Alph stepped into the courtyard. Sunlight, filtered through the grime of the docks, illuminated a burly half-orc. Constable Oktar. His skin, a muted green, stretched taut over a formidable frame. Fangs jutted from his lower jaw, gleaming faintly. Scars crisscrossed his face, each a record of past battles. Oktar's presence commanded attention, a stark contrast to the clerk's passive demeanor. This was a man of action, a man who had seen conflict.
“Constable Oktar?” Alph’s voice carried a tremor, carefully practiced. “They told me you handle… these cases.” He gestured vaguely, implying the horror of grave desecration. “My uncle’s grave, you see… They dug it up. For a copper bracelet, they said. A copper bracelet.” He shook his head, a picture of bewildered grief. “I just… I want to know if you will catch the damn fiend who caused it and get the bracelet back?”
Oktar turned, his green eyes sharp, assessing. “Another one, eh?” His voice was a low growl, rough as gravel. “Look, lad, I understand your distress. I truly do. But I have no men to spare. Not for a copper bracelet.” He ran a hand over his scarred cheek. “The last time we went after this particular fiend, four of my comrades ended up in hospice. They still haven’t recovered.” Oktar’s gaze hardened. “He’s not just a grave robber. He’s a menace.”
Alph nodded, a quick, jerky motion. "Yes, Constable, I understand but…" He swallowed hard, forcing a catch in his throat. "It was all he had left. All I had left of him."
He met Oktar’s gaze, letting his eyes brim with unshed tears. "I just… I need to know if you can do anything. If there's any hope." His voice was a raw whisper, laced with desperation. "They said you're the one who knows about these fiends."
Oktar’s expression remained unreadable, but a flicker of something, perhaps weariness, crossed his scarred features. He gestured towards a small, open-sided office tucked into a corner of the courtyard. "Come inside, lad. We’ll talk."
Alph followed, his steps heavy. The office was sparse, a desk and two chairs its only furnishings. Papers, neatly stacked, occupied one corner of the desk. Oktar settled into his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. He gestured for Alph to sit.
"Look, I understand your pain," Oktar began, his voice softer now, though still rough around the edges. "Grave robbing. It’s a vile business. We see too much of it." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "But I have no men to spare right now. Not for this."
Alph felt a chill. The dockworkers’ rumors were true. This target was dangerous, a proven threat to armed and trained law enforcement. The constabulary’s caution was not laziness; it was fear, born from bitter experience.
"So, he just… gets away with it?" Alph asked, a new edge entering his voice.
The constable’s jaw tightened. “What I’m doing is keeping my remaining men alive. We’ve got smugglers, we’ve got gang wars, we’ve got drunken brawls every damn night. You think I’ve got time to chase a ghost through the graveyards?” His voice dropped. “You want your uncle’s bracelet back? Find a mercenary. Or pray the bastard slips up and gets himself knifed in an alley.”
Alph pushed, subtly, "This… fiend. He just keeps doing it? But… he has to find ways to sell the goods right? Can you tell me which gang he is affiliated with?"
Oktar’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening. The half-orc’s gaze became a physical weight, pinning Alph in place.
Alph felt a jolt. He had pushed too hard, too fast. The half-orc’s instincts were sharp. "I… I just want to understand," Alph stammered, trying to regain his footing. "To know why someone would do such a thing. To my uncle."
Oktar’s voice dropped to a snarl. “Hold on.”
A clawed hand shot up, palm out, halting Alph mid-breath. The half-orc’s fangs glinted as his lips peeled back. “You’re not here for a bracelet. Grieving nephews don’t ask about gang ties. They don’t press for details.” Another step forward, close enough that the stink of stale sweat and iron rolled off him. “So. Who sent you? Or are you just another rat sniffing around my docks?”
Crap. The word echoed in Alph’s skull, sharp as a hammer strike. His pulse thrummed in his throat, each beat a reminder of how badly he’d misplayed this. Oktar wasn’t some dull-witted guard; the half-orc’s instincts were honed by years of sniffing out lies in the docks’ stinking underbelly. One wrong word, one slip in the act, and the constable would see right through him.
Think. Adapt. The old reflexes kicked in, the ones that had kept him alive in courtrooms and back alleys alike. He needed a pivot, something to redirect the suspicion before Oktar’s patience snapped. A grieving nephew wouldn’t know the right questions to ask—but someone sent from the city to investigate would. That could work. He just had to sell it.
The half-orc’s breath reeked of iron and old ale as he loomed closer. Alph held his ground, but his mind raced. The act had crumbled; Oktar’s suspicion was a blade pressed to his throat. Time to change the game.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He exhaled, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. The grieving nephew vanished. In his place stood something colder, sharper. His fingers twitched toward the potted fern wilting on the windowsill—a sad, dust-choked thing, its fronds brown at the edges. A flicker of will, a pulse of intent. Nature’s Touch whispered through him, subtle as a held breath.
The fern shuddered. New growth unfurled, vibrant green, coiling upward like a serpent’s tongue. The air thickened with the scent of damp earth and crushed mint.
Oktar recoiled. His meaty hand dropped to the baton at his belt, then stilled. "What in the Titan’s rusted bones—?"
Alph didn’t flinch. The half-orc’s looming presence failed to stir a single tremor in his limbs. "You were right, Constable. I’m not here for a bracelet."
The grieving youth vanished. Alph straightened, his spine aligning with predatory grace. He pulled out the heavy wooden chair opposite the desk and sat with practiced ease. Every movement was deliberate, fluid, the mark of a man comfortable with power. He leaned back, his eyes locking onto Oktar's with unwavering, clinical intensity.
The half-orc’s nostrils flared. His gaze darted between Alph’s face and the thriving plant, then narrowed. "You’re sent by the above?"
"Not just above," Alph corrected, voice low, precise. "I’m here on behalf of the council."
A beat. The office air turned dense, charged. Oktar’s fingers drummed against his thigh. "Val Karok sent a young druid to chase a grave robber?"
Alph allowed himself a thin smile. "When the desecrated grave belongs to a councilman’s kin, yes."
The constable’s jaw worked. He spat a curse, then slumped back into his chair. The wood groaned. "Should’ve known. Should’ve known they’d send someone when the complaints got loud enough." His yellowed tusks gleamed as he bared them. "Four men down. Four. And all I got a strongly worded letter."
Alph didn’t react to the insult, it wasn't targeting him anyway. He let the silence stretch, let the half-orc stew in his own frustration. Then, "You’ve been tracking him."
Oktar’s laugh was a dry rasp. "Tracking? Lad, we’ve been bleeding." His voice dropped. "Digging up the dead’s bad enough. But he’s got a taste for the fresh ones. Started with gang graves, then moved to their families."
Alph’s stomach tightened. Fresh graves. The words settled like stones. "He’s operating alone?"
"Since he advanced." Oktar’s scar twitched. "Used to run with the local gang that managed the dock warehouses. Now? He’s a ghost with a shovel. And he’s strong. Took down four of my lads like they were drunken dockhands." A snarl. "One of ‘em’s still got a limp. Another’s eye’s ruined. That fiend’s no ordinary thief. He’s Tier 1—some twisted Rogue variant.""
Alph tucked that information away. Tier 1. Rogue variant. "Did you find out which variant profession it was?"
Oktar huffed. "Unfortunately, no. We don't know much about variant professions. I sent the report up to the city, hoping for some answers."
Alph sighed. "When was he last seen?"
"Two weeks back." Oktar leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "He’s got a pattern. Hits the graves, then holes up for days. When he surfaces, it’s for supplies. And nine times out of ten?" A grimace. "He’s at The Sturgeon. Drinking cheap ale, laughing like it’s all a game."
The alehouse. Of course. Alph’s fingers curled. "You’ve tried staking it out?"
The constable’s laugh scraped out of his throat, raw and thick with failure. "We tried, lad. Believe me, we staked The Sturgeon." He smacked the table once, the cheap wood protesting with a shuddering thud. "That’s precisely how we ended up with four people down and nothing to show for it."
The half-orc's worn wooden chair groaned in protest as Oktar hoisted himself to his feet. His broad shoulders hunched forward, thick hands resting on the desk. "If you decide you need a little backup, give a shout. I’m only Recruit Tier 0, but I still carry a club and I got a right hook that keeps the dockers honest."
Alph ignored the implication. He did not need a hulking constable trailing him, bringing the wrong kind of attention. The charade was thinning, stretching tight across the violence he now sanctioned, but it was essential. "I’ll handle it."
Oktar’s gaze frowned, his brow ridge furrowing above the broad, scarred nose. "You? Alone? Lad, I saw how he handled my men. One’s still puking up blood from a nick from his knife. This is a Tier 1 variant we’re talking about."
"I work better unencumbered," Alph said, standing and smoothing his tunic. "And quietly. The council prefers it that way."
He shook his head. "If this goes wrong, the council denies everything. Including you." He locked eyes with Oktar. "Better for you if no one knows I was here."
The constable’s jaw clenched. Then, a grudging nod. "Fine. But if you get yourself killed, I’m telling ‘em I warned you."
Alph didn’t answer. He was already turning toward the door, the weight of the coming hunt settling into his bones.
The docks reeked of brine, rotting catch, and pitch. Above Gloomwater, the sky sagged like a contusion, thick with violet hues. Alph moved through the throng, his posture relaxed, his expression blank. Yet beneath the surface, his thoughts sharpened like steel.
The Sturgeon. Tomorrow.
He’d be there before the sun bled into the horizon. He’d watch. He’d wait.
When this grave robber finally shows his scarred face, I will be ready.
Did you expect Alph to pivot his cover story so fast?
