Eldritch Guidance-Chapter 141- Difficult Colleagues

High in the upper floors of the massive, neon-lit Nighttower, where the city’s skyline stretched endlessly beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Klye "Iron Fist" Ferris—second-in-command of the infamous Nighthounds Syndicate—slumped over his desk like a beaten dog. His massive frame, that of a mutant Doberman, seemed almost comically out of place amidst the opulence of his office. Gold-trimmed furniture, elegant paintings hung on the wall, and the faint hum of high-end climate control did little to ease his frustration.

Right now, the feared leader—known for being able to punch a man's head clean off his body easily—looked more like a puppy who’d just had his favorite chew toy stolen. His ears were flattened, his eyes flickered with irritation, and his clawed fingers drummed impatiently against the polished mahogany desk.

Beside him loomed four towering stacks of paperwork, each one a mountain of bureaucratic hell. Surveillance reports, financial ledgers, blackmail dossiers, and encrypted client manifests—all waiting for his approval.

The doberman mutant let out a deep, rumbling groan and dragged a paw down his muzzle.

Kyle: “How in the burning abyss did I go from mob boss to pencil pusher?” he grumbled aloud, knowing full well no one would answer.

Normally, this kind of mind-numbing drudgery wasn’t his problem. The Nighthounds had entire floors of analysts, accountants, and data-sifters—people whose job it was to comb through the endless streams of intel the syndicate harvested from the city’s underbelly. Surveillance footage, black-market deals, smuggler routes, and corporate secrets—all refined, packaged, and sold to the highest bidder in the shadow economy.

But today? Today, the Boss had “requested” he handle it personally.

Klye’s ears twitched in irritation as he replayed Yin’s vague instructions in his head.

"Find me information on anyone strange who’s arrived in Graheel recently."

That was it. No names, no descriptions, not even a hint of what "strange" meant in a city where countless mages and mutants were running around.

Kyle leaned back in his chair, the reinforced frame creaking under his bulk. His eyes flickered as he scanned the towering stacks of dossiers crowding his desk—each one a potential lead, and yet none of them useful. The Nighthounds’ intelligence network was vast, but even their best data-sifters couldn’t work miracles. They’d filtered through surveillance feeds, magical signatures, and black-market whispers, flagging everything from unlicensed mage to Krimson trade.

He exhaled through his teeth, the sound more growl than sigh. He needed more. More details, more context—anything to turn this needle-in-a-haystack search into something resembling a real lead.

For a dangerous moment, he considered breaking his own rule—the one where he deliberately avoided asking too many questions about Yin’s business. He could just march into his boss’s sanctum and ask to know why these strangers mattered. What was so important about them? What did Yin and those unsettling associates of hers really want?

But then he remembered Madam Allara.

The way the air around her had rippled, like reality itself was recoiling. The way her smile was too perfect, like that of doll’s. The way his instincts—honed by years of living on the streets—screamed at him to run whenever she was near.

No.

Some doors were better left unopened. Some knowledge came with a price even he wasn’t willing to pay.

With a snarl, Kyle grabbed another dossier. The pages smelled of ozone and old blood—some poor bastard’s fate reduced to ink and speculation.

Better to drown in paperwork than in whatever nightmare Yin’s playing with this time.

Kyle was halfway through another meaningless dossier - this one detailing a street performer who might or might not have been trafficking in cursed objects—when a heavy knock sounded at his office door. Before he could answer, the door swung open to reveal the broad silhouette of Grizz, Yin's personal attendant and enforcer. The bear mutant filled the doorway effortlessly, his massive frame draped in a tailored suit that probably cost more than most people made in a year. Polished claws, neatly groomed muzzle, and an air of quiet danger - everything about him spoke of disciplined efficiency.

Grizz: "Evening, Ferris," the mutant bear rumbled, giving Kyle a curt nod as he stepped inside. His deep voice carried the weight of someone who didn't waste words.

Kyle barely suppressed a sigh.

Kyle: "Grizz. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The bear's dark eyes swept over the precarious stacks of files before settling back on Kyle.

Grizz: "Lady Yin was inquiring about the status of her request."

Kyle leaned back in his creaking chair, rubbing his temples.

Kyle: "It's... progressing."

A heavy silence followed. Grizz didn't so much as blink.

Grizz: "...Not well, then," the bear observed, his tone neutral but cutting straight to the truth of the matter.

Kyle gestured at the disaster covering his desk.

Kyle: "Your powers of deduction remain as sharp as ever."

Grizz exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been amusement or simple resignation.

Grizz: "Don't we have clerks for this sort of work?"

Kyle:"Oh, they did their part," he said, flipping open another file with a claw. "Went through the watch reports, flagged unusual arrivals, checked the harbor manifests. This is what they deemed worth bringing to my attention."

Grizz: "That's... troubling."

Kyle: "You're telling me." He tossed the folder onto the growing pile. "Look, I understand Yin wants discretion, but 'strange people in Graheel' isn't exactly a short list. If she could give me anything more - a name, a distinguishing mark, even just what makes them so damn interesting - I might actually have somewhere to start."

For a long moment, Grizz simply studied him, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim lamplight. The bear's massive frame seemed to fill the room, his presence as imposing as the weight of the unspoken truths between them.

Grizz: "I'll convey your concerns. But you should know—she's being vague for your benefit."

Kyle frowned, his claws tapping restlessly against the desk.

Grizz: "You told her yourself, that you didn’t want to know what she was doing with John and his... associates."

Kyle let out a long sigh, the truth of it settling over him like a familiar, uncomfortable cloak. He had made that request. And Yin, was honoring it—by keeping him in the dark, even when it made his job harder.

Kyle: "Yeah, well," the doberman mutant muttered, rubbing at his temples, "tell her I'm on it. But unless she wants me to start dragging in every oddball off the streets for questioning, it's going to take time."

Grizz hesitated—a rare thing for the usually decisive bear. Then, with the air of someone delivering unwelcome news.

Grizz: "There may be bad news regarding your desire to stay out of Yin’s dealings."

Kyle's ears twitched.

Kyle: "Oh?"

Grizz: "She informed me that you’ll likely be pulled into this one, whether you like it or not." his tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a hint of something else beneath it—apology? Warning? "She said she’ll limit what she tells you, out of respect for your wishes. But you’re going to have to go back on the streets for her soon."

To Kyle’s own surprise, a grin tugged at the corner of his muzzle.

Kyle: "Oh, thank the spirits."

Grizz blinked.

Grizz: "You’re... okay with this?"

Kyle:"As long as I don’t have to deal directly with those weirdos or know exactly what they’re doing. Yeah, I’m fine." He stretched, his muscles aching from hours hunched over paperwork. "Besides, I don’t mind getting out of this damn office. It’s been too long."

Grizz huffed, something like amusement in the sound.

Grizz: "I’ll remind you of that when you’re knee-deep in Graheel’s filth again."

Kyle: "So," the mob boss leaned forward, eager for the change of pace, "what’s she having me do?"

Grizz: "She wants you to meet someone arriving in Graheel soon," he explained. "And you’re to help this newcomer find those 'strange people' you’ve been digging up records on."

Kyle’s grin faded slightly.

Kyle: "So it does circle back to that."

Grizz: "Once this individual arrives," Grizz said, turning toward the door, "they’ll likely be able to tell you more about what—or who—you're actually looking for."

Kyle exhaled, rolling his shoulders. Back to the streets. Back to the hunt.

It was better than paperwork.

Kyle: "Fine," he said, standing and cracking his knuckles. "When do I start?"

Grizz hesitated, his massive paw resting on the doorframe.

Grizz: "That depends on Fenny..."

Kyle's ears flattened against his skull, his tail stiffening.

Kyle: "Oh, that motherfucker is slacking off again, isn't he?" he growled, the words dripping with barely restrained irritation.

Grizz didn't bother denying it. He simply nodded, his expression the picture of weary resignation.

Fenny—Yin's so-called "personal delivery specialist"—was, without question, one of the most powerful assets the Nighthounds possessed. His ability wasn't just rare; it was one of a kind. Where conventional teleportation magic had limits—distance, mass, circle locations, line-of-sight requirements—Fenny's power laughed at such restrictions. He acted as conduits for spatial manipulation, allowing him to rip open portals to anywhere, moving people and cargo across continents in the blink of an eye. No customs checks. No border patrols. No paper trails. It had made the syndicate obscenely wealthy and nearly untouchable.

But Fenny himself?

A problem.

Where Kyle approached his duties with disciplined efficiency, Fenny treated everything like a game. He obeyed Yin without question—her word was law—but when it came to taking orders from Kyle? Suddenly, he was too busy, or too tired, or just not in the mood. Their working relationship had devolved into a petty, exhausting war of attrition.

Kyle would corner him with a list of shipments that needed moving.

Fenny would vanish mid-conversation, leaving behind only a snicker and the faint scent of ozone.

Kyle would retaliate by freezing his expense accounts.

Fenny would reappear just long enough to whine before teleporting away again.

It was maddening.

Kyle: "I swear to the spirits," he muttered, rubbing his temples, "if he's off gambling in some pleasure den instead of prepping for this job, I'm going to—"

Grizz: "—You'll what?" he interrupted, raising a brow. "Chase him? He’s a living shortcut. You’ll never catch him."

Kyle bared his teeth in a grin that was all threat.

Kyle: "No. But I can make his life miserable. And I will."

Grizz sighed.

Grizz: "Just get it done. Yin won’t tolerate delays on this."

Kyle: "Yeah, yeah," Kyle grumbled, already mentally drafting the strongly worded message he'd leave in Fenny's private safehouse.

Somewhere in the city, Fenny was probably laughing.

For now.

♦♦♦♦♦

Fenny: "Achoo!"

The explosive sneeze ripped through Fenny with enough force to make his bones rattle—quite literally. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the Red Church in Coppa, bouncing between gilded reliquaries and stained-glass windows depicting Steph and their god. A few acolytes paused mid-prayer, shooting irritated glances toward the disruption.

Beside him, Saint Steph—her white robes shimmering faintly with divine radiance—turned with immediate concern. Her delicate features pinched into an expression of maternal worry, hands already half-raised, ready to heal.

Steph: "Bless you! Are you alright? Do you have a cold?" she fretted, her voice like wind chimes. "I can fix that for you—it would only take a moment!"

Behind her, Thalia—the ever-stoic guardian—crossed her arms with her usual robes of the captain of the Red Guard. Her sharp eyes scanned Fenny with the skepticism of someone who had seen him "accidentally" portal a priest ceremonial wine into his own flask last week.

Fenny waved Steph off, sniffling dramatically.

Fenny: "Nah, nah, I'm good. Just allergies. This swamp air's murder on my sinuses." He rubbed his nose, then smirked. "Or—” he pointed upward, as if accusing the heavens themselves, “someone’s out there talking mad shit about me."

Steph: "Why would anyone do something like that to you?"

Thalia snorted.

Thalia: "With his reputation? Probably a lot of people talk ill of him."

Fenny grinned, unrepentant.

Fenny: "Oh, absolutely. Bet it’s Kyle. That mutt’s always grumbling about me." He mimed a growling dog, complete with bared teeth and flattened ears.

Steph sighed, but her lips twitched upward.

Steph: "You two are impossible."

Fenny: "Hey, I’m a delight," he said, stretching lazily. "Kyle’s the one with a stick up his—"

Thalia: "—Fenny," she cut in, warningly.

Fenny: "—Spine," he finished, grinning. "Stick up his spine. Very unhealthy posture. Someone should fix that."

Steph shook her head, the golden charms on her ceremonial headpiece tinkling softly with the motion. Though her expression remained appropriately saintly, the spark of amusement in her violet eyes betrayed her.

Steph: "Come now," she said, smoothing her ivory robes. "Let's have some tea before we depart for Graheel. "

Fenny: "Only if it's the good stuff," he said, falling into step beside her as they moved through the candlelit cloisters. "None of that bitter stuff."

Thalia rolled her eyes.

Thalia: "You'd complain if the gods themselves served you ambrosia," she muttered.

Fenny: "And I'd be right to," he shot back cheerfully.

Steph hid a smile behind her sleeve.

Steph: "We acquired some fascinating local herbs from the wetlands," she admitted. "But for you, I'll have them add extra honey."

Fenny: "Saint Steph, patron saint of enabling my sweet tooth," he declared, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. "I'd convert to your religion, but let's be real—I'd be a terrible follower."

Thalia: "The worst," she agreed.

As they turned down the vaulted hallway toward the refectory, Fenny felt that familiar prickle at the base of his skull—the bone-deep certainty that somewhere, a certain overgrown guard dog was thinking very hard about him.

Fenny: "Achoo!"

The sneeze hit him like a punchline, loud enough to startle a nearby novice into dropping her prayer beads.

Fenny wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Fenny: "Yep," he declared, smug as a cat with cream. "Definitely Kyle."