grimoireofkenji

Except for one small, two-story brownstone with a raggedy awning and sign.

Situated between Spherico’s Orbs’ main HQ and the Hobgoblin Media offices was a building that appeared to be completely forgotten by time. Modern buildings, constructed by powerful magic and the labor of dozens of likely underpaid laborers, dwarfed the Detective Offices of Jones and Hawthorne, like the last vestiges of a local plant trying to survive amongst the invasive species that had blown in with the wind.

As exhausted-looking office workers and executives in overpriced suits with even more expensive staves filed out of the buildings on either side like ants on the march, a phone rang within the faded brown brick walls of the edifice in the middle of it all.

A tired looking half-elf with neatly styled salt-and-pepper hair and a typical handsome-man five o’clock shadow moved his squeaky desk chair across the room to the phone, which was placed next to the door to his office.

“I swear I told the secretary to move this phone to her desk.” He muttered to himself, mildly frustrated.

“I heard that!” a disgruntled reply came from the other side of the wooden door. “I can’t reach it, you moron.”

“Levitate it or something?” the Half-Elf shot back in between loud, obtrusive rings. He picked up the aged land-line, covered in a thin layer of dust and seemingly perfectly matching everything else in the building. Placing it to his elongated but rounded ears, he sighed before putting on a rehearsed gruff voice. He actually took pride in his ability to sound like a private detective of many more years than he actually had. It lent a certain professionalism, given his particular field.

“Yes? Jones and Hawthorne.” He spoke confidently, altering his voice with a little world-weary energy.

“Which one are you?” The voice on the other end replied, sounding genuinely curious.

“Is this a joke?”

“Far from it, sir. I saw a posting for your offices online and thought I’d give you guys a call.” The voice went from curious to a bit excitable realizing that someone was actually there and it wasn’t a prank line. “I didn’t think anyone actually still ran detective agencies.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t think anyone still called landlines.” The half-elf responded curtly. “And just so we’re clear, I’m Hawthorne. Anarion Hawthorne.”

“Ah, Hawthorne, perfect. I chose a landline precisely because nobody expects them. I’m glad your partner is so old-fashioned.”

Hawthorne let out a loud sigh. “Was old-fashioned.”

“Ah, I see. My condolences.”

“Look. I’m open until nine, so if you’re really worried about the means of communication, just come down to the office.” Hawthorne brushed his hair back, a fairly obvious scar running from his forehead to the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll send someone post-haste. It’s of the utmost importance. I might even teleport them to your office myself!”

“If you can teleport them, can’t you just come here your-” He was interrupted by a click. Hawthorne slammed the landline down. Just the idea that there were people who didn’t know what happened to Jones seemed to irk him, even a year later.

The tired private detective gazed around his office, quickly realizing it wasn’t really presentable to anyone, let alone a client with the ability to use spatial magic within the limits of the strictly monitored Bay City.

Wizards and casters with a Class-T license were usually big business executives, politicians, or police officers. Whoever it was, the job was sure to pay well. Anarion Hawthorne, for the first time in months, felt a tinge of excitement. A murder case the cops wouldn’t pay attention to? Corporate espionage? The possibilities ran through his head as he continued tidying his office. Lifting up overturned pictures and making a halfhearted attempt to wipe dust off of the desks and surfaces lining every single wall of the room, something he had done at the advice of Jones, of course. Something about “leaving no blank walls for people to plant devices.” Even he had to admit it had a comfortable feeling about it. Hawthorne nonchalantly ripped open a small pouch with a worn label that read something like “Plant Food (But Good)” and poured it into the soil of a dying fern he had gotten as a gift from the daughter of a client. It sprung to life as if it were defibrillated suddenly.

A low-budget computer sat on his desk in the center-back of the office, facing a line of horizontal windows with the blinds closed. The rising moon and fading sun battled for dominance in the sky through the barely visible shades., resulting in a rare occurrence known as a “Faerie’s Moon.” 

The receptionist, Longclaw, had always kept track of the moon phases, so she had actually been excited as Hawthorne walked in that morning, his exhausted demeanor completely fading against the indomitable will of a woman preparing to enjoy her hobbies. He didn’t even try to say anything negative like he had become accustomed to doing. Seeing a kobold so excited about something so… esoteric was odd to him, but every month or so, she spent about an hour in his office, perched on the adjustable stool on the other side of his desk, explaining the magical meaning behind each phase, something which technically meant absolutely nothing to Longclaw, who was born without the capability to channel mana, and Anarion, a magic school dropout.

Hawthorne eyed the clock hanging on the wall above the office door. It was a peculiar one, in the shape of an imp, every hand on the clock was a consecutively small pitchfork, like you’d see on a little demon in a classic serial. Despite the fact that pitchforks, being three-pointed, didn’t exactly make good clock hands, he had learned to tell time on it quite efficiently. 7:34 PM. Hawthorne slumped back in his chair, satisfied with the half-assed cleaning job. Surely whoever was arriving with such important business wouldn’t care that much about the state of his office. 

The fairy security system warding the windows and other entrances of the two-floor building started to pipe up a call of warning, then stopped suddenly. The fairy perched on Longclaw’s desk actually seemed confused when she had stopped mid-chirp. The green-scaled kobold hopped off her office chair in a manner similar to a child climbing off of a high surface, and adjusted her rather ornate dress, looking around the lobby confusedly. Hawthorne, having heard a sudden high-pitched noise stop without warning, was up and at the entrance of his office, peering through the door. The low-lit lobby seemed as mundane as ever. 

“Ah, Rio?” Miss Longclaw pointed a sharpened finger behind Anarion, casually using the childhood nickname of a man who was supposed to be her boss. The glint of steel bounced off the glass window of the office door as the Half-Elf threw himself backwards through the door and toward his desk. He muttered the incantation for a Spell of Grasping and threw open the drawer as the figure in the back corner of his office lunged toward him. In an instant, Hawthorne pointed his revolver at the figure, who stopped in their tracks.

“Freeze!” He yelled at the silhouette. In response, The figure snapped both of their fingers at once and the shadows surrounding them started to swallow them up. Hawthorne closed one eye and fired the revolver, chambered in 22. LR. The bullet bounced off the only thing he could make out the details of. Before the figure disappeared completely Hawthorne heard an “ouch, SHIT!” the clanging of metal to the cheap hardwood floor, and the whizzing of a bullet past his own ears and out the window, which promptly crumbled to sparkling dust in the moonlight. Longclaw ran inside as the knife clattered to the floor, nearly sprinting inside on all fours, as Kobolds in a rush usually do. 

“What in blue blazes, Rio!?” She seemed genuinely worried. Hawthorne holstered his revolver and walked over to the center of the room, gazing backward at the remainder of the window the bullet left behind. It wasn’t much.

“Ah, uh… I got attacked.” Anarion replied, regaining his composure. 

“I can see that. Would you mind telling me why you fired your bloody pistol inside the office?” Miss Longclaw didn’t seem very impressed. She had gone into a small closet in the corner of the office and grabbed a broom and dustpan, waddling over to the window frame.

“He was going to charge at me. I made a judgement call.” Hawthorne knelt down with a gloved hand to pick up the sliver of metal off the ground from in front of his desk. It appeared to be a jagged, handmade knife with some kind of enchantment. It vibrated as he took the hilt in his gloved hand.

“This was goblin-made.” He said out loud.

“I thought they didn’t do magic, much.” Longclaw replied, calmly sweeping up glass dust into the dustpan, which was almost her height.

“Well, one teleported into the damn office, Longclaw.”

“You’re the one who cheaped out on fairy wards.”

“It was a cost-saving measure!”

“So you could spend more on hair products, no doubt.” 

“That doesn’t come out of the office budget, and you know it.”

Before their bickering could escalate any further, a sound resembling a whipcrack echoed through the office and escaped through the open window, shaking the damaged blinds with a small shockwave.

In the center of Anarion Hawthorne’s office stood a man wearing a classic wizard’s hat with a well-groomed and close-cropped white beard.

“Oh, Goddess.” Longclaw muttered quietly. 

Hawthorne switched to his gruff detective demeanor at the instant the two men’s eyes made contact.

“Ahem. And to who do I owe the pleasure? I can guess you ain’t here to try and stab me like the last guy.”

“Having trouble, detective?” The wizard seemed rather judgemental of the whole scene, cold gray eyes occasionally focusing on Longclaw, who was doing her best to avoid his gaze. Anarion was sure he was the type who’d never hire a kobold for anything, let alone let one into his office. He ignored the prejudgement and did his best to get right to business.

“You’re the liaison?” He spoke up. The man seemed wise beyond his years, but with a certain arrogance that better befit a man half his age, someone who seemed to have his whole life ahead of him and was fully knowledgeable of it. Anarion half expected the wizard to lift one leg and climb over the chair on the other side of his desk to sit down at it.

But the wizard did no such thing. He just stood there, eyeballing the baubles and certificates lining the walls of the office, his healthy-looking long white hair billowing out of a comically pointed blue hat, and certainly not matching with his black suit. Anarion assumed those hats were mostly worn as a matter of ceremony nowadays.

“Apologies for my master’s… haste earlier.” The wizard replied, after seemingly taking in the vibe of the office for some time. The moonlight caught Miss Longclaw’s scales as they did so often, and she gazed distractedly out the window at the Faerie’s Moon, Which let out a pale pink glow, almost unnoticeable unless you stared at it for a long time. A gentle smile crossed her face, her snout crinkling slightly. The wizard grimaced at the display, to which Anarion loudly put his hands on the oak desk. Longclaw remained transfixed by the moon, but the Wizard seemed taken aback. It appeared the message was received just fine.

“I would ask what’s happened to your office window, but whoever was here last left enough magical traces to recast the spell thricefold.” The wizard said knowingly. “And by the looks of it, not very well.”

“Yeah, I was attacked a few moments before you popped in. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?” Hawthorne asked, a hint of venom in his voice. Insulting the wizard by even insinuating he was associated with such low-class magic was sure to sting.

And sting it did.

“You’re lucky we need you for a job. I wouldn’t set foot in any place so “quaint” otherwise.” The Wizard physically turned up his nose and he pulled his cellphone from the pockets on his pricy-looking suit. 

“A wizard as old and wise as you talking like a stuck-up butler isn’t really fitting.” Anarion replied.

Ignoring the remark, the aged sorcerer browsed his phone for a moment, before uttering an incantation. It seemed to cause an image to be projected into the room.

“Goblin Druid. Most likely the person who appeared in your room was not the caster, and given that the spell was written so carelessly, they’re probably lost in cross-space now.” The wizard put his phone away. “I can’t imagine why someone as distinguished as you is in some sort of blood feud with the Goblins, nor why they’d forgo simply shelling your offices as they are so often want to do.” He sneered a little at the thought.

“Huh. Didn’t think you’d really answer me.”

“Can we talk about the pressing matters now, Mister Hawthorne?”

“Surely. Mind introducing yourself first, though?” The energy in the room had lessened in intensity since the wizard had given in to the detective’s request, making it clear that he was in fact, there to do proper business.

“My name is Glarewell Knight. I’m a personal Archmage of the Mayor.”

34th Precinct, Downtown Bay City, 7:54PM

Eileen Littlewing sat in the office of her chief, a large, husky Baketanuki. The older man looked the very definition of a police chief, down to the dark, well-groomed mustache that seemed more like the end of a broom than facial hair. The Monoeye gazed around the office nervously. It was the first time he had called her in the office for any reason other than to immediately praise her, and her small bat wings fluttered in trepidation.

“There’s no need to be nervous, Littlewing.” The Chief said to her, doing his best to look reassuring. Given that his office was not only lined with extremely clean and clear windows, but in the center of the main floor of the precinct, occasionally, one of the other cops would gaze through to try and see what was happening.

But nothing was happening. He was just staring at her. Her big orange eye did everything it could to avoid locking with his. He had big, visible bags underneath them, most likely having to do with dealing with the remnants of his special units causing messes all around the city.

“I…is this about the slime mafia? I’m really sorry.” Eileen seemed genuinely worried. She brushed her scarlet, bobbed hair to the side slightly, putting her hat on carefully so the holes where her horns fit in perfectly. The display of respect for her uniform, more akin to a child putting on a costume they were really proud of than a distinguished officer, caused the demeanor of the tanuki to soften instantly.

“No, ya ain’t in trouble for that, Littlewing. Matter of fact, it was a bang-up job. I should give McCoy a raise for even keeping ya around.” A small smile crossed his face. “Speaking of which, where is that good-fer-nothin’?”

As he said this, Sergeant Gretchen McCoy strode into the office, carelessly slamming the door behind her. A framed picture standing up on the Chief’s desk fell over.

“What is this, Chief Poco?” The fiery redhead didn’t even give the other two in the room a moment to take in her attitude. It was clear she wasn’t happy.”

“You wanna lend out my point man-”

“Point girl, Sarge.” Eileen interrupted.

“Hush, rookie.” McCoy replied.

“You wanna lend out my point man to some half-rate detective who works for what… the Mayor?” Gretchen, despite being several feet shorter than the chief, and about the same height standing as he was sitting, looked rather intimidating. It took everything Eileen had when she was mad like this to even butt in with a correction.

Chief Poco looked furious. “Yer damn right I do! She’s our star officer!”

“She’s a good look for PR, you mean.”

“If I didn’t think she could do it, I wouldn’t suggest it.” Poco replied.

Eileen perked up at the declaration. Her hard work in the Gryphon unit had finally begun to pay off. She stared dutifully at the Chief, already having made up her mind. Gretchen, who was so focused on arguing with Poco, hadn’t noticed.

“To be completely honest, you’re lucky I didn’t suspend the whole bunch of you after that raid on the Slime Mafia tower. Balabanov’s explosions alone cost the city twenty-thousand bucks.”

Gretchen took a drag from a cigarette neither Eileen nor the Chief had seen her walk in with, exhaling the smoke from her nose like a dragon. “I don’t think you realize how much worse it would’ve been if you had sent fuckin’ Chimera or something in there. Do you really think they woulda figured out that the slimes lost their form when exposed to electric charges?”

“Yes, I do think they would’ve! Do you know why? Because it’s basic elemental magic, McCoy!”

“I don’t know any magic, chief. The rest of my unit doesn’t use magic.” Gretchen kind of side-eyed her cyclopian rookie at this remark, a slight red flushed across Eileen’s cheeks in response. “S-sorry…”

“Don’t apologize, Littlewing!” Poco looked at Eileen as if he had just yelled at a small child. “Without your eye, I doubt they’d have been able to negate all that damage. Detonating an A-class Magical Explosive without proper clearance at the top of a fuckin tower!”

“And? It got the job done, didn’t it?”

“You’re so lucky it was the first time you’ve done this.”

“It won’t be the last if you keep sending Chimera ahead of us.” Gretchen put her cigarette between her lips and leaned on the desk with both hands, the badge around her neck bouncing against her chest. “You want a clean job? Don’t send us to clean up their goddamn mess.”

It took Chief Poco a moment to come up with a response. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat with his curled fist to his mouth. “One day, McCoy. You’ll be chief. You’ll be dealing with a bunch of Sergeants just like you. We’ll see how that goes.”

“I fuckin hope so! Because Sergeants like me make sure their rookies don’t go gallivanting with dumbfuck private dicks!”

“You wanna take this up with the Mayor? Because you’re doing a whole lot of bitching and moaning. Perhaps you’d like to schedule a meeting to find out why they requested Littlewing specifically.”

“Well, I can assume why.”

“I… Sarge?” Eileen spoke quietly, attempting to get a word in edgewise amongst the tense conversation.

“Hmm?” Gretchen seemed to soften up as she turned towards the monoeye. Eileen seemed to have that effect on people.

“I’m uh… the only cop in the 34th precinct without a write-up.” Eileen replied with a hint of hesitation. “The Mayor wouldn’t request you guys.”

“Huh. No shit. The whole 34th?”

“Yeah. Either way, I was already determined to take the assignment. It isn’t like we’ve much to do after the Slime Tower.” Eileen looked up at her superiors.

“Alright, well,” Gretchen began, exhaling nicotine breath directly at Eileen, who wiggled her nose in discomfort, “You’ll at least let me meet this detective, right?”

“No! I mean… er, I can handle it myself. I’ll call HQ if I need anything, okay?” The loud clock in the Chief’s office ticked for a few moments, and the passers-by that had started gathering around the windows seemed confused. The uproar had completely died down. 

“Littlewing. Just so we’re clear, this is a plainclothes operation. Independent detectives don’t wear uniforms.” Chief Poco said.

“Oh! You mean they don’t wear those long, worn trenchcoats and smoke cigarettes and-”

“No, I mean… Some do? I’m not sure, honestly.” The Chief seemed to have lost the plot, trying to cut off Eileen before the objective was completely gone to the four winds. Eileen’s bat wings fluttered in excitement. She, being on a squad made primarily for raids and riot control, had not ever encountered a detective employed by the department, let alone a private detective.

“So, this case! It can’t be that serious, right?” Gretchen inquired, raising an eyebrow. Chief Poco’s fluffy tail swept across the floor behind his rolling chair a little, and he put both palms on the desk before exhaling.

“The Mayor’s daughter has been kidnapped.”

“That brat that got caught going on an Automaton Joyride? Probably just ran away again.” Gretchen replied dismissively.

“Ah! Sarge, it’s still serious!” Eileen looked shocked. "It's serious enough that the mayor doesn't want anyone else to know!"

"Or, and hear me out here." Sergeant McCoy began, "your daughter getting kidnapped would really harm your election chances."

"There's no way that's true! Nobody could be that uncaring… right, chief?" Eileen turned to look at Chief Poco with an expression akin to one a small animal would give if you held its favorite toy out of reach, but it was sure you'd give it back.

The Chief couldn't respond. Nothing he could say would be appropriate. He didn't want to imagine the diminutive rookie slinking dejected out of his office, and he didn't want to set her up for disappointment later.

"Look, you've got to meet your liaison soon, hurry along." Poco replied dismissively. His voice sounded hesitant, though.

"Can I tell Ramona or Penny where I'm going?" 

"Urgh… sure. But not too many details. I know how Officer Tyrannus likes to gossip."

"And if ya keep it real quiet, I might even give you Lou's phone number~" Gretchen followed up, in a taunting sort of voice.

Eileen's cheeks flushed bright red and she shot up from her chair.

“I’ll be on my way, then!” She nearly yelped.

“Civilian clothes, Littlewing!” Gretchen shouted as she sped out the small office.

The air outside was cool and breezy. Perfectly fitting for a mid-autumn evening. Eileen passed by businesses specifically catering to Nightfolk with a grin on her face that she didn’t even bother trying to hide. She adjusted the shoulder holster she kept under her jacket, unused to the feeling as she was, and tried her best to straighten herself out as she passed under neon signs for 24-7 bodegas and one particular magic supply shop that was run by a Druid who worked night shift his whole life and was unable to fix his sleep schedule without serious arcane adjustment.

She knew the neighborhood of the Archmage Road like the back of her hand. 

Up until she got to the Business District. The imposing look of the glass buildings standing among an overpriced-looking wizard’s tower at the end of the street, standing above the fancy-looking modern constructions like a king made of concrete and enchanted obsidian gazing upon his rows of subjects. 

Walking amongst the likes of self-important business wizards and strangely well-kept druids who would normally steer clear while she was in uniform, Eileen felt strangely out-of-place. She didn't have much of a reason to visit this district outside of her job, so seeing people float by on various contraptions, start up their cars or shove past her roughly as if they had somewhere to go after work was quite an odd feeling. She'd half a mind to speak up and voice her indignation, but she knew quite well that without her badge, she sort of just looked like a teenager getting angry at some guy leaving work. The monoeye sighed and adjusted her oversized bomber jacket, taking care to avoid a grate on the sidewalk, slowly expelling steam straight into the air. 

She could see her destination towards the end of the block. A gap of space between the Spherico's Orbs building and the news offices they used to record all those terrible current events podcasts. Eileen shuddered as she recalled a time Gryphon 05 was called to protect the Hobgoblin Media offices from a crowd of angry witches. The "news channel" published a series of hit pieces about the district's coven leader, Gladys Grant, complete with spurious sources that fell apart under any scrutiny. She'd never smelled so much expensive, tacky perfume gathered in one place.

Passing by the news station and shoving past a male Kitsune and another Beastkin who looked like they had both been stood up, the rookie cop approached the two floor brick-and-mortar affair. The pink moon shone overhead, bathing the detective offices in a gentle glow. Up above on the second floor, the monoeye could see a smashed window. Eileen, despite presumably knowing exactly what she was walking towards, felt her hand creep towards the revolver on her waist. Two figures stood idle by the doorway, sharing a smoke. One, from what Eileen could tell, was wearing something pointy on his head. The other was tall. Elf? Just a large human? The Chief had told her she only had one partner for this case. 

Finally, Eileen psyched herself up, exhaled deeply, and walked towards the door, wings fluttering in anticipation. It was a sketchy sight, to be sure. Maybe her partner had already been attacked!

Eileen grabbed the handle to the doors of the Detective Offices of Jones and Hawthorne and pulled it open quickly, strolling right into the lobby. Directly in front of her were a wizard in an expensive-looking silken robe and pricy dress shoes underneath. To his right was Half-Elf with a rather handsome shape to his face, 5 o clock shadow like something she'd see in a poorly-aged detective serial, and neatly styled hair. She could immediately tell he put most of his care into that, as beneath his eyes were thick bags emblematic of a dedicated detective, or at least one with poor sleeping habits.

Suddenly, the Monoeye felt a tad excited.

"And just who are you supposed to be?" The Half-Elf asked, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Officer Eileen Littlewing, sir! I assume you're Private Detective Anarion Hawthorne?" Eileen fought her nervous energy, forcing a proper response to the surface without stuttering. 

Yeah, that's me." Anarion Hawthorne replied, caused Eileen’s wings to flutter once again. "You're the cop they're sending me?" 

Eileen nodded. Hawthorne looked to the Archmage Glarewell Knight, puzzled expression crossing his face. Eileen recognized it immediately. 

"You're underestimating me, then?" She said, a bit of venom in her normally excitable tone.

"Ah, well… I just wasn't expecting someone so…" Hawthorne began.

"Green?" Eileen finished his sentence. For a moment, the silence in the lobby of the building was palpable. One of those loud clocks nobody used anymore was tick-ticking away behind them. The man in the wizard hat cleared his throat loudly as Eileen eyeballed the detective. He couldn't return her gaze. He couldn't tell if she was about to attack him or start crying.

"Hawthorne, this is Officer Littlewing. She'll be your partner for this operation. I believe in time you'll see she's uniquely suited for it, given the circumstances." His normal condescending tone was replaced by one completely devoid of emotion.

"Why's that? Is she gonna give our leads the puppy-dog stare?"

Eileen didn't respond for a moment. Hawthorne looked worried, wondering if perhaps he had actually made her cry.

Then, the monoeye turned away from him.

"You're just like the stories." She muttered. 

"Eh?"

"Ah, well in all those hard-boiled detective stories, the main character is usually a good-for-nothing jerk for no reason!" She remarked, smiling at him. It was a genuine smile, but her oddly-structured observation hit its mark, and she knew it. Anarion Hawthorne dropped his guarded posture, crossed arms falling to their sides. Glarewell Knight, the Mayor's personal Archmage, snickered loudly.

"Ya got me, half-pint. I'll play nice, alright? Just don't get in my way. This investigation-"

"Is a joint operation, Mister Hawthorne! I'm not your sidekick. In a lot of ways, I figure I'm even more capable than you!"

"How do you figure?" The half-elf shot back, bending over to even out the height difference between the pair. 

"For one thing, I've noticed you haven't cast any wards on your place of business. In your line of work, I'd imagine that's quite hazardous!" Eileen began pacing about the lobby, her eye moving from corner to corner as if creating a list of issues to spout off.

"I've got pixies on all the windows…"

"Not good enough! And another thing!"

"What, gonna point out the clock is an hour ahead, too?"

"No! It's actually-"

"Or maybe it's about the rickety banister!"

Glarewell Knight took a step back. Eileen placed her hand at her holster. 

Anarion Hawthorne, despite his fantastic intuition and a general good sense for crime solving, lacked one thing that the seasoned wizard and the rookie officer both had in spades.

"You can't detect magic, can you?" Knight proclaimed Eileen’s observation out loud.

"I can! It's just not as strong. Why?" Hawthorne looked confused.

"Step to the left, please!" Eileen said, expectantly. Hawthorne complied and, almost as if waiting for this moment, a small portal opened and a Goblin stumbled through like they had entered at a full speed run. Anarion stuck out his leg and the discombobulated cultist tripped over his worn brown chelsea boots and went careening into a wall of exposed brickwork, smashing a row of embedded mailboxes and sending several letters flying as he lay in a heap at the wall. Somewhere in the jumble of letters, Eileen heard something metallic clang to the floor. 

"Again!?" Hawthorne seemed more upset about the mess than the thwarted attack.

"How did that goblin bypass the spacetime magic restriction? Does he have a license?" Eileen asked, genuinely confused.

"I doubt it, Miss Littlewing." Glarewell Knight stroked his beard. "It seems that whoever it is, they're using some kind of ritual magic."

"Well, they're under arrest regardless!" Eileen impatiently walked over to the dazed goblin with her handcuffs opened.

Anarion Hawthorne looked to the archmage, expectantly. 

"We're not covering the cost of this repair. It seems to be a personal issue between you and this gang of Goblin shaman, after all." Knight declared. 

"Half the pay for this job is already spent, damnit!" Hawthorne looked frustrated.

"Well, I'd suggest you get a move on. Maybe next time a cultist spawns, it'll be in someone else's lobby."

Before the detective could think of a witty comeback, Eileen spoke up, a cuffed Goblin about her height struggling in her grasp, several yellow letters in the other hand. "You missed a couple of court dates, too!"