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All he could think of... was that he was running out of meat.

Thought nothing of the continual bouts of throbbing, muted pain from his wounds; ignored the fact that he looked like a godamned mummy with all the bandages easily spotted through the holes in his jeans, and along the length of his arms from beneath his plain black t-shirt. And he wasn't concentrating on his 'warm-up case' that he'd been dragged out to investigate at three in the afternoon. Desmond had already done a sweep of the house and knew what little heathens were responsible for stealing all of Mrs. Hayden's buttons, forks, and one sock from every pair that her and her family of four owned.

Yet here he was, hiking up a hill towards an old, oriental-looking house to question the last neighbor.

While hoping to some kind of higher power that Barghest kept attacking the jerky he held between his grubby little hands until he'd made it back to the car. The brat may have been secured in the little baby-carrier-pack that he wore slung across his front, and they may have reached an agreement of sorts... but the puppy hadn't liked being dragged outside in the sun any more than he had.

Finally reaching the top of the hill, Desmond shoved some loose bits of hair behind his ears and climbed up the steps with extreme caution (he'd been a bit clumsy with them lately, so he felt justified to be more than just a little paranoid,) then knocked sharply on the wooden paneling beside the sliding door.

Making a quick sweep of both the man and the child with his eyes, he took brief notice of the dual-ears, feline eyes, and the infant's wings before moving on to business...

"Good afternoon Mr. Fweedle," Desmond spoke, "I'm sorry to interrupt your day-"

The sounds of gnashing teeth quieted and the squirming bundle suspended against his freshly bandaged mid-section, stilled. These were not good signs, but he didn't dare stop the formalities now to waste more time to take a peak at the mutt. It'd only give the runt even more of an opportunity to do something stupid.

"-but a robbery occurred about twelve, twelve fifteen, this afternoon at one of your neighbors houses, the Haydens." he paused to draw breath while reinforcing his determination not to glance down at the stone-still and silent Barghest.

"I've been going around and performing routine questioning-" here he stumbled, and again refrained from looking down- the brat had started squirming again; "So I'm here to ask if you've seen, heard, or felt anything strange between now and early noon?"

Unable to help himself, Desmond's blue, traitorous eyes turned south- to which he was most glad that they did. For Barghest had his ears perked forward and silver eyes trained on the feather ball that the neko held. The strip of jerky had been all but forgotten on the floor as the puppy heaved himself forward with arms outstretched and tiny, clawed hands swiping and grabbing at the other babe.

Oh ********, it was Mrs. Hayden's goldfish all over again.

Barghest thought the other kid was food.

"Mmm." he replied absently, mentally filing away Mr. Fweedle's personal opinions so he could mull over the more helpful facts.

The Bakeneko had actually seen the culprit (or culprits as the case may very well be,) but nothing concrete by the sounds of it. Which wasn't terribly convincing, feline's had superior eyesight and hearing, if the dual-ears were anything to go off of.

"Can you describe the figure a little more? Gender, height, weight, build, what they were wearing... things like that?" Desmond questioned, belting a restraining (and thickly bandaged,) arm across the puppy's belly while stepping back so as to prevent the squirming brat from taking a bite out of the other babe with feathers. Kid wouldn't be feeling quite so friendly anymore if he lost a limb.

Desmond was operating under the belief that if he smoothly continued questioning the potential witness, while refusing to acknowledge the existence of both squirming, straining, (one laughing, and one biting,) bouncing bundles of joy- then the subject of aforementioned little brats would not be brought up. Ever. He'd gotten more than enough looks and questions about little heathen (strangely, not a single one of those had so much as hinted at his banged up and train-wrecked visage.)

Barghest scratched futilely at the bandages and actually released a small whimper at the terribly sad and unfortunate state of affairs. Like he was going to be suckered into that bullshit one more time. Last time he pulled that, he'd almost got his face clawed up- thankfully he was quick-enough on his feet and that the fridge was nearby.

Clearing his throat, Desmond issued some more questions so as to keep the cat's attention away from anything found beneath shoulder level; "You are a Bakeneko, right? Did you not scent anything in particular as well?"

Originally he'd thought it just a hand full of pixies that got a little too drunk and had simply been unable to resist temptation. But if the cat here had seen a single figure... that meant a slightly larger menace had decided to have a night out on the town, so to speak.

Roughly five, maybe six feet in height, (likely fatter than should be physically healthy,) had green skin, smelled something fierce, and had been drunk off its a**. Great. Perfect even. A *Long-Goblin had decided to party with some pixies. It certainly would explain why the Hayden's two cats, and one dog was missing.

"You likely witnessed an inebriated Long-Goblin, vacating the scene of the crime." Desmond remarked casually, nodding slightly in both agreeance and mild thanks towards Mr. Fweedle for being so forthcoming.

Unable to prevent the fleeting grimace that flashed across his face when the Bakeneko did the one thing he'd been desperately hoping he wouldn't do... And that was to look down, spot Barghest, then make a pointed verbal inquiry.

Is something wrong with your baby? He glanced down to inspect the wriggling puppy that was doing his damnedest to escape the confinements. Oh there wasn't anything wrong with dear little Barghest- he just wanted to eat your child. Nothing too worry about. Naturally, Desmond refrained from telling the other man such a thing. Wouldn't do if the cat decided that supplying him with necessary information was no longer in his best interest; felines tended to be particular about things like that. Desmond clenched his jaw and resolutely decided to act like the thirty-two year old man that he was.

"Not at all, he's just a little hungry." By answering the question with swift, blunt efficiency.


"If you could point me in the direction that you last saw the creature, I'll be on my way and leave you to the rest of your day." And then barreling forward, not giving the other man time to interject.

But then again, he was dealing with a cat.







*Long-Goblin: A close-cousin breed of your standard goblin. Their defining attributes are their abnormally tall height, and predominant obesity.

"That won't be necessary..." Desmond replied, sliding a hand into his back-pocket and withdrawing a simple business card.

I'll just feed him one of the pixies. he thought absently, sparing a glance down to watch Barghest heave himself forward, hands grasping and swiping at air while he snapped his teeth together, trying to bite. Making sure that he had a decent grip on the babe's thrashing form, Desmond returned his attentions to Mr. Fweedle as he raised his free hand up and out to proffer his business card.
"I would like to thank you on behalf of the Left Kingdom Investigations, for your compliance with this case. Should you recall any additional facts or otherwise require our assistance, call the number on the card and you will be assisted accordingly." Desmond explained, lowering his now empty hand, "Have a pleasant evening." he finished, turning around and heading down the steps and swiftly making his way towards the woods where the Long-Goblin had allegedly last been seen.

He ignored the deliberate, low-keening whine of disappointment that fell from Barghest's lips. Opting instead to tighten his grip when the puppy made a last-ditch effort to escape the confines of both his arm and the baby-pack.

It might have been considered rude to depart so abruptly without waiting for a reply, more so given the fact he'd left without picking up the half-digested scrap of jerky that Barghest had dropped on Mr. Fweedle's porch. But he figured such niceties mattered little since he'd neither introduced himself nor produced official identification as to his profession when he'd started interrogating the cat. So what was one more when stacked against the many? Besides, he had some hung-over Pixies and one Long-Goblin to find, apprehend...

And should Mr. Fweedle care to take a glance at the card he'd left in his care, it would have read: