Daleman's Log - 17 / 02 / 2120

Quillian Daleman - Personal Log
17 / 02 / 2120 F.A.

Rimmer dropped me off at the service entrance to the Ithil Lodge. Even on the Lodgemaster's business, I wouldn't have been allowed through the front door. It was that kind of place. The building was old, paneled wood that shown from generations of polishing, the servant's corridors so narrow that and ceilings so low that I almost had to walk sideways, following an older Man with grey hair and crystal eyes, until I emerged into a hall where I could finally straighten up.

It looked like the ancient castles in historical sims. Woodwork gave way to dressed stone about eight feet above the paved stone floor. Rafters from immense trees arched above. On the walls were hung pieces of armor, ancient weapons, rich tapestries that featured sigils and symbols of ancient families. I was ignorant of all of them, but I had no doubt the Lodgemaster could name them all.

The Lodgemaster himself stood at the end of the hall, next to small darkened alcove. Within, on a kind of wooden throne, a veiled figure sat in a dark gown. I studied them carefully as I covered the distance between us. He was tall as Men go, though still a foot and a half shorter than I was, with silver streaks at the temples of his dark hair, eyes so dark they seemed almost black, thin lips set in a neutral line. His suit was rich, custom-made, and his dark lapels contained a number of small golden pins. Some of the sigils matched those on the tapestries in the hall. No sign of augmentation, but he didn't smell unaugmented—there was a reek to him of exotic metals and plastics.

The figure in the alcove was harder to place. She smelled...old. Like ancient leather, old books, wet stone. I could see little of her through the veil, and even her hands were hidden with a black fur muff. Real fur, too.

"Daleman," the Lodgemaster said. His eyes on me. "All healed after your unfortunate attack?"

"Flesh wounds," I said. "Still interested in how and why they showed up at my apartment."

The Lodgemaster gave nothing away, by look or smell, but he met my eyes.

"A misunderstanding related to the...previous matter," the Lodgemaster said. "Your investigation provided actionable intelligence regarding the package and those delivering it. We weren't the only party with an interest in seeing it delivered. The White Hands made an assumption as to your involvement. I've smoothed matters over now. I hope you found the compensation sufficient?"

I nodded. Ten thousand credits deposited anonymously in my account had been a surprise, but I figured who the source must be rather quickly. I was surprised he even told me that much. Then I realized why. He still needed me for something else.

"I've found something," I said, in an effort to get ahead of it. "On the theft at the museum. It was an inside job. One of the janitorial staff has affiliations with a—cult—called the Broken Ring. They have an interest in artifacts of the previous ages. Connections with terrorist groups like the Daughters of Sauron and the New Orc Nation, and gang sets like the White Hand. I suspect..."

The woman's voice was like a whisper from a tomb. A shiver went down my spine. The Lodgemaster turned with amazing speed, every nerve on edge as he listened intently to her words.

"It waited forgotten, sunless;
Buried long ago, breathless;
A beacon lost, fleshless;
My precious.

"Light in the darkness where it has lain;
Blood on the hands that profane;
Fire in the hearts that attain;
A darkness rises again."

The Lodgemaster waited for a moment to see if she said anything else, but the voice petered out into a rattle. For a moment, I thought I saw a blue glow in the sockets of a skull-like face behind that veil. Then the light was gone, and she lay as still as a corpse propped up on a chair.

"You are an excellent detective, Daleman," the Lodgemaster said carefully. "And discreet. How much does the ARD know?"

"Arnorson thinks the attack on me might be related. They're looking at the White Hands. Apparently they've done some smuggling. They know I've been looking at the museum staff, but I haven't told them about the Broken Circle yet," I admitted.

A scratch caught my attention. One of the woman's hands had worked free of the muff. I saw steel wires beneath skin as stretched and dry as a mummy's. Long metal claws scratched at the table. A familiar circle of symbols. The Lodgemaster swiftly threw a monogrammed handkerchief over hand and symbol.

"There is a—bigger picture you aren't aware of, Detective-Inspector," the Lodgemaster said. "Some very old organizations are involved. Ancient connections that supersede any national or megacorporate connection. You haven't been initiated—you don't have the correct—background—and you do not need to know the details. However, you are a valuable asset. Durable. A problem-solver. We may ask you to deal with some loose ends. You will, of course, be generously compensated."

"Whatever you need," I said, and for the first time I saw him smile a little. The Lodgemaster's teeth shone like a mouth full of tiny crystals—and I wondered how much it cost, to get all of your teeth replaced with diamonds. By comparison, I'm sure my services must come cheap.

"So, like, I've never done a threesome before," Vanessë said. "Do I get to fist anyone? Because, like, I've always kind of wanted to, but I've been afraid to get fisted myself and I was never sure if that was rude, you know? Like, if I'm being a bitch if I ask to fist someone without letting them fist me."

The bonus from getting shot at had covered the cost of a cleaning drone to scour the blood from my floor. Still, it had taken some time and a lot of credits to get convince both of my new favorite whores to agree to a menage a trois. After the meeting with the Lodgemaster, I felt like I deserved a treat.

"Vanessë," I said, as I pulled my shirt off. "You're adorable. But my hand is bigger than your pelvis. If I fisted you, it would break you in two."

As if to emphasize my point, I laid my hand against her lower abdomen. The thumb and pinkie touched her opposite hips.

"Oh," she said. The Elfkin stood naked in the middle of the room, her plastic hair and eyes set to a vibrant red like some exotic tropical flower.

Lilja rolled her eyes as she slid her panties down her legs. "If you insist, I'll fist you, and you can fist Mama Bear. But we'll start with fingerbanging, okay? And lots of lube. Work up to it. You don't have elastic holes."

"I've been saving up for that upgrade!" Vanessë insisted. "Did you know, like, there's so many channels where people shove things into themselves and people pay to watch it? And there are some erotic murals in the Rivendell excavations that show Elf-maids fisting each other, and I thought...well...I mean, some of them seemed to go elbow deep, and I thought I should...be able..."

Lilja and I shared a glance. There was a certain world-weary experience we both had that the tall, lithe Elfkin utterly lacked.

"Not even Elves can get fisted up to the elbow on the first go," I told her. Naked, I sat on the edge of the bed and gave her a smile. "But tell you what. Why don't you lie across my knee, and Lilja and I can finger you and...we'll go from there?"

Which is how I found myself with the pale bubble butt of Vanessë balanced on one thigh, one hand on her back to support her as my other groped her silicone-swollen teats. Lilja poured lube into her hands and began to massage that smooth Elfkin pussy with her short, dextrous fingers.

For a while, I could forget the greasy rain that beat down against the concrete outside. The claustrophobic service corridors and strange veiled mystics. Because Vanessë was warm in my arms, and tasted clean and sweet, and Lilja had four fingers into her and the hot lithe body began to writhe as she swore in every Elvish language she knew. My lips peeled back from my teeth as the scent of their excitement stirred me.

No rush. I'd paid for the night.