Daleman's Log - 02 / 02 /2120

Quillian Daleman - Personal Log
02 / 02 / 2120 F.A.

The Lossoth hadn't hunted whales in over two centuries. Their fleets had brought the majestic beasts to near-extinction, and only the commercial non-viability made them finally abandon the practice. Yet their kebabs still tasted like they'd been fried in blubber, even if they were really reconstituted krill and soylent meat-substitute. I was mid-way through my takeaway, in the grungy little stall tucked away in Anduin Alley, when my phone chimed.

"Daleman," I grumbled.

"DET-ECT-IVE INS-PECT-OR DALE-MAN. VOICE CON-FIRMED," the electronic tones of the antiquated automated police call system chimed in my ear. Central Processing went on: "TWO-DEAD-AT-MOR-GUL-VALE. POS-SIB-ILE MUR-DER. YOU-ARE-ASS-SIGN-ED CASE NUM-BER 2-1-1-3..."

I let the system talk as I scraped the last of the meat off the steel skewer with my teeth, and placed them into the return tray. Overheard, lightning crackled, illuminating a dark city of brooding ancient towers and lower, uglier buildings of cement. Brutal slabs of building that had a stark unloveliness compared to the ancient stonework, the whole pile sewn together by a tangle of wires and external pipes. If I let myself, I could hear the calls of the streetcallers to the passing cars, the ladies and lads of the night keeping as close to the dryer parts of the sidewalk as they could while they flashed nipples and thighs. Anything to get in out of the wet, to earn a few credits.

Rainwater ran down the center of the centuries-old alley, like its namesake river. My armored boots splashed through the warm, wet puddles and I smiled at the street-meat as I passed. Some of them smiled back. Some hugged the buildings and shrank away from my bulk. I was nearly eight feet tall, built wide at the shoulder, with a bull neck and strangler's hands; the long coat and wide-brimmed hat hid my brown eyes and close-cropped brown hair, but couldn't hide the exaggerated chin, characteristic of my particular pituitary problem. No dainty flower of womanhood was Quillian Dalesman, with hard, craggy features that no amount of makeup would make beautiful.

The street walkers knew me of old. Some of them would know me again. Oh, what fun we would have...

At the corner waited the cruiser that Central Processing had sent to pick me up, a street cop named Rimmer to act as my driver. Rimmer had Orc blood in him, somewhere; there was yellow in his eyes, an olive tinge to his skin, and he could wiggle his ears a bit

Minas Ithil, the old maps called it. Minas Morgul, the Orcs still called it. To those of us who lived here, it was simply Moon City, in the Morgul Vale. That had been my home for a little over a decade now. The cruiser took me to the outskirts, where the stripmalls gave way to the long line of two-lane blacktop that stretched East and up, as far as I could see. I had no idea what was at the other end of that highway. It could go straight on to the mountains and dip into the sea for all I cared.

The vehicle, what was left of it, didn't quite make it to the highway. I could smell the blackened shell before I saw it. Acrid smells of melted plastic, burned rubber, the toxic smoke of heavy metals, the sweet tang of flesh.

There were two of them, in the cab of what had once been a van. Bone peeked through the charred flesh, the vehicle little more than a blackened frame. That didn't hide the guns in the footwell. Or the restraints in the back. Forensic expert was already all over it. Her little drones took pictures, samples. She herself had popped the hood and extended small, wire-like probes into the metal box that was the car's navigation system. Even covered head-to-toe in a hazmat suit, I could admire the swell of her ass.

Beside the driver's side door, the medical consultant was plugged into her deck. She was an older Man, silver-haired, barely came up to my armpit. Small, golden, crab-like drones climbed over and into the bodies, through whatever holes and orifices they could find. Tiny sonar scans mapped out the trauma without even having to move the corpses.

We consulted. Two crispy critters, no ID. Gondor plates were real, but the vehicle wasn't registered. Part numbers had been burned or scratched off. Clean work; meant whoever had stolen it didn't want it traced back. Bullets were found in each. Some matched the caliber of the guns on the floor, some didn't. Angles of penetration were wrong. Whoever shot these two had moved the bodies. Navigation computer had logged a pause along the set route. Sloppy. Someone had killed these two then sent them back along their merry way.

"Cute," I said as I thought about the report I would write, pushing this one off on the highway patrol. This was way out of our jurisdiction.

Then the forensics woman—Annabeth, she of the ginormous ass—pulled me aside.

"Problem with the guns," she whispered. "I ran the serial numbers. They're already logged."

I frowned. That meant the weapons had already been logged as evidence for a previous crime. Which meant they should be in an evidence locker, not out on the street. So someone had taken them out of evidence and sold them again. That meant dirty cops. I called the medical examiner over.

"No ID on the bodies, right?" I whispered.

"Not Morgul Vale PD," she confirmed, which meant she already knew about the guns too. Damn. I sighed. Now I really wanted to dump this in the highway patrol's lap.

My phone rang again. The number was unregistered, but I recognized it and for a moment my big body went cold. The Crown Players rarely called, but when they did, I answered. It had been three years since I had heard from the Lodgemaster. Three years since the captain had drawn me aside and explained to me how the world really worked. I'd made detective-inspector that day. All it had cost me was a bit of honor, to look the other way as a scion of old Gondor was brought back to his corporate tower and the body of his victim had been carefully made to look like a tragic accident.

"Daleman," a cultured male voice said as I accepted the call. "What have you found?"

I gave the details. Terse, specific, respectful. The Lodgemaster listened. His personal involvement spoke to how important this case really was.

"Any sign of the package they were carrying?" the Lodgemaster asked.

"None. Not even a DNA sample. Given the route, looks like Orc-smuggling."

There was the briefest of sighs. I knew I said something wrong.

"Accidental ****," the Lodgemaster said, and I knew that's what my report would read. "Leave that last part out. After forensics logs the route data, send it to me."

"Understood," I said, and I did. I knew I was being asked to cover up two murders, the guns that had disappeared out of a police evidence locker, and whoever they had been transporting that had gotten away or been stolen. Just as I knew that after I filed my report, my bank account would suddenly be richer by a few thousand credits.

Rimmer drove me back into the city, after we filed our reports. Last responders would dispose of the body, the vehicle, all of it. The guns would be re-logged and sent back to the evidence lockers. If they were still functional, maybe they'd be sold again. Not my problem.

Lilja was waiting for me at the door to my apartment. The dwarf barely came up to my waist, even in the heavy boots she preferred with the three-inch rubber soles. Skin like dark hardwood, with the swirling black-on-black tattoos that, I knew, would glow in the dark, thick muscle glistened as she flexed bare biceps. The dress she wore was little more than a leather tube that went from thighs to tits, complemented by the long sleeves on the fingerless gloves she wore. Dark braids of hair fell thick down to the small of her back and over her shoulders.

"Mama Bear," she said. "Need some lovin'?"

I raised one shaggy brown eyebrow.

"Soliciting, Lil? I could run you in for that," I teased as I unlocked the door. Bolts clunked out of place, traps disarmed. After the first couple break-ins, I'd gotten creative. After the last few, I'd gotten mean. The whore slinked in behind me and went to the bar at the far end of the living room as I re-armed everything. By the time I was done, she'd already mixed two highballs.

Glasses clinked.

"Usual rates?" I asked after a sip.

Lilja nodded. She laid a hand on my belt. Between my legs, my pussy throbbed.

"Unless you want something extra," she said as she looked up at me. Eyes wide. She held up a honey packet. Real honey. My mouth started to water at the sight of the bee-logo. "Something sweet, maybe?"

I thought about the fresh pile of credits in my account. I could afford extra. I let out a little growl that sent a shiver down her spine. My shoulders itched, bristled, skin suddenly too small, and I finished the drink quickly. Lilja caught the mood, and swallowed her drink as well as I shed my long coat and hat. I hung the shoulder holsters over a chair as Lilja reached down and pulled the tube dress off, turning it inside out in one smooth motion that revealed the thick thighs and heavy buttocks, the dark tattoos that seemed to cover every inch of her body.

"Leave the boots on," I ordered as I shucked my shirt. Muscles roiled beneath my skin as I followed her into the bedroom. We'd done this dance enough times that she knew the way, even in the dark. The king's size bed was set in a special reinforced frame, one that could take my weight even when things got hairy.

My tongue ran over my teeth. They were already longer. I could feel the change upon me.

"Honey," I half-growled. Lilja tore open the packet with her teeth.

As I finished stripping, the dwarf assumed the position. She did a split on the very edge of the bed, that heavy ass hanging just over the side. Golden sweetness trickled down her ass-cheeks, and she braced herself as she heard the heavy thump of my paws as I went quadripedal.

I'm told there's something still human about my eyes when I skin-shift. The world looks and smells different, though. As calm, collected, and professional as Lilja seemed, I could taste her nervousness and fear as I stalked forward. My snout thrust between those cheeks, and a long, wet tongue lapped at the sweet, sticky treat before me.

It wasn't long before Lilja began to moan, as my tongue squirmed against her pert pucker. She was clean. I couldn't even smell her other clients. But her hole gave way too easily as I pushed my nose into the crack of her ass, my tongue slipped far into that hot, wet, bitter hole, and the deep moan as I licked the inside of her ass was almost as delicious as the sticky sweetness.

My claws scraped against the floor, leaving another line of scratches. I'd have to be careful not to lose it entirely...but whores like Lilja drove me right to the edge.

Even Beornings have their limits.