The harsh glare of a computer screen in the unlit room illuminated a man in his fifties. He had salt-and-pepper facial hair that surrounded his mouth, a freshly trimmed goatee and moustache. He wore a pair of circular glasses, a collared shirt, and a loosened neck-tie. His blazer hung off the back of his chair. He still had his hair, silver streaks decorating it. On the table was a bottle of expensive bordeaux along with a wine glass.

A miniature poodle laid on the table, eyes staring at the man.

The man took a sip of his wine, keeping his eyes on the screen. The wine stained the salt-streaks of his moustache. He traced his tongue across his lips, removing the possibility of the sanguine liquid from dripping onto his shirt and forcing him to go to the dry cleaners, or simply wearing the shirt at home to avoid the hassle.

A head of blonde hair popped out of the doorway, “Mr. Hollows?”

The man‘s eyes lazily swiveled to address her, “Yes, Jessica?”

“We’ve received a missive.”

“From who?”

“Whom.” His secretary corrected, “Ashran.”

“They’re always sending out missives.”

“Tom called me to tell you that he felt somebody come through the gate. And then he sent me a picture of the missive. A woman identified as Sarah Thatcher, wanted for murder, use of angrae, and exiting without assent, amongst other things.

“It’s not our problem,” Mr. Hollows said, tapping his fingers against his desk.

“It’s an Ashran missive, sir.” She was now standing in the middle of the office. Jessica had wiped off her make-up several hours ago. Her red dress hung down to her ankles, and she wore sandals that looked both formal and were comfortable to walk in.

“I know.”

“The missive also details that action is compulsory.”

Headmaster Hollows shrunk back into his wheelchair. Under his breath he muttered a curse at the Cult. “Bring the car around.”

Jessica slipped out the room.

***

“Dreadfully quiet, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, Tom,” The Headmaster responded. In his lap, the poodle took in the scene silently.

Tom was a burly obelisk of humanity. He was the type to be stereotyped as a drunkard with his unkempt beard and leather jacket. It didn’t do him any favors that he smelled of alcohol as well.

Jessica stood behind the Headmaster, her arms were crossed and she was slightly hunched, trying to retain as much heat as she could.

Tom circled the fountain to its other side, “Check this out.”

Hollows’ wheelchair hadn’t been built for grassy terrain, resulting in him bouncing uncomfortably in the un-mechanized chair.

Tom took his phone out and turned the flashlight towards the steps up the fountain. The cracked marble was soaked in crimson.

Jessica let out a low whistle, “Christ, did somebody bleed a pig out?”

“That’s not blood,” said the Headmaster.

“More like someone spilled juice,” Tom said. He shivered, goosebumps traveled across his bare arms, the hairs stood on edge.

“But there is blood,” an effeminate voice said from behind the collected triad.

They turned their heads to see a short blonde woman under a tree. Her figure bridled a nervous energy, her eyes stared forwards with unsaid thoughts.

“Ah, hello, Willow,” The headmaster said as if he was making an inside joke. Smiling like a sphinx he said, “It’s quite difficult to make out anything in that mess.”

“Somebody tried to mask the blood, but didn’t give enough thought,” she indicated the grass with a finger. Tom followed her finger with his phone’s flashlight. There was a barely perceptible trail of rust staining flattened grass. “Yet the stench of human stomach acid is another question. It seems unlikely that an individual would purposefully heave to mask their trace. Either the acid is a counterpart of a reagent, or someone spewed their alcohol. I’m betting on the latter.”

***

It was Hollows that had decided to use his phone as light to follow the meager marks of blood. The state of the city’s deterioration became most apparent at night when nearly all of the street-lamps hadn’t been replaced in a decade. Willow walked beside him, Jessica pushed her employer, and Tom kept his pace to Jessica’s footfalls.

The trail lead them across the street—where Tom had to lift the Headmaster over the curb—past the bar, and into an alley. They stopped to inspected the surrounding environs. A garbage bin which after a quick check had yielded nothing. The alley led to a dead-end, there was virtually nowhere she could have hid. Luckily, it was the blonde that noticed a spot near the mouth of the alley where a singular blood drop had blemished the ground. The trail was drying up.

“A local would’ve called the emergency line,” Hollows asserted, “She’s accompanied by another.”

“Could it be a familiar?” Tom asked.

“There’s nothing about familiars, at least, a familiar of note in the missive.”

The Headmaster scratched his beard and regarded the trail, “Someone found the woman, this person might have been an alcoholic, but the only type of people that would drink wine to induce a drunken stupor are most likely women.”

Willow grinned, “You calling me an alcoholic, cripple?”

“Cripple? How dare you disrespect your elder.”

The irony was lost on Tom and Jessica who both looked at each other to confirm one anothers confusion as Hollows and Willow chuckled.

“Whaddya reckon’s the joke, tall and burly?” Jessica whispered.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you changed the phrase.” Tom whispered back.

“I don’t think I've ever called a troll handsome.”

Tom shook his head, a grin plastered to his face.

Willows studied the alley, then shifted to Hollows, “What do you suggest? Should we check the pub? Mayhaps the inn?”

“I suggest we stay uninvolved,” Hollows said.

“I agree,” Tom said.

“Yet they require our aid,” Willow said.

Tom crossed his arms.

“They can only send a limited number of inquisitors or zealots every lunar cycle. By simply refusing we undermine their entire structure, Ashran cannot operate through Nibiru and Earth, Ningal’s webs can only stretch so far before another spider crawls onto it,” Hollows said.

“Are you insinuating something, Abraham?” The student stated sharply.

“They provide us with nothing, and they expect us to help? We are not obliged to help; Ashran cannot control the courts. We have nothing to lose if we stay uninvolved yet risk to lose everything if we meddle.”

“I have far more to lose than thee!” The student snarled.

“I understand your concern my friend, but we cannot fight somebody that has an angra.”

She cocked her head back, “And what happens when Ashran comes to collect?”

“They won’t. We’re of no concern to them. Thousands of missives find their way to the courts. Ashran will send their zealots and if they consider it necessary, inquisitors. Even then, there’s bound to be freelancers who’ll stumble onto her.”

“If I do not help then there will be a missive for me. What will you do then? Protect me?”

“Yes.”

“My people-”

“I know.”

Willow took a deep breath. “You can’t stop them, I’ve studied the Ashran Cult.”

“They won’t kill you,” Hollows said, his mein steadfast and patient.

“Ashran’s principles are archaic, yet they endure! Do you know why?”

“Power,” Hollows answered simply.

“Power. Over their people, over the courts, over the cities, beasts, sorcery. In fact, there’s one thing I know that both your University and the Cult share.”

“And what is that?”

“A zero-tolerance policy,” Willow smirked mirthlessly.

Hollows didn’t let it show, but the emotional turmoil he was experiencing was that of a book being torn into two. To help his oldest friend and accept the consequences, or to leave his friend to fend for herself.

“It is just one woman, and perhaps a local...if they still live. All you would have to do is the same thing you did when you usurped former lord of Wyrich.”

“Alc-” Hollows voice cracked, “No…” He shook his head.

“She’s a murderer, a serial killer. She has a total disregard for life!”

“It was barbaric.” Hollows said distantly, “You don’t forget what it's like to hear another man beg for their life as they bleed to death in front of you, their guts hanging from the trees like a bastardized version of christmas.”

“I remember...But this one deserves it—you—” Willow wiped her eye with her forearm, “Please.”

Slowly, Hollows shook his head, “I’m sorry.”

***

Max Green was cleaning off a cup when the pub’s door yawned open. Another customer this late at night wasn’t uncommon, but it warranted interest. Three individuals made their way to the bar. A woman in red, an older gentleman in a wheelchair, and a thuggish man leading them.

Max put down the glass, “Dad?”