On their way back to the station, Alton and Cook are waylaid by a messenger from their captain. In a hurry, they ride instead to the Thirsty Pilgrim. Luckily, the streets are relatively clear in the poor weather and their skeletal horses are shod with rubber horseshoes.

Arriving at the Thirsty Pilgrim, Alton shoulders her way through the gaggle of patrons at the door. Cook follows in her wake, flashing his badge where necessary to calm the grumping that results. The room is roughly hexagonal, optimally designed to have many dark corners. Tables near the center are unoccupied, but seating near the walls is immensely popular. The relatively high ceiling holds a great iron ring from which dozens of candles twinkle brightly. The lack of wax on the floor gives lie to the illusion, but it’s an effective one.

The patrons are nearly all the mixed lot of assorted individuals who desperately try to express their individuality, mostly choosing to do so with more weapons, exotic armor, and grim expressions. It’s an adventurer hangout. Gus Hoyt glares at the disturbance they create from his position behind the bar on the far wall. He easily stares over the head of the person in front of him.

“Now see here,” they hear Trageser’s over-eager voice raised over the din of the crowd. Alton continues pushing her way to him.

“Oh, no you don’t.” She grabs the younger detective by the shoulder and pulls him away from the bar. “Not tonight.” Trageser swats her hand away.

“I’m following a lead, detective,” he complains.

“This is not your case. You need to go home, Rodd,” Alton gives him another gentle push toward the door. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“But I have a tip!” Trageser’s hissed demand gets Cook’s attention. “I just need to find someone called Oddball Rag.”

“I know of him,” Cook grumbles. “I’ve got this, kid, get out of here before you make a scene.”

Trageser skulks out of the bar, but Alton and Cook can’t make out what he’s saying.

Alton orders herself a drink, which Gus plops in front of her in a glass that might be cleaner than the rest. She drops some mithril coins on the counter.

“Oddball?” Cook asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Some drama keeps the place going on slow nights,” Gus admits with a guilty shrug. “Oddvald agreed to it anyway. He does have something for you, just got stuck going through the green one.”

“Then tell him I’m not waiting. Spill it or tomorrow he’ll be waking up when I do.” Cook channels his partner’s impatience.

“Yeah, I know you don’t sleep, deadite.” Gus points a thumb off to the left side of the room. “He’s over there. You might can hear him giggling already.”

The detectives edge though the thickening crowd. They nearly trip over an apparently underage elf on the way, but her scowling companion with too many tatoos waves them off. That type in a place like this always spells magic, likely illusion. Alton keeps half an eye on them, attempting to pick the more dangerous customers out of the crowd.

On one end of the bar is a large fireplace, with only a small fire burning to keep out chill. Oddvald Krag, an orc known well to local police, sits there with a goofy grin on his green face. He slaps a knee and guffaws when he sees Detective Cook’s glare. His every move jingles with the clink of maile.

“Good one, eh?” Krag slaps his knee with a laugh. “Thought I might get your attention.”

“What do you want, Krag?” Cook folds his arms, and looks down at the seated orc.

“That dimwit was asking about people who might or might not have been in the Pilgrim last night. I know a few faces, and more names. Names like Wolfslayer, Wymark, Trillian, Roan, Spade, Rusty, Poofcakes, and Sjorgen.” He fingers his saber’s hilt. “Some names might be useful.”

“Right now I’m more interested in who wasn’t here than who was.” Cook looks to Alton briefly.

“Anyone in here running around in full plate last night?” Alton asks, keeping her voice even.

“Noone here can afford the rust repairs. Nah, nobody in a tin can in this weather. But I do still think you’ll want to know one name.” He gives them a tusky grin.

“What’s that?” Alton leans toward him conspiratorily.

“Your dead girl.”

“What of her?”

“She was here last night. She was all over just about everyone who might have maybe had a taste for little blondes.” He caresses the pommel of his saber suggestively.

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same blond?” Cook pulls off another eyebrow trick. “Our victim’s fresh from the Strabthine. She volunteers with the Shrine. She’s not one of your typical hero protagonist groupie trash.”

“Oh, I know the corpse you dragged out from the ditch in the morning. That’s the one. She was definitely trying every angle to get a warm body in her bed last night. Wasn’t terribly discerning either.” His grin becomes a grimace.

“That’s pretty out of character for what we’ve heard so far.” Alton says, curiously. “Anything else you might know?”

“Not at the moment, but if you give me some time I might be able to dredge up some more names for you two.” Krag winks. Somewhere behind them, a mongrelfolk throws a punch. It’s just what the bar was waiting for: an excuse. Violence erupts from every corner. Some of the patrons vanish into thin air, others grab bottles, chairs, anything to use as a weapon.

Both detectives sigh, roll up their sleeves, and draw their batons. Laying about on all sides, they put a swift end to the violence. The bespelled batons cast a hold monster on all they contact. When half the remaining patrons are immobile and the other half have surrendered, they leave to let their spells wear off so their captives may pay their bills when able.