Lycanthropy was a heady drug; its effects addictive and its power intoxicating. Every human sense is amplified in some way and can take on a perverse amount of power. Take the sense of touch, for example. The sensation of feeling the world through blade-like claws would endow even the most worthless of peasants with a sense of power: and being able to use those savage sickles to measure a wound? The mastery that imbued in a person…
There were other senses at work, in the lycanthropic mind of Jellial. None of them, as great or as heady as the sense of smell that still perversely dominated the room. He was able to absorb so many rich scents in the room: stale blood and pure blood and sweat and oil all intertwined to form the reek of the world. Thankfully, the scents that Jellial had feared were not present. Maylene’s scent was not here, nor was Que’la’quin’s. His own little pack of beloved ones were not involved in the strange assault on Varro’s men directly.
Sadly, it seemed that they might yet be dragged into it indirectly. Jellial was not deaf, nor did he miss the less-than-casual discrimination against his blood-brother’s race. He let his telepathic links reach all those in the room: despite having but a single target for his ire. “Be careful of what you insult, captain. I’ve found more deceit and foul-play in my time with humans than I have with the lizardfolk.”
He lifts his fingers away from the scraped wounds, pondering the unimaginables and trying to place just what could cause such wounds. Werewolves it seemed, were out of the equation. It would take a diminutive, disfigured werewolf to inflict such strange wounds and Varro’s men were almost certainly trained well enough to deal with a diminutive werewolf. Lizardmen would rarely use anything as intimate as their claws to kill: unless of course they wanted the Lizardfolk to be blamed which left only more bizarre choices. The intricacy of the case was starting to dawn on Jellial: It was likely that any common doctor would have been able to come up with the conclusions Jellial had in a day or so. There were no usual suspects left to case and, if Jellial knew Varro, it was highly likely that a civil war could break out over incidents such as this. It would make all too much sense for Janelle to require the assistance of the Queen’s blades, if only due to the sensitivity of the situation.
So where did that leave the investigation? Werewolves were likely out of the equation, and their were few lizardfolk who would intentionally use claws when a good sword would have sufficed and drawn less attention to themselves. What other options were there: perhaps a different Lycanthrope, such as a Werecat? or perhaps an independant lizardfolk, with a vendetta against Varro? Maybe these ‘Dragoon Knights’ were attempting to spark a civil war and frame the lizardkin? or perhaps just a bizarre fourth option that was beyond obvious comprehension?
It hardly mattered now. Jellial had no evidence for any such wild accusations: he could only say what was not true: and all he could confirm was that the werewolf he intimately knew and the lizardman he loved as a brother were not the murderers here. That was the truths that he knew, and that would not stop a war.
”So I have some good news for you captain. The wounds are not those of any common Werewolf: Too thin and too narrow.” Jellial lifted the slightly dampened claws of his lycanthropic form and considered tasting the man’s flesh. Just a lick of sweet ambrose might appease the killer instincts inside, but it would likely be a less-than-comforting sight amongst his new allies. Instead he flicked his fingers sharply and splattered the last speckles of mostly dry flesh scraps onto the floor, clearing his nails of the worst of it. ”I would be open to exploring any avenue or lead: The werewolf pack or Que’la’quin are both options open to us, and negotiations with both parties would benefit from my presence…
Slowly, Jellial reaches down to pick something up. His behemoth fingers wrapping around the bundled up cloak and shirt. He turned towards the group and offered a toothy, wolfy grin. ”If we have no other points of discussion, i’ll go get changed. I imagine at least half the party would prefer me fully clothed.” Jellial stands near the door, politely waiting for any of his fellow Queen’s blades to say something.
