Everything seems so... normal after reading a letter from his partner for many mysteries. Perhaps he was over exaggerating the issue with the city. The train was thundering along the tracks, no more stops for a few miles, thank goodness. The elf detective stood up and brushed through his wavy hair combed neatly into a parting, slight stubble, he hadn't really had the chance to shave since he got on the train a few days ago, he rubbed it slightly, coarse like sand, making that distinct sound, like when you stroke a hand over rough fabric. 

"hm..." he mutters to himself, standing near the sink and mirror in his first class cabin, patterned, floral red carpet of different shades, expensive, imported desert Khirani knotwood furnishing the walls and shelf of the cart, the ceiling has a dangling chandelier lighting up the bed and couch that resided in this space, in a small room to the bottom was a bathroom to bathe in and a toilet.

The scent is distinct, it was recently lacquered a week or two ago, meaning there must've been damage done to the knotwood furnishing, it kept bothering him, that scent haunting him like a siren's song ever since he stepped into his cabin.

Perhaps this is a good time to use his magic? A refresher on investigative magic.

He ganders at places where the shade was slightly different on the wood, most of the patches seems to be below the window. his hand lights up with blue and green sparks, he waves his hand carefully over the recent lacquering and then it was made obvious what the damage was, children drawing or rather carving with a knife, it was a crudely carved image of the mother and father as well as the child.

He gives a warm smile "perhaps a reminder that others have came and gone on this train."

Tak, tak, tak, there was a knock at the frosted window. He pulled himself out of the squat and then turned his head as he then shouts "Come in!" 

Who enters is a well groomed owl harpy steward, suit is well ironed and pressed. The steward was a stickler for punctuation and he was clearly working the nightshift "Mister Dawnbringer... there was an undelivered letter and parcel that was directed to you that was picked up at the last station."

"Ah, thank you Orloio, night shift for you?" he asks, taking the parcel from the harpy.

"Indeed, do pray tell, why are you going to Colesce? That town is haunted, haven't you heard?" the harpy warns but he was curious why the famed detective was wanted to head towards something that will endanger him.

"Because a friend requested me, Orloio, and I am naught to reject a friend in need my dear fellow." He replies while cracking open the letter with a letter knife he always leaves on the bedside table and then begins reading over further details.

He then rips off a piece of paper from a notebook and uses a fountain pen to write an address and then the home address "here, Orloio, since you have been a friend to me for the days I have been on this train for, write to me at this address and I will give you updates on what happens, for I feel it will take a month or to solve said case and home address in case you get in a spot yourself, but do know, I can tell when a man is guilty,"

Orloio nods "Ah, of course, sir. Anyway, I must deliver these other undelivered parcels before we stop at Colesce." 

"Farewell my feathered friend, stay safe." Hermaeus gives a small salute in farewell before shutting the door and then shaking the box with a smirk, hearing the clink and clank of a few objects.

"Oh my dear Ingral... you know me too well." He mutters with an ever growing smile.

Hermaeus opens the package and then the box beneath it all. When the box opens, he was hit by the scent of metal, gun oil, leather and mana restorative tincture. He first pulls up the revolver, produced by the master weapon crafters of Tir Na Nog, a paradise island only accessible by the fortunate few, a bridge between Albion and Hermaeus' world of Aenta. 

He clicks the hammer, checks the trigger before putting the heavily decorated revolver in the leather holster, a pair of knuckle dusters, as intricately decorated with Celtic knotwork and wolves as the revolver was. Then a leather bound book, a rare second edition copy of 'Albonic Martial Movements' by Scathach herself before she disappeared from her training school many years ago, with that was blue, bubbling glowing vials of mana sitting besides a gun cleaning kit and a large cardboard carton of bullets a mix of silver and normal rounds.

"A refresher on combat arts I might've forgotten about before Lady Scathach disappeared..." he utters, still perplexed by her disappearance. 

He then shut the box once he took out the martial art book and begins reading it, watching as the fog grew thicker and darker, the train chugging down the tracks and slowly burning speed. It is clear he is approaching his departing destination. 

He checks his pocket watch and then gives a look of perplexation to the watch as it's hands were twisting and winding, the ticks turned into a savage sound of bending springs as he then mutters "infernal thing... like jack frost is toying with it." 

He taps the pocket watch against the wall and opens it once more. It was still acting funny. Bah, no matter, he never needed it anyway, it was a mere part of his style young brother encouraged him to wear. 

he heard the train whistle sound, he was quick to put the chest holster on, stick carton of bullets in his deep coat pocket that sits on shelf above his bed, the knuckle dusters in his inner jacket pocket and the book in his case with the gun cleaning kit and then getting everything in order to disembark at Darrelston Station. 

He dons his bowler hat and his coat, heaving up his case and then heading to the departure area of the double decker luxury carriage, gathering with a few other first class passangers that eyed the detective up and down with some suspicion and when he looked back at them, they looked away, seemingly all carrying some form of guilt. 

It wasn't his time to begin asking questions, he wishes to meet with a friend of a friend to hopefully finally solve the strange goings on of the city. He watches through the window, seeing the passing brick walls, pipes, factories, windows and smokestacks, the scent hit him, yet it wasn't the smell of industrial fog, but that of the sea, but then again it is a port town.

The train's breaks screeched as it fully slows down and the steam whistle sounds for it's stop before the massive doors open to the opulent and well lit train station, incredible metal work and glass with stone pillars held the station together, the floor was well polished marble tiles and there were plenty of stalls selling food and other items. 

The detective steps off with a tip-tap of his soles, case in one hand and letter in the other, looking for the described man that was said to be waiting near the entrance. 

The game is now afoot.