[center][h3]Dead Zone Hinterlands - Martira, Old Castle Town[/h3]
Harry’s [@Eviledd1984][/center]

Owed in large part to its age and origins, Martira was not the simplest town to navigate. Its core had been built to not to facilitate quick and easy travel, but to obstruct and frustrate invaders back when war had embroiled the Kingdom of Euchronia. During the times of relative peace that followed, the surviving soldiers beat their swords into plowshares and raised families in this borderland bastion. As a result, Martira had not undergone any urban planning, but had grown in an almost organic fashion around the old keep. The locals might know its irregularities like the backs of their hands, but newcomers were bound to experience their fare share of wandering.

As such, Harry had plenty of time to take in the sights, and he certainly found his fair share of interesting things to see, but what he did not find was an excess of hospitality. The townsfolk here were furtive, nervous, and standoffish. Learning about the calamitous Dead Zone in uncomfortably close proximity to Martira would explain some of this behavior, but not all of it, since most of the citizens seemed rather cagey about something specific to Harry himself, completely unrelated to the accursed territories nearby. As Harry saw more people and got a better idea of the populace, however, he might begin to figure things out. The vast majority of Martira’s townsfolk sported not-standard features of some stripe, such as strange ears, horns, animal tails, or straight-up inhuman physiology. Of particular prominence were the Roussainte, the tall long-eared ones, and the Clemar, with their distinctive horns. Each ‘tribe’ tended to be clannish and curt, if not downright exclusory, to the others, and for some reason or another that seemed to go double for Harry. Everywhere he went he found strange looks, wary glances, and narrowed eyes, and the word ‘Elda’ muttered under folks’ breath.

After about half an hour, and a couple inquiries at incorrect places, Harry finally found the guard captain at the Martira Guard Center. It was essentially a one-stop shop for recruitment, bounties, barracks, and everything that concerned the town’s defenses, and a Dead Zone patrol led by Bardon himself had just returned. While his squad dispersed in the general direction of Martira’s taverns, though, Bardon himself stuck around, offering the detective the perfect chance to meet him.

[url=https://i.imgur.com/q6rM5mK.png]Bardon[/url] turned out to be a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged fellow whose long ears marked him as a Roussainte, to use the local terminology. Formidable, but not flashy, he sported an olive green overcoat tailored to be worn over high-quality plate mail, with a saber at his side and an arcane artifact known as a Magic Igniter around his neck. He had grayish hair just starting to thin, a chinstrap beard, and an exceptionally stern expression. Children seemed to quail at the sight of him, but he bore no hostility–only a frank and painfully serious nature. When he caught sight of a newcomer, his initial surprise quickly gave way to hope.

“G’mornin’ to ye,” Bardon greeted Harry with a strong Scottish accent. “There’s lots o’ folks ‘round here that need help, but if you came to [i]me[/i] lookin’ for work, aye, there’s somethin’ I -the whole town really- need help with. I dinnae think it would come to this, but…loathe as we are to admit it to outsiders, we’re desperately in o’er our heads at this point. See, every week or so, some wee lad or lass goes missin’. Sometimes two or three at a time. At first we thought it was monsters from the Dead Zone, but it blew up almost two weeks ago and the situation hasn’t improved." Though he kept a stiff upper lip, Bardon seemed rather despondent about the whole matter, as if the burden of responsibility lay on his shoulders alone.

After a moment he cleared his throat and continued. "The only lead we’ve got left is Heismay, a disgraced knight who’s been livin’ near town. Problem is, he’s holed up in ol’ Curien Mansion up the hill. Place is a deathtrap, and we don’t have the soldiers to storm it. If you can solve this crisis, the bounty on Heismay’s head is yours. Lady Joanna put it up herself, so you can expect a handsome reward.” Bardon pursed his lips, his hand rested on his belt by the hilt of his sword. “If there’s anythin’ ye need, anythin’ at all, whatever assistance I can offer is yours.”