Arrival
Welcome to Marcuria, Apostle". The unnamed official bows respectfully. "I've been entrusted by the Emissary to escort you to your quarters and aid you in your investigation". Kian returns his greeting, making an effort not to appear too distracted by snowflakes floating down from the sky. The landscape is very white and the air is cold, he can feel every inch of his lungs as he fills them with it. Not much is said as his escort leads him through unfamiliar streets. Little wonder there, his mission isn't exactly a public affair after all.
Marcuria is a port city, just like Sadir. That's where the similarities end though. Sadir is built on a relatively flat plane. Marcurian serpentine streets slope up and down in a chaotic manner. The inner walls dividing it into several sections are the only thing that brings order to the cityscape. Here roads are narrower, paved with cobblestone worn with time. Though the city is quite large, occupying vast planes, and surrounded by giant walls on par with the ones guarding Sadir, its streets don't boast grandeur, but they get all the top points in eccentricity.
The inn he's headed to is very accommodating, at the very least. His room is spacious and warm. Well furnished, fresh white linens, the table he has for meals is small, but recently lacquered by the looks of it. It smells of wood and freshly baked bread. He barely has time to put his small traveling bag down and eat a few bites from the loaf of bread and have the hot stew brought up as per his request from the diner below. His escort - Neale, is his name - is back quite soon.
"My deepest apologies, Apostle, but Sister Sahya cannot receive you today." He bows deeply, "There has been a… horrible incident she needs to look into."
"An incident?"
"One of the guards of the Tower was found dead last night. His neck is broken."
The Tower? Kian understands. If this is a murder, it's too close to the central power to be taken lightly. "Has the culprit been found?"
"It's not known for certain that it was a murder", Neale says hastily, "he was up on scaffoldings, he might have fallen."
"What other injuries did he have?"
"Nothing, as far as I know. No sign of struggle at all."
He's too hopeful, grasping at a more innocent solution. "No other signs of falling to death either then?" Kian notes.
"I suppose not". He looks crestfallen as he answers.
"Do they think it could have been the Scorpion's doing?" Kian asks bluntly and finds it remarkable how the man's face changes at once. The fear in his eyes is unmistakable. They are afraid to mention his name, he thinks bemused. He finds such weakness unbecoming for his people. His faith is weak, he should pray and trust the Goddess to protect him.
"We do not rule it out. But that is not why I'm here". He extends a large bundle of papers wrapped in leather bounding. "The word was received that you would need all the information available on the Scorpion and the rebel activities. We have collected all the documents for you here. Unfortunately there isn't as much as we would like. Evidentiary is stored and protected. If you wish to see them, I can escort you".
Kian takes the bundle. In his experience, more than a half of these papers must be there by the grace of meticulous bureaucracy and of no practical use to him. Nevertheless he thanks Neale and instructs him to return early next morning. During this time he should be able to finish the meal and take a look at the papers. His escort is correct, the documents are not informative enough, but he is considered the best for a reason. After all, Apostle's worth is not in his skill with sword alone. As he finishes his modest meal, he takes his first glimpse at the accounts of the rebel attacks. The pattern, or, in certain departments, a purposeful absence of it is easy to see: quick strikes, ambushes in the most unexpected places, environmental disadvantages for the Azadi used to great effect. Never a witness left alive. Bodies never show much battering, they're killed quickly and effectively. Targets are chosen to cut their provisions, sabotage their workings, cut their way North. These are well planned attacks, carefully scattered around the city, no heaps of crosses on the map are set close together, no cluster to pinpoint the center or activity, to show direction. This isn't by incidence. He sees cold calculation and a dark, twisted kind of creativity. It is clear to him that he cannot find the Scorpion if he just searches for him. Nobody who has actually seen the man has lived, apparently. He needs to extend his search to the rebellion in its entirety, even though they are not the primary target of his mission. He spends the evening sitting in front of a fireplace, reading what the local authorities count for witness accounts in a case with no true witness in existence. Some of them are wild, nonsensical stories. He can't understand how they even ended up in these documents, but perhaps they wanted to thicken the file with something other than reports of failure. A local merchant claims the Scorpion is half man half actual giant scorpion with a venomous tail and that he saw him once in a dark alley. Another one says he heard from a reliable source that the Scorpion has the ability to hypnotize anyone and submit them to his will. Yet another person has the audacity to claim that he's a god of death and destruction, not a man at all. A magical female has allegedly told people at a marketplace that the Scorpion can steal people's souls. Each tale more ludicrous than the other.
As he sips from the glass of rich burgundy wine sent up by the proprietor as a sign of respect and welcome, something hits the window. At first he thinks some unwitting bird must have collided with the glass, but going to the window he sees it is not so. Children are scattering, running away from the inn and its enraged owner. Each and every one of them could come up with a story akin to these, he thinks, why, they may actually have. A few moments more another curious thought occurs to him, Or perhaps they are all authored by the Scorpion and his rebels themselves.