Grays #17 - Detective

Hampton rolls his cigar in his mouth, a thin veil of sugar and saliva congealing over his lips.  A dry cough bubbles up as he spews smoke toward my face.  "What do you make a' this one, Bolt?"
  I slide my disgust back inside my duster, fishing the gloves from within.  Their silk and leather stretch across my fingers; a shield from the leeching tendrils of his aura.  How this man ever made captain, I will never understand.  Useless humans and their fringer habits.
  This city has an anathema.  A far cry from my Feathertongue.  From the stone inlays to the cracked cobblestone, everything here...is wet.  A thick film already sticks to my coat; I am slick with it.  The stink of liquor, tears, and regret.  No wonder the dragonborn left.
  
  It is a girl this time.  Eyes still open, gazing up at the stars when life left her.  It seems she was smiling when she died; a curious dichotomy to the twisted mess of flesh and bone that lay beneath her, like a gnarled bit of discarded meat.  The spriggan, a frail stick of a creature, was snapped several times - no cuts, no bruises, just...broken.  The girl; fine silk and cashmere, beautiful rings without the sigil of a house, circlet and bracelets that hold the dress of sky and water together, framing her fine corset and flowing curves.  A young maiden - fleeing from the confines of her noble city to consummate her brigand of a boy.
  They thought they were safe.  A pretty, pretty princess playing too far from the eyes of her guards.  
I tug at the fingers of my glove; the last one yielded so little.  Will this one yield more?  I'll never forget it...but it may provide another piece to this spectral puzzle.  I exhale long and slow, then rip the glove off, pressing two fingers upon the girl's forehead.  I poor my will through the conduit forged of my precursor and wait.  

  Hammering rain.  Soft flutters of breath.  A suppressed giggle.  Soaked feet.  Blurred sight.  A tiny chill, but too late to act.
The images are slow at first, like trickling water.  But the flood increases.  I feel her heart rise, her blood boiling in anticipation.  Excitement.  Terror.  Uncertainty.  Absolute fear.  Ecstasy.  Numb.  Falling and staring.  A woman; clad in leathers and covered in blood.  She paints the wall, singing to herself, as I feel life drain from me - blood washed away by the rain, seeping between the stones.  She finishes her symphony upon the wall, and watches me with dread curiosity in my last moments.  Her eyes transfix me - hold me there, too big, too bright, too alive.

  I return, and my hands are shaking.  That woman...never blinking.  I suppress the shudder, but the words escape me before I can bite my tongue.  "...Druid."
  "What'd you say?"
I pull the glove back on as I rise, stealing one last glance at the princess.  You never should have left home, little girl.  These nights are cold and full of murder.  Spinning on my heels, I address the captain.  "This was a mercy killing, my dear Hamp.  ...Now, be a good boy and close her eyes for me."
  "Excuse me?  Why?"
  "Because...  I do not sully my hands with the bodies of traitors."