The Judgement of the Weasel

This was inspired by this thread.

Fallen London births truly strange things. It is only under the Earth that such things can happen, in the absence of light. But when man uses them, that is when he realizes why they should not be.

I do serve as a private detective from time to time. Finding lost family members, criminals and anarchists are my usual cases. But once I was asked to track down a mercenary, a sellsword. I was certain that the client was not a member of the law. To this day, I’m still uncertain of their motives and identity, but all that matters know is that I chose to take the case.

I searched the Flit, finding a few who had done business with him. Well, they presumed he was a him, underneath the bandages. Though one of February’s cells deduced who I was, and I fled after quite a few failed assassination attempts, including one with a bat carrying dynamite (I dread to think what would happen to London if they used this ingenuity so often).

I had only a few leads, so I decided to talk to the Cheery Man. He was willing to put aside his enmity due to my fame in the criminal element, as well as the hefty bribe I gave him. He pointed me to one of his men, who dealt in information, and I learned he had been taken from the Bazaar- forcibly. The site of his kidnapping, a spire opened for the discussion of economics, was surrounded by Constables. I told them about my case, and a Special Constable told he was Notable- specifically, a Paramount Presence, a person famed above even the most well known Londoners. He was possibly the first. The Masters had ordered the Constables to find him, and quickly.

The witnesses knew nothing, as they had been congratulating the sellsword when they had been knocked unconscious by a blast of sound. I found a shattered mirror covered with chimney-smoke- an esoteric manner of travel and escape. The man had been taken to the Flit, and so I returned disguised as a bruiser. I expected the search to be difficult, even with paid helpers. But the mercenary had spotted, taken by several men, one with a gold colored weasel. I used their tales to locate the area in which my quarry would be. I finally found him in a courtyard constructed of wooden slats.

He was trapped in a device that served as a guillotine, with the blade attached to the cover of a box that he stood on. When the blade moved, it would open. He was watched by five men, and a large weasel whose fur was a golden orange. It was dressed in armor designed by a rattus faber- with red sigils upon it. The weasel turned and spoke in Correspondence- &quotThe crushing weight of language&quot. I fell unconscious, and I was bound in rope when I awoke. The weasel spoke, asking why I was here. I stated I was here to find this man, and I demanded to know why they would kill him.

The weasel told me he had done something called mirror-splicing, using the mirrors to travel backwards and forwards to become a Paramount Presence. This would open the mirrors dangerously, possibly permanently, using his body. The wrappings around his ears were stained with red.

I stared into the condemned man’s eyes, hidden by the wraps. The weasel continued to explain.
The weasel was one of the few agents from the High Wilderness, a place unknown to me, who was sympathetic to the Bazaar. Mr. Mirrors had agreed to aid in this man’s demise, and had sent the men who were helping the weasel. The weasel turned to the sellsword, and declared that, as an aberrance of reality, he would be exposed to the law. The man looked to me, and I imagine he asked for help as the weasel threw the switch to decapitate him. Just as the blade touched his neck, the box opened, unleashing a blast of sunlight. All that was left of the sellsword was ashes. They untied me and left. As I left, I took the empty mirrorcatch box, filled with the sellsword’s ashes.

My client refused to pay me, but I received payment from a man sent by Mr. Cups. I paid a man to go to the slow boat to search for the sellsword, but the reaper had simply stated he was dead, permanently. I spread the sellsword’s ashes at zee. I could find none of his family through my inquiries, but tales of murder and brutality caused by him were in large supply. Ultimately, I leave all the evidence of this case in my vault. This letter will be the only thing of this case to be seen by any one other than me. Keep the sellsword’s demise a secret. I only ask, was this punishment fair? At night, I search for this weasel, but I am still unsure if it should be punished. The law, especially of reality, can only function as a machine, without mercy.

Ware serpents.
edited by Ixc on 9/26/2017