Detective Jack Bryson wiped the unholy mixture from his grizzled face. Should have washed out the last of the gin. Or the whiskey. Hell, he should have rinsed the damn thing out when he finished that fifth of vodka. Didn't matter. It all worked the same. Booze was hard to find in his neck of the woods. He'd take what he could get.

Waste not, want not. Evidence locker wouldn't miss it. Not as much as the Fifth Street Stingers would.

Bryson tossed the flask into his glove compartment and fished out eyedrops and travel sized mouthwash from his coat pocket. He took a swig of the mouthwash and swished it in his mouth as he leaned back and held each eye open for the stinging drops. This was his least favorite part of getting ready for work.

The detective pushed open the door of the county-issued 2032 Camry and spat wintergreen onto the cracked sidewalk. He stepped out of the car, brushed off his trench coat and walked up the stairs to the crime scene.

Jack was stopped in his tracks by a fresh-faced officer. The officer slid into Bryson's path and spoke in a booming voice. "Sorry sir, this is a crime scene. I'm gonna need to see some identification."

"Identification? Alright then, young blood. Scan me. Since you're so eager."

The young man held up a small device. A bright blue light shone across the detective's face.

The bass in the officer's voice lightened. "Detective Bryson. Sorry. Didn't recognize you." The young officer looked down at the flat screen of the handheld device. "Hey, you're an ENTJ? So am I! And my dad's a Capricorn, like you." The officer leaned in, inches from Bryson's unshaven face. "And don't worry sir. I won't tell anyone about your intox levels."

"What's your name, son?"

"Disher, sir."

"Well, Disher. Why don't we meet up for dinner? Bring your dad. Maybe we can all talk about my hernia. Old man know anything about all that? Sure you saw it all right there on your Scryer."

Disher grimaced, gave a quiet nod of acknowledgement and stepped aside to let the detective into the luxury apartment building. Upon entry, Bryson was greeted by a shapely frame and a painfully familiar set of perfectly waxed legs that met the ground with a pair of block heel pumps.

"Angie. What a pleasure."

"Jack. Wish I could say the same." Her coy smirk fell into a slight frown. "You look like hell."

"That mean you think I'm hot?" Bryson said, offering up his best attempt at a seductive smile.

Angie rolled her eyes and lowered her voice. "I'm saying it's 10:30 in the morning and if you're not careful, you'll get suspended again. Or worse. Keep your hands out of the cookie jar, yeah? Teager's been looking the other way for a while. He won't take pity on you much longer." She nudged her head toward a cracked door on the left side of the hallway. "Body's in here."

Detective Bryson followed Angie's clacking steps through the door of Apartment 26. The two stepped through an entryway into minimalist, stark white apartment. Slumped in a cream colored armchair was the body of a slender, unimpressive man with a receding hairline and pale, icy skin.

"The deceased is Charles Carden, aged thirty-seven. Works in a cubicle down at SocraTech. Virgo. ISTJ. No signs of forced entry. "

"Cubicle worker? At Socra? Sure this wasn't a suicide? I heard Socratino runs his people pretty hard. Even the janitors have engineering degrees."

"Blood scans came back completely clear. No markings on the body whatsoever. No health issues. Cause of death is unclear."

Detective Bryson lifted his gaze from the corpse to take a look around the apartment.

"Pretty nice place for a cubicle rat. Even at a place like SocraTech. What's his income?"

Angie pulled a small device--the same as Disher's-- from the pocket of her blazer.

"Pocket Scry says...about $50,000 a year. Roughly $4000 a month." Her brow furrowed as she examined the apartment for herself. "Place like this has to cost twice that. No reports of side work, but the records say he's been here three years."

"You check the mounted Scryers in the hallway?"

"First thing. Nothing."

"Nothing? Last night was the anniversary of the Bergen Protests. Even the Stingers go out to celebrate. Whole building full of buzzkills?"

"Jack. There's another reason I called you."

"Your lingering desire for an old flame has become too much to bear and you hunger for his midnight embrace?"

"Jesus, Jack. Can you be serious for a moment?"

"Who said I was kidding?"

Angie lips pursed and her nostrils flared. "Jack. This is the fourth body we've found like this. This month. No discernable cause of death. No evidence. No witnesses. All worked for tech companies, and all were living well outside their recorded means. Any Scryers nearby were either damaged or their histories were clean at the time of death. Teager called me this morning. I told him we needed you. Took some convincing, but he obliged."

Jack's face tensed. "Press know about this yet?"

"No. We are trying very hard to keep this quiet."

Jack looked around the apartment for a second time. He left Angie's side and walked slowly through the spacious flat. He walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinets. Disappointed, he turned his attention to the fridge and swung open the magnetic door.

Angie poked her head around the entryway to the kitchen. "What do you hope to find in there?"

"Breakfast." His response was met with a haughty sigh. Jack closed the fridge, irritated by Carden's poor taste in groceries. As Bryson turned to leave the kitchen, a flash of blue caught his eye. A single sticky note, haphazardly stuck to the wall called out for the detective's attention. Hastily scrawled on the turquoise paper were the words:

ORACLE

2:30

JAMES + 6TH

"Hey, Ang. You know anything about this?" Angie's eyes scanned over the sticky note and she pulled out her Scryer once more.

"No. Nothing like this at the other victims' apartments...James and 6th. That's in the heart of the North End. About two blocks from Tech Row. Scryer says there’s a café nearby."

"You been by Charles' cubicle yet?"

"That was the next stop. You think someone at SocraTech knows something?"

"I'm more interested in who's gonna pretend not to know something. Let's stop by the café first."

"Got a hunch?"

"No. I'm hungry."

The Sociale should have known better. The people were not weak. They were never weak. Fear had made them passive. Rage is stronger than fear. Adres was a figure of hope, a glimmer of optimism piercing through the haze of Chancellor Elhossa's reign. The Darkened Force left his body beaten and broken in the village square, a message meant for the revolution bubbling over in the hidden rooms of the the tired and disloyal.

Kavindra cast a hazy eye through the common room of the inn. Citizens from every district sat murmuring prayers and poems. Every arrow, spear, dagger, and sword was dipped in the poisonous juices of the Tolsi berry, guarded closely by the budding soldiers destined to wield them. There was no going back. Not for everyone.

The eyes of the determined and fearful looked to Kavindra. She was the closest thing Andres had to a second in command, let alone a friend or sister. Andres was passion, Kavindra was power. Was power alone enough to lead these people behind the palace gates? To command them to end their lives for those who had died so many moons before? Their people. Her people. They'd spent months training in secret, pushing through the bitter winter into the fickle spring. She taught them all she knew, everything she'd learned as a refugee in the Wicked Wood. Her chest rose and sunk deeply. She knew her efforts were not enough to fix the fragments of two generations.

Saratiana awoke on the cold floor of the village pub, the sweet stench of mead reeking from her dry mouth. Her head was heavy, her bag of coin light. To her left, the barreled chest of a dwarf rose and sank hesitantly, its resistance undoubtedly tied to the empty jug clenched in his meaty fist.

Little bastard better not have stolen my gold, Saratiana mused. She rose to her feet, brushing debris from her cloak. The half-elf reeled back her foot and gave the slumbering creature a swift kick in the ribcage.

"Dwarf! Get up! Where is my coin?!"

The dwarf shot up with a violent grunt.

"Whatter you implyin', warlock?!"

"I know how you little bas...hold now. How do you know I'm a warlock?"

"'Ardly a secret, you arcane folks always geta pint too deep and start bouncin' colors off the wall...the way you'ere tossin' coin, woulda though' you knew how to summon 'at too...Titi, innit?"

Saratiana pursed her lips and stared at the dwarf with mild annoyance. Titi, as she was known in her youth, was far too familiar a term for this dwarf to know. She must have been quite drunk indeed.

"Saratiana. And you are?"

"Hamlen. I ain' callin' ya Saratiana, 'at's more than I care to remember."

"I'm not surprised, given how your peo-"

"MY people?! Gods, ev'n the 'alf elves are a buncha pompous-"

"THEY LIIIIIVE! THE DEAD, THEY WALK AGAIN!"

Saratiana and Hamlen's bickering was cut short by a shrill cry tearing through the streets. The warlock and her dwarven companion craned their necks from behind the wall just in time to see a comely young maiden burst through the heavy pub door, mere moments from slipping out of her impossibly low-cut corseted dress. The two exchanged looks of concern and scanned the room for their weapons. Hamlen grabbed his axe, and Saratiana, a rapier, and the two rushed to the aid of the maiden.

Hamlen rushed to the door and held it closed with his burly body. The maiden seized the opportunity given to her and began to push the pub's sturdy wooden benches toward the entrance. Sensing her struggle, Saratiana joined in and helped the maiden to secure the entryway.

"What's all this, then? Did you just say that the dead are up and walking around?" A voice perked up from the back of the room.

The maiden turned her face toward the mysterious voice, staring wide-eyed into the darkness.

"Y-yes...I saw them...spilling forth from the cemetery. All headed in the same direction, as if they'd been called to."

"And just what direction was that, Gilliayna?" From the shadows stepped a tall, lanky dark-haired figure. As far as the others could tell, the figure was a human male. If his looks didn't give it away, his arrogant tone certainly did.

"They were coming toward town. They must be nearly here. We have to do something, please! Now is not the time for your cynicism, Roehan! "

"Didn't those Druids teach you anything? Can't you summon a tree to step on them or make them un-undead or something?"

"Oh for gods sake, Roehan, I can't heal the dead-- you know, you have become simply unbearable since the Thieves Guild booted you out and I'm just so sick and tired of your nonsen-"

"Oh, I'VE been unbearable? Okay, little miss one-with-nature, ever since YOU decided to just skip out to the forest and leave me here in town, you think you're too "attuned" to spend your days with me in my hut-- NOT that it was ever a problem for you before-"

A loud banging came from the other side of the pub's door. A bellowing voice forced its way through the chestnut frame.

"OY! LET ME IN! THIS IS MY PUB ANYHOW!"

"Terris!" Gilliayna gasped. "Hurry, we have to let him in!"

Roehan and Hamlen leapt to their feet and hurried the bench out of the doorway. A surly behemoth of a man squeezed through the doorway and tumbled onto the floor.

"Well, what are ya waitin' on?! Close the damn door! Don't ya know what's out there?!"

As Hamlen and Roehan scrambled to return the bench to its preferred spot, Saratiana turned toward the grizzly human.

"And what exactly is 'out there'?"

"The dead. They live. And they're headin' right for us. I swear I saw my auntie Sarya out there, gods rest her soul. Say, you're that half elf from last night...not much of your type 'round this way. Titi, innit?"

"Saratiana."

"The way you spend coin, I'd even call ya 'Your Highness'."

"Aye, wouldya believe 'at she 'ought I stole from 'er!" Hamlen exclaimed from across the room.

"HA! No need to steal when it's given away!" Terris let out a booming chuckle.

"Can we focus, please? There's kind of a crisis happening-"

"Oh, give it a rest, Gilliayna, just let the people talk-"

"Don't even think about starting in on me again, Roehan-"

The party's back and forth was interrupted by another loud banging coming from the other side of the door.

"I don't suppose we're expecting any more visitors?" Roehan inquired, a hint of foreboding laced within his tone.

The banging got louder, more violent, and then came to an abrupt stop. The group of five stood still, all with bated breath. As they focused on the door, a collective crash came from the shuttered windows set on each side of the pub. Gray, crippled bodies wormed their way through the gaping windowsills, and clawed their emaciated frames across the dingy pub floor, leaving broken bits of nail and bone in their trail. Without hesitation, Terris pulled a club from his belt and brought it down on the skull of the nearest corpse.

"NOW THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT! COME AT ME, YOU LIFELESS SWINE! I HAVEN'T FOUGHT LIKE THIS SINCE I WAS A LAD!"

Terris leapt into the middle of the crowd of bodies, wildly swinging his club at every trace of decayed flesh. Hamlen, not wanting to be outmatched, followed suit and the two brutes laid waste to the bodies piling into the pub. As the dwarf and the barbarian congratulated each other, a final corpse climbed slowly into the building. Terris and Hamlen exchanged a look, and rose their weapons, preparing to eliminate their final enemy in tandem.

"Wait! Don't kill it!" Four shocked faces turned to face the young maiden Gilliyana.

"Are you daft, woman?" Roehan scoffed.

"Don't you see? It's not fighting back. I think...it's trying to go somewhere. Look, all the bodies were going in the same direction."

Though skeptical, the others stood back and watched the corpse crawl pathetically across the floor. It reached the back wall and began to scratch limply at a small, padlocked door.

"Terris...what's beyond that door?" Saratiana probed.

"The cellar. I was told that the Thieves Guild used to take passage through here, but that it'd been shut off since Sarandon was assassinated. "

Roehan chimed in. "You're half right, old boy. Truth is, the Thieves Guild always keeps their options open. Shall we see where our smelly little friend is headed? I have a visit to pay to some dear, old friends I suspect may know a thing or two. Nothing left here but old bones." Roehan scanned over the party, his eyes lingering on Gilliayna.

The reluctant adventurers exchanged uneasy glances. Terris stepped forth silently, careful not to step on the corpse trying desperately to get through the door. He unlocked the padlock, and pushed the door open, allowing his four companions to walk ahead of him.

The party descended into the darkness, dutifully following their decrepit guide dog.

It has been a long debated issue within the Fantastical Studies community as to which species expels the most pungent waste from their bowels. Over the centuries, researchers have narrowed it down to two species: angels and fairies. Angel experts, and even some angels themselves, maintain that their excrement is far worse than any creature as small as a fairy could produce. Fairies have little to say on the matter, and the argument for their flatulence is made primarily by the groups dedicated to observing them.

One of the things that has made this debate so difficult is the odd fact that angel flatulence is unable to be compared to fairy flatulence and fairy fecal matter cannot be compared to angel feces, either. By all accounts, fairy feces and angel flatulence are nearly undetectable while their opposites have been known to clear all life from holy chambers and even large sections of forested areas. Since the two are rarely found in the same places and both are known to be elusive and finicky creatures, it has taken teams of researchers a rather long time to collect the data necessary to determine which is more offensive to the senses. Thankfully, after centuries of research and speculation, The Committee for Fantastical Biology has come to a consensus.

Fairies have energy systems that rely predominantly on air and starlight. Their bodies take in the gases from the air around them and uses them to stay lightweight so their wings do not have to work quite as hard. The starlight is absorbed through their unique layers of skin and gives them the energy needed to zip around the forest. The fairies then supplement themselves with a diet of moss and fungi. The waste from these elements are expelled from their bodies in two ways: their skin and their anuses. Fairies are known to "sweat" a shimmery powder, known in layman's terms as pixie dust. Pixie dust has many uses and is sought after by magical practitioners and "rave kids" for its divinatory properties and hallucinogenic effects. From their bowels comes a small but concentrated stream of flatulence that is highly combustible and has been known to cause forest fires as well as asphyxiation in humanoid species. The gas is expelled in bursts, and due to a fairy's constant turnover of energy, it is consistently released from their bodies. Fairy feces is something akin to rodent pellets, typically odorless, and is usually found within close proximity to flushes of mushrooms.

Angels, however, can process any source of light for energy but sustain themselves mainly on cloud vapor. As the vapor travels through their body, it becomes more dense and exits in a more solid form than which it entered. Angels who are consuming pure, clean clouds are likely to have bowel movements that smell something similar to static and are hot enough to burn through steel. But due to the constant pollution in Earth's air, more and more angels are consuming cloud vapor that is riddled with harmful chemicals and gases. While angels have a very effective detoxification system that allows them go unaffected, these toxins are expelled from the body in sludge-like clumps. Like fairy farts, these toxic clumps are highly combustible and make it very easy to know when an angel has visited Earth.

It is a logical conclusion that due to the similarity in the energy systems and consumption habits of angels and fairies, the two would be very strongly matched in the way their bodies function. However, since fairies still rely on some sort of organic matter to thrive, the official consensus is that the decay and eventual expulsion of used organic matter from their bodies makes their waste more pungent and therefore smellier to more beings. The Officials for Angel Relations have stated that they are divided over the findings, as some angels feel shame over not surpassing the fairies while others are only further convinced of their superiority. There has been no word from the Folks for Fairy Affiliation, but sources have stated the fairies do not particularly care about these results.

The Committee would like to note that in their research, it was revealed angel feces contaminated with toxic cloud vapor can cause cancerous cells in humans. If discovered, please contact the Magical Waste Unit as soon as possible to ensure proper disposal. If you are in the forest for long periods of time, please be sure to bring Committee approved gas masks in the event of a strong wave of fairy flatulence and of course, always check for traces of fairy gas before lighting campfires.

I pulled the arrow from my chest. A drop of blood, maybe two, fell onto the rock beside my boot. I threw it to the ground and continued my path. My assailant gasped but quickly recovered his wit and with a furrowed brow, pulled an arrow from his quiver and prepared to attack again.

The Days of Offering were here. In order to keep the power bestowed unto me, there were requirements to be met. In my darkest hour, Atrok extended an ancient, guiding hand. But his grand benevolence paled compared to his vast appetite.

Archers were his favorite snack.