Jonathon Worthington: Strangelight Investigator

Case #17: The Mystery of the Giggling Gobber (Chapter 1)

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To: My esteemed colleagues of the Strangelight Workshop

I sincerely regret that once more I must refuse your request for a face to face meeting. While I remain deeply dedicated to the organization and wish to allay your fears at the earliest opportunity, an unexpected emergency demands my immediate attention. Please accept my humble apologies over this matter, but I simply cannot spare the time required to travel back to Ceryl at this juncture.

Yours in earnest inquiry,

Lord Jonathon Worthington, Associate Investigator

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I glanced over my handiwork and grunted in tired satisfaction. This was the fourth draft of the letter, and the writing was finally legible. In the other three cases a sudden spasm had caused me to slash the pen across the cheap parchment like a hullgrinder through a skiff, and I was sweating with the effort to keep my hand steady this time.

"Finished, sir?" Orsch asked, allowing a note of impatience to creep into his placid deep voice.

"Yes, I believe I am. The sickness may have robbed my body of its strength, but for the moment my mind remains clear. Are you certain that this is the correct course of action?"

Orsch declined to answer as he reached over, his massive fingers gently dusting the document with sand to speed the ink's drying. He deftly rolled the missive up and slid it into a sturdy leather carrying case before reaching out the open window of our rented hovel and depositing it in the waiting courier's hands along with several crowns. The boy, not more than fifteen years old, looked on in awe for a moment before a warning rumble from my companion sped him on his way to the train.

I couldn't blame the boy for staring, even though I knew it made Orsch uncomfortable. Ogruns were rare enough in this part of the countryside, and his style of dress certainly did not help. A jaunty bowler hat sat atop his broad head, pulled low to meet the wide leather strap of the goggles that he was so fond of wearing. His heavy woolen coat was tailored to fit his naturally massive frame, and the vest and white shirt underneath were perfectly in keeping with his dark trousers. His scuffed traveling boots spoiled the debonair effect somewhat, but there was no doubt that, even for an ogrun, Orsch was a unique sight.

My own style of dress was a twin of his, although I avoided wearing any sort of goggles or other apparatus on my person for health reasons. Due to the delicate constitution I'd been born with, any prolonged contact with mechanikal creations would result in a severe allergic reaction that would incapacitate me for hours; my trusty forgelock pistol was the pinnacle of technology my body would tolerate. Some of the people we encountered mistook my poor health as a sign of weakness, and my pale complexion and slight build led them to underestimate me. Although I lacked Orsch's obvious size and strength I did not share his propensity for pacifism nor his distaste for violence. The worn grip of my pistol peeked out from where I'd hung my coat on a rickety chair; even though it held only a single bullet I was a crack shot with it, as many hooligans had discovered in the past.

"I do believe it is time for your treatment, sir," Orsch said, motioning to the warped mirror on the opposite wall. While it had all the accuracy of carnival glass, it was sufficiently reflective to see that he was right. My skin was darkening even as I watched, and as my true complexion emerged so too did the scarlet tattoos that covered my face and body. Without instruction Orsch moved to close the window and draw the tattered drapes closed, handing over the last of the ointment from our bags after I was safe from scrutiny.

I dipped my fingers into the foul-smelling jar and managed to scrape enough out to cover my face and hands, noting with annoyance that I'd have to be careful to keep my shirt buttoned fully up to the collar to hide the rest of my skin. It was deep summer in Cygnar, and while the heat never seemed to bother Orsch I lacked his indomitable ogrun fortitude and cursed the necessity of the long-sleeved coats and shirts that hid my affliction. My displeasure manifested in a string of coarse words.