Letters to the Detective

Letters to the Detective

A stack of letters meticulously organized by the assistant for the detective. Each envelope is plastered with postmarks from repeated forwarding. To Mr. Ashen Detective: Greetings from Moria Ecological Island. We strive to create breathtaking natural landscapes and idyllic climates to provide our clients with meticulous and caring restorative services. We regret to inform you that the account on file has insufficient funds to cover the service fees for the upcoming cycle for the guest under your care. Please mail a check to the designated location within one standardized month. Otherwise, we will suspend all value-added services. This includes fresh bananas, rainforest rockeries, and heated baths. If you have already made a payment, please ignore this mail. Thank you for your support and cooperation. ... Old Man, You never went back to Kronstadt after that, did you? I remember you mentioning your homeland. You said it was always shrouded in gloomy clouds. You said every step in the alleys was soaked in blood, and that fur-clad beasts were always howling in the withered, blackened wilderness. I was passing by that area recently, and guess what? A group of refugees has settled there to start anew. They cleared the thickets of thorns, toppled the old churches, and built gardens from the rubble. Soon, they will forget that this was once the bloody den where Zulo cultivated his minions. They will forget the last hunter who hunted every monster down. They will even forget the nickname "Black Church." When night fell, I watched the smoke from their cooking fires dissipate. The candlelight in their tents flickered on, one by one. It was bright yet fragile. A single insignificant storm in the cosmos could snuff those lights out. I plan to stay. Maybe just for a while. Don't blame me for making this decision on my own, Old Man. Neither of us has a home anymore, but they still do. ... To my favorite regular: Mr. La Mancha, it has been a while, but your name still comes up often in this lounge. Half of those talking about you want to find you, and half of those looking for you want you dead. Your admirers call you the Lead Hunter, the solitary First Fang whose teeth once shredded a Lord Ravager's chest. Your detractors call you a kinslaying monster who dragged the Rangers into the abyss for a private vendetta before vanishing. Years back, a Galaxy Ranger who survived Vonwacq showed me his scarred arms and swore to settle the score. I know the feeling, you still owe me for that unpaid tab, after all. Even further back, Cloud Knights came knocking, claiming you broke into the Shackling Prison and got someone out. Quite a feat, considering you were supposed to be visiting Zhuming's master craftsmen. You certainly have a talent for finding trouble in the darkest places. Lately, word is the "One-Eyed Owl" has picked up your scent. She tracked down the brothers you were providing for in Moria and took their eyes, hoping to see your location through them. I found a prosthetic doctor to treat them, but that lady plays dirty. You certainly made plenty of enemies during your glory days. I am not one to judge, but having both of the Galaxy Rangers' Lead Hunters on your tail at once is a special kind of reckless. I say "both" because just yesterday, some recruits following the "Heartless Bear" tried to shake me down for information. They wanted to get revenge for their boss. They claim you sold Dr. Primitive's archives, stole Navigator Isee's relic, and are now living it up on an IPC planet. Those naive kids actually think they can squeeze a share of the loot out of you. There is a young cowboy here with a steady hand who taught them some manners, but he is a terrible liar. He knows where you are, doesn't he? I am trusting him to deliver this letter. Long story short: watch your back. And don't you dare die before settling your tab. A frantic, handwritten note on the margin: Mister N, keep the doors and windows locked for the next few days.