly for all to see, his name stripped from him and given to her. Even with the name of Stolas, she was no more in charge of her destiny as she was prior. Here she lay, completely at the mercy of the Emperor, under his protective custody. Any powers, any responsibility is subordinate to him… at least, until the grimoire is found.
The Stolas manor, meanwhile, lay empty of all civilian occupation. It has been left to rot, plants growing into the walls, plaster cracked. The old traditions of no men or women being allowed into the manor at night have been soundly broken; men of the Frumentarii walked the halls, inspected the architecture, secured the exterior.
Despite their upbringing that urged stoic austerity, the troops found themselves misplacing many of the more ornate decorations and flourishes within the manor. The officers, when they saw this, turned a blind eye; there was no reason to bring attention to one's theft when they themselves had been guilty of the same. The house lay stripped of its former glory.
Seviathan, reclining, legs disrespectfully resting on a desk, held a flip phone of cheap construction in his hand. His eyes were glancing around to the Frumentarii surrounding him, in the former Goetia's study. Blue, gold, and white. Certainly not how the von Eldritch would decorate the room. He swallowed his disgust for a moment to speak. "…the site's secure and the Stolas regiment has been partially subordinated. We're in the process of purging the ranks of those who may be allied with Andrealphus and replacing them with our own."
"Any news on the grimoire?" The voice, haughty and authoritative, was unmistakably the Emperor's.
"No leads. I've sent some loyal Vigiles out, they're unable to determine its location. It must be in the living world."
"Tsk, so those imps weren't lying. Right, make the grimoire a tertiary priority. Determine how much Andrealphus has knackered the Stolas regiment, record every single person who's taken orders from him, and try to build a case on him. We may be able to kill two birds with one stone here."
The spymaster paused. "…yes, my liege. Just… if you could explain to me why you're lowering the priority of the grimoire-"
Lucifer scoffed. "What are we going to do? Scour the entire living world for one stupid book? We may as well consider it gone for now."
"…the Vigiles could get up there, surely." Seviathan tapped his fingers against the desk.
"Look, I've considered this. Even if we got another grimoire and opened a portal up, the Vigiles are deathly afraid of going through the portals of other Goetia. We've tried to encourage them multiple times, especially the ascended, but it's never worked." The emperor lets out a ragged sigh. "Sev, please do as I say. I've dealt with enough as it is."
A few thoughts ran through Seviathan's head. "…ah. I see. Alright, we'll focus on Andrealphus then."
The line went dead. Seviathan then took the phone, broke it in half, and shoved it in a drawer with several others. On one of the phones was a green post-it note. "PLEASE INCINERATE".
