Well, they found him. Lying on a short wooden jetty along the River Thyme was an elven man with a neon blue upper face and an arrow in an eye. It was an unhealthy place to leave an arrow, fatally so.

Must have been some trick shot bullshit to get it in the socket like that. Or someone just came up and stabbed it in. Why the hell did Elves love bows and arrows so much? Was it just the best current meta, or a cultural quirk? Jon’s money was on the latter.

“So, Faelyn, what’d we got? One of your guys found him?” They were guided to the site once the body was found. Faelyn wanted to bring the dead elf to the Spire, to which Jon vehemently refused. Lunch was a perfect time for crime drama subplots. The sun, or what was left of it, behind the clouds and trees, had just passed midday. Very noir, I should’ve popped my collar and worn a black fedora.

“That is correct, Jon. And please call me Perrel in public, for appearances if nothing else.”

What kind of words did they use in noir? “Got it. So, since this patsy’s yap is permanently clammed, do ya perhaps know him?”

“Ahh…,” Faelyn fixed him with the ‘you crazy’ stare before professionalism won out. “You are in luck, Jon. This elf was known affectionately as ‘Light-finger’ among the boughs of Elgelica. I’m sure his vocation needs no further explanation.”

Meh, not my thing. I’ll stick to modern genres. “I kinda always thought of thievery as an avocation. I mean, point being, you don’t wanna work hard and earn your way.”

“Yes…” Faelyn was trying his best to humour Jon. It was maybe a B-minus for effort. “He had been caught by the city guard several times, mostly minor crimes. This time would have been no different, were it not for the… major crime that ended him.”

“I’m on your level, man. No one kills in cold blood in your town, except you.”

“A spy, lying wait, near a council member in private quarters, and a petty thief killed in public are two very different things.”

“I’m just ribbing ya Perrel-sun." It was good to know they weren't that barbaric. "So, does this knowledge help us in any way?”

Keya was a little further along the jetty. She seemed distracted, staring across the river to the Elven forest sprawl on the other side. The exotic juxtaposition of what passed for urban life with their trees and hovels certainly was picturesque, or perhaps their new ‘specialist’ was to blame.

Ril was thankfully still on ice. He really should have thought of a lock on the outside of that capsule. Tweak the anaesthetic a bit, and he might get a week before Ril realised her finger puppet wasn’t acclimating no more. If only he had more time!

Faelyn cleared his throat. “He was likely paid to break into your room. Once marked and his identity easily revealed, he went from informant to loose bowstring rather quickly, as you see. Light-finger would have done just about anything for some coin, and a tavern room would have been very little at that. Sadly, this does not narrow the list of employers at all.”

So the burglar was a dead-end… maybe. The beginnings of a terribly bad plan were forming in Jon’s head.

“That arrow looks rather unique though.” The pointy stick in question had additional strange fletchings along the shaft closer to the head. They were conical in shape, like that of a blow dart.

“It is an Air Arrow, Ma—, Jon,” said Kay. “Lacking the heft of Earth Arrows, nor the ability to draw such monstrous bows, Airbowmen 'aim' instead for finesse. And aim well they verily do. Their bows are standard fare, aside from a simple wooden pipe to shoot through. The arrows, on the other hand, are far more intricate.”

“Wow Kay, I keep on forgetting you’re such a bow nut. Where did you learn all this stuff?” Someone had been fantasising about magic and bows for quite a while it seemed.

“I could very well ask you the same question Jon, and I suspect we’d be here till the morrow. Save to say, I read, and my grandfather taught.”

“It is as Luren-sun says. In a rather cruel twist of fate, Light-finger is as useless in death as he was in life. But the arrow tells us much. It is footed, and where the softwood meets the hard, Air fletchings are added to guide and thrust it. It could not strike very hard, but an adept air mage might guide it very far and unerringly to a soft target: an eye, for example.”

“So an Elven sniper, terrific. What range are we talking about here?”

“Air mages can sense up to 3 miles; however, sight and the flight of the arrow become the limiting factors. Naturally, skill plays a significant part too. Given the angle of entry and depth of the shaft, it was fired nearby: under fifty paces? The eye is still a tiny reacting target after all. Perhaps from shadows and while he was distracted or otherwise engaged.”

“Thank you very much, Detective Perrel. And what might our next lead be? If this arrow is so special, I assume we can trace its origin.”

“Well, you could. We found your snoop, and I have other duties. Feel free to indulge in the chicken chase. You already know someone able to tell you more of the arrow’s craft.”

“Really? You use chickens for that saying, wonders never cease. Okay, I’ll bite, whose the crime lab ballistics tech I’ve met?”

“Not one by such a strange name, but you should return to the Highland Cask.”

“Sweet! I get to visit Bron Smith’s Smithy!”

“‘Tis not Bron but his daughter you should consult. There is always work for a Dwarven Earth Smith no matter where he goes, but a Dwarven Air Mage is something of a pariah. So it was that he moved to Elgelica with his wife and child. Ask Bren.”

“Awesome. One more thing. What are you gonna do with the body?”

“Usually next of kin would receive the body for cremation and dispersion beneath the family tree. Light-finger has no such ties, as far as I am aware, born outside Elgelica. He will be held for a time in the council catacombs, should anyone come forward. After which he will be burnt and dispersed by Elgelica’s builders to trees they deed necessary.”

“Can I keep him until then? I'll prevent him from rotting; I have a cold room built for the job.”

“You have a whole room dedicated to preserving the dead? No, forget I asked. I have seen the decadence and magic with which you traverse the world,” Perrel sighed. “Still, custody of the dead is—especially of an elf, even a bad one—an unusual request. ‘Tis best you receive Shalen-sena’s permission. I will ask her, and I suggest you have some of her list prepared in compensation.”

Faelyn strode over and plucked the arrow out of the dead thief’s eye. He wiped down the blood on the victim’s robes before handing it to Jon. This world really fucking needed tissues and toilet paper.

“Please forgive Jon’s eccentricities, Perrel-sun.” Kay allayed Fealyn “He has the oddest predilection to the dead of our world for some reason.”

Jon gave the arrow to Kay for safekeeping. He ignored her needling; the value of DNA was not something she had covered in biology class yet. Instead, he found his sunglasses; Lee wasn’t gonna stop him this time.

Swiftly placing and then pulling them off, he drawled. “Looks like our perp was ‘a painted target’. Heyaaaaaaaaa! I can’t hit the note. Kay, help me!”

“What by the realm is he doing?” Faelyn looked disturbed.

“It is a skit of idiomatic significance from his world. I have stumbled on a few in the perusal of his library. They are both jest and expressions of the patterned nature of existence, named ‘Meams’.”

“I am not laughing,” said Faelyn.

“Fret not, they strive for obscurity in reference.”

“What is the point then?”

Jon continued to try raise pitch, but his voice was not built for that kind of singing, or any singing really.

“That, I have yet to divine.” A sober look was on Kay’s face, while Faelyn frowned sympathetically.