This is a false, reductive stereotype. Women also work as farm laborers and domestic servants.

But not cops?

Women have served in Starwatch with distinction, albeit less commonly than men. It would be unsurprising if the provosts were male-dominated, perhaps to the exclusion of the fairer sex. Something to be aware of when interacting with them.

"I could be a whore and a cop," she suggests. Anything's possible when you have no idea what's going on.

"Suuuuuuuure."

You have more professional pride than that. Everyone knows sex workers hold law enforcement in contempt and vice versa. If you had that stain on your reputation, Starwatch would've washed it off.

She's zero for two on winning stupid arguments right now. Time to give up before she digs the hole any deeper.

"I'm going to go find a rock… somewhere. Try not to choke on anything while I'm gone."

And shortly thereafter the detective will be accosted by her partner tumbling out of the sky at speed before coming to a sudden but controlled stop a hairsbreadth above the ground, ruddy-cheeked and grinning like a loon. The fifty-foot length of silk rope belted around her waist remains eerily suspended in the air for another moment, then falls limply to the earth.

"Told you there would be a skylight," she says breathily.

"Fat lot of good that does us," she grumbles. "We can't open it without destroying it, and we might not even be able to destroy it without shooting it."

Gwen will bother to investigate the skylight, briefly, but unfortunately her partner has a point. She uses the sleeve of her cloak to rub the dirt off a section of glass – it's not entirely transparent, there are what look like cobwebs hanging from the underside, but with one side clean it's just barely possible to make out the floor of the church illuminated by sunlight. Gwen takes a moment to think.

No, wait.

"Give me the headband back," she says.

But she doesn't want to give the headband back! The headband makes her better at everything, and it's only a little bit cursed!

Ah, the other thing I was afraid of. You've become dependent on the horrible poisonous truths being whispered into your ear. Next thing you know, you won't want to lift a finger without the headband's say-so. Better for you to get rid of it now, while your sanity is still mostly intact.

I'm not that kind of cursed item! Suffering psychic trauma from a sudden insight into your condition is common even with regular Wisdom headbands, and ultimately is probably better for your sanity in the long run. Think about it: is persistent self-delusion actually good for you, or is it the byproduct of a maladaptive coping mechanism?

She rips the headband off and throws it back at its owner.

Gwen is relieved that getting her gear back was easier than pulling teeth this time. Some people really like the boost from magic headbands, and they're not shy about trying to hold on to it. She dons the headband, checks her own thought process, and continues.

"Thanks. Shooting the glass won't work – it's too thick to shatter like a window, and even if it did there are embedded structural supports that would limit the damage. In the interests of not crawling through a small hole lined with glass shards, I propose the following alternative: I go inside by myself, you stay here and ask these kids whether they know anything about the murder."

She's already regretting it. Is there a word for the experience of being yourself after having been someone else, only to realize the howling black maelstrom of your ineptitude has hidden depths only visible from the transient hybrid perspective you've just abandoned? She wouldn't know, she's not smart anymore.

"And you're planning to get down there how, exactly? Any gap you can fit through… no! No, you can't be serious! How?"

"I paid attention in class," Gwen says, climbing onto the dome in search of a better view.

Every wizard knows a few magic tricks that don't fit neatly into the Azlanti spellcasting paradigm. Some are the product of magical breeding or pacts with other powers; most are the kind of thing you figure out after studying complex manifolds for three weeks straight without getting enough sleep, or by asking an older student for advice and incidentally absorbing knowledge that you were perhaps not ready for just yet. They run the gamut from impractical to invaluable, and wise students will try to pick up more of the latter than the former.

Gwen spent six months in the Arcanamirium learning how to mimic the function of Dimension Door without casting a spell, a feat she knew was theoretically possible thanks to an off-hand comment her brother made almost ten years prior. That alone justified the cost of enrollment, going by the number of times it has saved her life. The number of times it has merely solved some otherwise-intractable problem is much higher.

"And what are you going to do when the crypt thing in the basement comes out to disembowel you, wave your commission at it?"

"Ideally," she says dryly. "If not, well…"

Ah, we meet at last. That is a Lirianne A380, maybe the most common pistol in the world. Single-shot breechloader chambered in the ubiquitous caliber. Cheap, durable, and higher quality than its price tag suggests. It's not going to help you win any weapon-themed beauty pageants, but firefights are a different story.

There are notches cut into the grip. Little ones, right near the base. Someone's been keeping score.

"… but let's hope it doesn't come to that."

She breaks it open to ensure it's loaded, then positions herself over a particularly clean patch of glass.

"See you in a few minutes," she says, and vanishes.

"Why did I even come up here?" she says to herself. "Invite me to bust my ass climbing up this church like a municipal gargoyle inspector when you're just going to magically waltz in on your own – could've done that in the first thirty seconds instead of faffing around like an elf – fucking headband tells you how to solve your fucking problems but doesn't give a fuck about anyone else along for the ride, they can get their own Evil headbands – motherfucker—"

TRIP THE LIGHT
____FANTASTIC

PROBLEM: It's no wonder you're obsessed with wizards – who wouldn't want to move fast in between bouts of breaking things? Final diagnosis: the green-eyed monster. As a reward for learning something about yourself, it's time to experiment with a little proactivity. The next time some spellbook-toting nerd decides to gallivant away instead of dealing with their problems, what are you going to do about it? They can't be better than you at everything…