A narrow, unmarked, and weathered door stands recessed into the stone wall of a leaning tenement. Above it, barely visible beneath layers of soot and rain-stain, a faint outline suggests a sign was once posted and later removed. To the casual passerby, it’s just another forgotten entrance in the maze of Zann’s Alley. But if you look closer, there are signs. A fresh scrape on the threshold, recent foot traffic. A faint line of chalk dust near the base of the doorframe, disturbed earth, and recently tracked. And if you pause just outside, you might hear the soft scratch of a pen from within. Inside, the room is sparse but ordered. A narrow cot. A desk built from repurposed shipping crates. A single oil lamp casts a steady glow over stacks of case files, hand-labeled and cross-referenced. Maps of Bully Harbour, marked with red string and pinpoints, cover one wall. On another, a board holds sketches, newspaper clippings, and a single note in bold script:
At the desk, Marlowe Thistledown sits with her back straight, reviewing a ledger under the light. Her brass magnifier rests beside her paw, and her satchel lies open, its contents, tools and notebooks, arranged with quiet precision. Her office hours were open, and since concluding her old cases, she needed a fresh batch of new cases. Marlowe disliked having her mind idle and preferred to have something to do to keep herself busy. Cases, as sometimes mundane as they were, would provide that.
At the desk, Marlowe Thistledown sits with her back straight, reviewing a ledger under the light. Her brass magnifier rests beside her paw, and her satchel lies open, its contents, tools and notebooks, arranged with quiet precision. Her office hours were open, and since concluding her old cases, she needed a fresh batch of new cases. Marlowe disliked having her mind idle and preferred to have something to do to keep herself busy. Cases, as sometimes mundane as they were, would provide that.
