Jarisven; Nykuzniszna province
Nykuznby;
April 2th, 2023
There is a litany of types of murders that could make any detective hold their head in frustration, among those are staged drownings, poisons and just poor rotten luck of some punk with a pistol. Some theses are more easily solved for the news presses than not, and thankfully be handled quickly. The complications can only increase given the victims standing in the party, how rich they are, and what sort of influence they grasp onto. Motivations or at least suspected motivations can make everything spin out of control when combined with everything. As such the worst possible case, would be the one that is forming in the basement of an inhabited dilapidated complex for the lowest among the laborers slaving away in chambers of coal and iron. Den of revolutionary Kemonomimi, they didn’t have a singular ideology or goals but their cousins in the south armed them with bombs and guns regardless. When it comes to the old sin of murder, anger is always the best motivation. Anger untapped, unrefined like a raw piece of iron ore to slam against the head of those who dragged them into bondage and violated their culture. Anger twists into fire, fire burns away the lies pushed by Ovijrin about some mythical liberal Darzist state where everyone can be equally held as worthless in the eyes of the Gothirs. For the crime of being born wrong, elves and humans have judged them to be inferior in the courts of the faithful public opinion.
The truth of the matter is it doesn’t matter how much things improved under the old dragon Tarvan Jonis or his war dog General Morningson. Sins of the past cannot be washed away by change of hands. Memories can fade but feelings never truly wither from the collective consciousness held. The untapped rage flowing like a thick black oil. All it will take to set the oil aflame is a cause, a purpose to unite the people. The Akuan Liberation Front offers such one, an old ideal that still keeps new warmth in the hearts of many among the people. Nationalism, that age old troublesome problem for Jarsiven officials. Nykuzn nationalism, Egsto Nationalism and to some degree level, even Ulvrikian nationalism. Nykuzn nationalism in particular, Jarsiven can suppress it but never end it. It only feeds back into the underlying hatred they felt. Thus gives the motivation for murder, hatred fueled nationalism.
Though oddly this time the den of revolutionaries came with a few welcomed guests, Tielfings from Egsto province, some odd friendly faces from the ALFs and a strange foreigner that stood head taller than the native Kemonomimi. Speaking with an accent that can’t be picked down but it was clear they weren’t from Ymirland nor Kuovälsna. Not like the accents from freedom fighters, who came from the south to fight for them. Though they speak fluent Novari Nys’tat’en, there was an underlying level of fluidity with it that made it sound all-so strange. Not to mention their height and how well framed the man from the land best left unnamed.
From the tieflings in the back, standing next to a man without a name and to the cold dead eyes standing at the makeshift stage in the front. Akuan Liberation Front representatives stood tall and as they looked throughout the crowd, they had the motivation, but like all good murder plots. They need a plan and a target. They had a list of targets, some from old grudges by the both peoples present here and few suggested names by the man in the back. Of course they need to decide which arguments between the ALF leadership resulted in dysfunction and as such by suggestion by the man without name. They brought the list to the collection of the most willing of radicals. Murder after all should be done by those truly willing to murder others after all.
The list of names are read out, with those cheering as if they would eliminate everyone rather than just one. Going through a list, and then the question was raised who will be eliminated. Everyone shouted out a different name of the list, arguments arousing. Bordering on fighting each other, as their hatred was misdirected towards one and another. Though a single woman, a tiefling with dark blue skin like the midnight sky. Her voice was most clear out of everyone, raising a simple hand in the air and eye contact towards the ALF. She stepped forward onto the stage, permitted by the armed soldiers attempting to settle down the people. Her eyes looked forwards towards the crowd, she spoke with resolve, strength and everything else needed to keep the fever pitch hatred directed towards a single target.
“The man whose family has wronged us all, the rat bastard who with a sway of his hand ordered massacres of 2019 when we joined hand in hand to fight for a fair wage! Bastard that looked down at us with disgust at our many pleas for basic sapient rights!” The Tielfing knew how to work the crowd to something actually workable. The name doesn’t truly matter, all that matters they have a target, they mean to vent their hatred. They have the target, the motivation and now they just need the details, the one to pull the trigger and how. To which the crowd have many suggestions ranging from stabbings to simply gun the unlucky bastard of their hate down in the streets like a hog to the slaughter.
She couldn’t direct it outside of board strategy but to her salvation coated in a hidden red. The man without a name and accent that can not be recognized walked forward. The guards didn’t bother showing a drop of resistance as he stood forward onto the stage. Clear show of influence that is best understood rather than spoken. He stepped to the stage next to the midnight Tielfing, speaking with a soft enough tone that all the hardy revolutionaries could hear between themselves. Directing anger is shockingly easy, what is troublesome is to manage and refine the hate they felt deep inside. Yet like a circus master to the ring he knew how to light the flame and the groups focused on a singular method. He organized the plan and method weeks before they even raised their voice in anger. He baited the hook to catch the perfect fish that needed to be slaughtered.
Hate cannot be as simple as a clean shot from a barrel far away enough that it could make the would-be agencies cleaning up the mess life hard. No, no, it needed enough lead to build a fishing sinker to drown Jarisven in flame. It needs to be massacre, massacre loud enough to be heard beyond the fascist theocratic voices and screams enough to damp any form of rationality held by the government. Only the complete death of a family, while they rested in their home would do. Violent one, one that would paint the walls red with not only the parent’s blood but their children. In any other time, such talk of slaughter of children wouldn’t just make the Akuanists here bulk and reject such vileness but the Duarists they shared their burdens with. However any such religious ideals or traditions were ignored, voices silenced by the pure, and utter hatred they felt. Such a powerful emotion, that it could make anyone drunk with its vile lies and intentions. If it was not the hate they felt burning in the room, the spirit of the revolution roaring to life, and direction given by those who viewed them as a tool. All, not just the Akuanists but those who praised the moon and star, the Duarists would feel such shame they couldn’t live themselves with making such a horrid decision. Whatever Spirit and Gods they believe in, they can hope they can find forgiveness for later for a decision made in anger.
The crowd gathered in their huddle masses had all everything needed for proper murder. Everything a good detective would need to make a case, but in the lands of stolen and dragonized hammer. A good detective is more rare than a good and honest politician. Hatred is the language of the streets today, violence is its song that will be heard across the two provinces made up of those not voiced in a false parliament. All that awaited them was damnation and violence.
==
Jarisven; Nykuzniszna province
Nykuznby; Dalsgaard’s Estate
April 14th, 2023
What do you get when you cross a ruthless political animal, minister of defense and a man whose personal reputation is most politely described as a philanderer. You arrive with Morningson, a young elven man who picked their last name from a comic book after falling through the gasps of a welfare system that didn’t care for people like him. Yet from such a dark, yet dirt poor beginning, he rose through the ranks into the most important military position outside of being the High Minister. Close friend, well friend would not be the word used between the two, more like coworkers. Coworkers that without each other would be facing down any manner of threats to their lives. They were bonded together in politics and blood, without Jonis, Morningson would have met a bullet. If it wasn’t for Morningson, Jonis reforms would have ended so much sooner by the hand of a military that despised the pretty alright reformer.
This was not the day for such thoughts, thoughts of reforms would have to wait. The scene of a crime has been painted red, and the political nature of the artists made it clear it required his direct attention. It was a slaughter of not only an important political ally but a close personal friend of Jonis. Though the High Minister didn’t request him to take personal attention to this. Instead he took initiative to take control of the situation personally despite his busy workload of flirting with those he shouldn’t be flirting with and running the whole military at the same time. He could feel it deep inside of him, that this is the start of a grander problem rising up from the troublesome region. As such he put on his gendarmerie officer cap on, and with him a whole mess of handpicked officers with their soldiers. Then for good measure a few thousand soldiers to completely lock down Nykuzniszna and Egstila provinces or at least do their damndest to. The local military garrisons are called up as well to reinforce them. Every hand on deck, every single person who could be trusted and be in the provinces of the ill-faithful would be. Yet everyone knew, it was only a matter of time this leaked and when it would be leaked. Riots would be the least concern.
The surprisingly young minister of defense’s military convoy pulled into the drive way, dozens of soldiers rapidly dismounting and securing the estate, replacing the militia defending the influential family’s estate. The militia here was nothing but a bunch of boys playing soldiers around here anyhow, at least to the mind of Jarsvien greatest military thinker at least. Well self described greatest Jarsiven military thinker but that was neither here or there. Not when bloody mess of political implications are awaiting before him. It wasn’t even a second that he did not have time to spare before the local militia officer rushed to him. Barely enough time to get a single foot of his to touch the Urth below.
“Minister! I didn’t know you were arriving until a few minutes ago. My apologies for not bei-“ The commander of the militia was cut off by Morningson.
“Are you the police captain here as well?” Morningson got his second foot to touch the ground. Straightening up his jacket as he straightened himself up. Looking like a proper officer rather than his rather unusual lackadaisical standards of dress. His eyes staring coldly down at the man, as his bodyguards started to get to the flanks of the minister of defense. “Speak.”
“I-I am the police commissioner and mayor. Jens Antonsen.” The militia captain gave another salute, straightening himself up. “I have to apologize for being out of uniform, when I received the call. I got here as fast as I could.” Morningson got a better look at the man in front of him, he appeared to be a typical elven man, though being far more tanned rather than not. Wearing a fucking stupid suit fit for a party rather than the serious business of a bloody murder investigation. Complete with a idiotic duck tie. Not even wearing a damn denoting his rank, name or anything that actually matters. Even his tone and annoying stutter practically screamed a big fish in a small pond that had just become a very big lake.
“Commissioner Antonsen, get rid of that tie.” Morningson on any other day would have found it humorous but by the Gods, what the fuck is wrong with him for not removing it earlier. The young general was annoyed not at the suit, rather he was thankful the local commander was aware enough of the situation to rush straight here but angered that he didn’t think to remove such an insensitive piece of cloth. The militia commander was quick enough to remove it at least before the general spoke once more. “How many entered into the estate?”
“None sir!” Antonsen shoved his tie into his pocket, it was a gift from his son after all. “As per your instructions, no one was to enter the mansion until you arrived. Though it pains me to say… There hasn’t been any staff to greet us despite our requests besides the gardener.” The gardener being the one who actually called them about the blood bath. “Who as per your request, we haven’t questioned either.” He let his hand fall to the side of his leg.
“You brought the one who answered their call as well?” Morningson started to march towards the mansion’s doors. Stopping the steps looking down at Antonsen, looking at his personal guards as they went ahead inside, allowing a few moments of privacy between the two. “And you haven’t called your mother either about this have you?” It was fifty-fifty which parent put this nepobaby in-charge of one of such a sensitive area for security. Often enough it was the father for military matters, but who knows perhaps this Antonsen fella will break the mold.
Antonsen tried to make it look like he wasn’t offended by the accusation of course, grinding his teeth before speaking to his superior. “I haven’t told anyone *sir*, as soon as I arrived. I called you directly, *sir*.” He maintained somewhat of his professionalism at least.
Morningson leaned down, grabbing the militia’s commander’s collar. “Listen here, I am being polite and asking if you talked to whatever, *benefactor* that got you this position. It is not a matter of if, but *when* I have my staff investigate you. What am I going to find there?” The minister of defense eyes locked onto Antonsens.
“You will find one placed call to the ministry of defense *sir*.” Antonsen held his tongue, before becoming annoyed. “And… a call my uncle.” Morningson let go of the militia general. “He won’t talk to anyone, he just had business dealings with Nyström’s family… He is a good friend of the High Minister.” Millita commander held up his hands, before lowering them to his lap. Giving a small sigh, before Morningson spoke up again.
“Alright then.” Morningson brushed off a bit of dirt on the mayor’s shoulder, and straightened up his suit. “I have someone go speak with him.” The minister then moved his hands to brush back his hair, lifting his peaked officer cap upwards. “How long ago did you last speak with him?”
“Several hours ago but-”
“I would have you shot if I could be bothered with the paperwork.” Morningson spoke with an annoyed tone. “You didn’t take any of your militia personals’ phones either, did you?”
“No, sir.”
Morningson gave a muffled yell into his hands before letting his hands drop to his sides. “Why are you still in front of me? Go collect their fucking phones!” He screamed at this political minnow, watching him scramble to get away from him. Muttering underneath his breath, “For fuck sake.” He walked back up the steps and reached to the doors of the mansion holding back the horrors from inside. He needed to take a personal look at the crime scene, he couldn’t trust this idiot with a duck tie earlier phone call with him about the scene. He of course wasn’t a detective despite his love of Norgsveltian crime dramas, and the people that should be investigating this drastic event would use this to further entrench themselves in opposition to his current status of being alive. He gave a deep breath, closing his eyes as his hand wrapped around the doorknob and gently opened the door.
[i]Fifteen Minutes Later[/i]
Morningson stepped out again, his hand shakily reaching out to the stairway railing. His green eyes staring off into the distance thousand yards away. The young man’s chest barely moved as he strained each day to soothe his rapidly beating heart. The sky began to cry and thunder crackled in the distance. As if the Gods wanted to blot out the sun to hide the horrors inside, as dark clouds began to rush into the troublesome estate.
Morningson, son of a drunkard blacksmith with a fiery temper and a mild-mannered baker, bearing names he long rejected. He saw death before, he saw men beat their sons and mothers strangle their daughters in his hometown. His eyes laid on brutal massacres, some he ordered, others he carried out and all of which he long suppressed in the back of his mind. Yet, among visions of lynches and firing squads. None pale in comparison to the strings of… What were people. The butchery behind the doors needed to be kept as quiet as possible, justice needs to be ignored for the sake of stability.
The clouds crackled before releasing their tears on to the Urth, lighting bolts dashing through the sky and the very thunder mocked him. The Elven man shakily walked through the brewing mud, few eyes darting towards but none but one annoying pest dare approach him in this distraught state.
Antonsen defies any sense of social awareness and obvious signs that he shouldn’t approach. Not that General could hear the minnow, his voice drummed out with the sounds of thunder and blood. Morningson gave a harsh shove to the brat, not affording to spare a glance to him. Antonsen landed flat on his ass, he said… Something or another that earned him a hit to the back by Morningson personal guards before standing him back up. Soft whisper of something, from the General’s attache before sending him away before the attache casting a look at Morningson. It didn’t matter, none of this little political dance he performs for the audience who lack any sort of since.
His shaky hands weakly opened up the nearest military vehicle he could reach before collapsing into the seat. Slamming the door closed, before resting his weary head into his hands. He held no tears, death didn’t have that sort of hold over him, but the brutality of the horror inside the manor more than caught him off guard. Yet he did what he always did, he minimized it and… moved on from thinking of the horrors. Instead think how to capitalize on it.
A dead oligarch is bad, but it happens enough that it isn’t too concerning. Though a dead oligarch that is connected and a solid ally of Jonis however is much greater concern but workable. Dead oligarch family however, with a level of butchery fit only for rabid boars. Now isn’t concerning, it was dire. Those with the power will demand blood from the minority states, a purge driven by the mad out of fear for themselves and their own families. It wouldn’t be kindling but a lit match tossed into the bonfire, the situation couldn’t be contained and undoubtedly the information has already leaked. The act was too brutal, and the local officials too incompetent.
Which leaves a very important question, a question that doesn’t truly matter to anyone other than him. Who could do such a vile act inside, it couldn’t be the growing disgruntled movement of the rural areas. They wouldn’t possibly have the ability to reach this far to conduct such an operation. It wouldn’t be their style either, they haven’t done any assassinations of this calibrator even more so, they were made up of farmers and disgruntled veterans. This act of mass murder wouldn’t be in their sort of wheel house, they would have shot and left. No this was something deeply personal, perhaps it was some sort of act of oligarch infighting? But that wouldn’t make sense, family of the elite don’t get targeted like this less they would be treated the same way by everyone else. Poisoning, car accidents? Absolutely but something this loud would break any sort of myth of honor that kept them all safe.
Not to mention, the attack wasn’t only on the family. It was on the staff as well, they was smeared along the walls. No one in the manor was spared of the butchery. Could be some sort of group of sadistic serial killers that got lucky by killing the guards and everything else but… That was just a hopeful thought, and a rather poor lead being brought on by desperation. There is the option the Akuanists did it, they’re in Nykuzniszna after all but frankly that seems downright absurd. Sure you can rile them up enough to start killing, but being brutal with it? He studied these people, they’re far too fearful of their pitiful gods and far, far too bought into their weak pacifistic ways. Not to mention the very idea of slaughtering children to them would be a primal sin against their faith.
That does leave the Egsto, they are backwards people and Tieflings to boot. They’re savage enough to-do this, but that doesn’t seem right either. Egsto and the Nykuzn peoples spent the last few decades getting over their issues with each other, by killing the staff here. They would set themselves back to the pre-Jonis times, and Gods knows the rest of the results would ensure they would end up skirmishing with each other again. Plus, that leaves the personal level of hatred. It wouldn’t make sense for them to travel across the country into the Nykuzniszna province in order to kill an oligarch when they had perfectly good local oligarchs to kill.
Nothing about this made sense, not a single damn thing. The brutality of the murder, the staff and family being included. It had to be a skilled team, or a whole lot of people. It was hard to tell given the insides. There was an idea of foreign operatives, but it wouldn’t fit either the Norgsveltian style or the Côtois style. Norgsveltians make accidents happen and Côtois operate on pure speed. These murderers took their time with their craft. Which leaves the serial killer option despite it being ridiculous, it provides comfort to him. He would have to wait for his personal detectives to get over their hangover and go investigate. It would leak, but they could at least keep some of the more gory details out of the public imagination.
The elven man’s phone rang with a familiar ringtone he picked out when he was in one of his playful moods. A chippy Valkyr pop song, he thought would get a laugh out of some secretary when he told them it was the High Minister. Instead it was almost an offense to the senses, as he practically ripped his phone out of his pocket, lifting it to his ear and accepting the call.