The Cherub bows elegantly, seemingly far less inebriated than the rest of the Angel Gang here despite the fact that he has has a fresh drink in his hand throughout the entire two hours that the group were in the Nymph's Embrace, "A please to have met you my dear... and for the kindness of retrieving our poor sister, you have the gratitude of Angelsgate"".
...out in the alleyway, Varian and Beatrice have already disappeared into the tangle of lanes and alleyways - and so, following the advice passed to Ruby by Varian, three women and Darc make their way through the drizzle back to the river. Finally escaping the maze of streets and seeing the great river, the group find themselves a little downstream from the Angelsgate... but no matter, it is a shorter walk from here to the chain ferry that crosses over to the pleasure island of Festival...
Arriving damp, but far from soaked, the group find a large crowd milling around the riverbank where the rusted iron hulk of the ferry will soon be dragged - chains creaking and groaning under the strain - ashore. Amongst the pleasure seekers, collars set high and lurking beneath wide-brimmed hats, stride puppeteers, comedians, jugglers and card magicians... each of them plying their trade in an attempt to relieve a few coins from the customers before they even set a foot on the island... but, with the weather and the rather grim gossip doing the rounds here, the carnival atmosphere is lacking. And the topic of this gossip? The worry that the burning disease could take hold here in Castorhage... that they or someone they know may suddenly be taken by a flame that springs from nowhere... that a fire that disappears as quickly as it comes will consume them...
"Old Charlie down in the slops, he's saying they got five folks what have succumbed to it already down at the Grime Street Morgue... and more coming every day!!! It's a bad business... if I had the coin, I'd leave the city behind me!!!"
...and out of the mist, the ferry appears - clanking its way through the filth of the Lyme towards the waiting crowd at the shore.
The room rented by Beatrice, and formerly by Chantelle, is a small affair in a ramshackle wood-framed building. The building itself groans in the damp weather, poorly maintained beams and walls swelling with the rain... apologising that the small room is not as elegant as she would think Lord Varian is used to, Beatrice asks, "What're you looking for mister?"
On the way, Tella ducks in some alley to change her appearance to look like lady of negotiable virtue.
"I hate this bloody disguise, but I can't think of anything else that wouldn't draw the wrong kind of attention," she grumbles as she joins the others.
"Oh my mister! A sickness that just has ye burstin' inta flames loike a mage or somethin' cast a 'ex on ye? How'd'ye e'en catch such a thing," Tella asks the man in a voice that sounds as if it is old in sin and trying to put on an innocent facade as she begins trying to wheedle more details out of him.
The man looks towards Tella and a smile crosses his face, "Now... if I knew that miss I'd be a rich man wouldn't I!!! All I heard is that folks is just going about their normal business and then WHOOMPHHHH!!!", he makes an over-expressive sweeping motion with his arms as if to describe an explosion, "they light up like a Tien firework... it's happening to men and women, old and young and no-one can say what it is that's caused it. You ask me, I'd say it was some terrible disease brought in by foreigners... now we all got to suffer on account of some Keleshite or suchlike not washing his hands".
Adopting a conspiratorial tone, he continues, "The way I heard it, they've had to cover up just how bad its got and the Grime Street Morgue's got more burned folks than it can deal with... 'course, no-one'll take it serious-like until it starts affecting some of the folks up in Capital. Still, what can you do about it? Live life is what I say, now... how's about you and me find somewhere nice to have a drink and get to know each other?" The man, with a mouth filled with crooked brown stumps for teeth, grins at Tella...
Varian takes in the small damp room that Beatrice and Chantelle lived in. He felt quite depressed at the sight, especially knowing that even this hovel needed to be shared by two. "I want to look through Chantelle's things. Her possessions, gifts she's received, cherished letters, most of all a journal if she actually kept one. As I mentioned before, rumor has it that she might've been involved with a handsome man with a mustache and neatly groomed hair. Perhaps there'll be nothing here, but it seems as good an option as any to learn more. Was there a place where she might hide things? A loose floorboard, perhaps?"
Once directed to Chantelle's possessions, Varian begins to work through them.
- "She kept what little coin she could behind the skirting board over there... she said she was going to save enough for a ticket to somewhere far from here, never would say where though - she said that it didn't matter, just as long as it wasn't here. If there was anything else that she wanted to keep secret from Fetid and the rest of them, it would be in there milord", Beatrice points out a piece of skirting that, as she said it would, comes free of the wall with ease...
Behind, in a small alcove, there is a small tin and a black leather journal - opening the tin first, Varian finds a small heap of coins - mostly they are Castorhage minted but a few, the more exotic looking, are denominations from Osirion, Cheliax and even Vudran... with an expert eye, Varian calculates the stash to be worth little more than two gold pieces in total - surely far from the amount that it would have taken for Chantelle to buy passage far from here. Looking through the journal, with the hope that he will find something about the girl's life, and potentially about the handsome fellow that Tella saw in her vision, Varian quickly comes to the conclusion that, in all likelihood, Chantelle was illiterate... there is no writing within the pages of the book but there are drawings - hundreds of them; sketches of people, of buildings along the river, of the Castorhage skyline and, the most detailed of all of them, pictures of open countryside and of sprawling fields - parochial scenes that radiate peace.
Beatrice joins Varian as he leafs through the book, "That girl could draw, that's for sure... she never let anyone else know, said so many folks had taken everything else that was beautiful from her and she wanted to keep this one thing for her own".
While Tella concentrates on any instances of the burning disease, Elsie elects to concentrate upon a more solid (?) lead....the mysterious gentleman known as Mahaas. She is free with the smiles, winks, and coin though none of them reach her eyes. Making sure Darc is always nearby as a shadow would be, her queries are akin to the following...
"Excuse me, I am trying to deliver a message to a gentleman named Mahaas? Might you know where he may be found?"
Varian flips through the set of pictures that was there. Looking at the last several pages that seem more recent, Varian looks for anything that seems to offer clues about the events he knows about. A freak, a mustached man, fire, anything that might reflect her thoughts in the last few days.
"This is really a lovely set of drawings. It is a shame that she could not open up to the right person. Her talents might have taken her to another life. If you don't mind, I'd like to hang on to this for now. I have some associates who might be able to divine a great deal from such a cherished object. I can return it to you when we've uncovered the truth--you seem like the closest thing she had to family." More so than the Cherub, certainly, whose initial distress soon melted away.
As afternoon turns into evening, Varian bids his goodbyes and makes his way toward Festival, hoping to spy his allies at work. Though, as was his plan, he did not intend to be Lord Varian at all. With cloak of darkness, he quickly undergoes a shift in appearance, achieving a new identity in just a minute's time. No longer Lord Varian, he is now The Stirge. If he is able to find his allies, he keeps his distance from their activities, not wanting to be seen.
"Oh, no, you probably don't want to know about me," Tella says, "I'm just a plain girl, no one special at all."
Darc, help! Please!
Darc let's Elise wander off as he keeps a beady eye on Tella, as she wanders around asking questions. These girls, will they never learn that every alley more often than not leads to pain or death. And death is the better of the two outcomes. He watches as an old ugly man seems to press unwanted attention on the tiefling. He sees the glint of gold in the old man's teeth and decides enough is enough. He strolls to Tellas side, his dark cloak wafting behind as he gathers speed, until he is by Tella's side. With a straight and angered face he says menacingly, "Sir, if you want to keep your gold in your mouth, best leave this lady alone." He stares down at the man, his fingers twisted into fists, as the knuckles whiten, his jaw set.
"Tella, we must go, Elise went in that direction." he nods to where his old friend has ben asking questions, from where he left a few seconds ago. "Don't be so bold around here, the colour is just a distraction to hide Castorhage's underworld."
He picks up Tella and carries her off under one arm, after Elise, only putting her down after they are safely back together.
Hidden by the taller man's cloak, Tella just nods as her appearance shifts again. When she is once again put down, she appears as an unremarkable woman dressed in dark and forgettable clothing. A hood covers her head and a scarf hides her face.
The man who had designs upon Tella sizes Darc up and very quickly decides that, despite the woman's alluring attire, she isn't worth the fight that Darc is promising... with his eyes submissively pointed towards the cobbles, he mumbles some kind of an apology and melds back into the crowd - which is already starting to form the approximation of a queue to board the chain ferry.
Elsewhere in the crowd, Eliseera makes sure that her questions are pointed towards those folk who are resident to Festival - the tattered jesters, the card-tricksters, the man standing next to the drive chain of the ferry tapping out a dissonant tune on the massive links with a pair of garishly decorated drumsticks... it takes a while, and a disproportionate amount of coin , to break the wall of silence, shrugs and shaking of heads... but eventually, as they are boarding the ferry, a man with a vicious looking monkey upon his shoulder acknowledges the name, “Yeah, that wretch lives over on the island somewhere... I've seen 'im on the ferry from time to time. One can only pity so poor a soul, stricken as he is with the second-head fluke... he hides that terrible second face away under a great hood, which he wears to spare the fear of those he passes. Come to think of it, I've seen 'im with many such hoods — some bright and gay, some dark and shadowy”.
...and, as the ferry gate crashes shut and the chains pull taut, the man asks, "You got business with 'im? 'ave yer?".
With everybody aboard, the ferry is dragged free from the cobbled slipway... a dreadful grinding of metal upon stone before the river takes the boar... and is pulled on to the great Lyme. With darkness falling, the boat is lit up with tens, if not hundreds, of lanterns - the warm light picking out the pennants and flags that adorn the vessel. And the man who had been tapping out a tune on the chain climbs atop the prow of the boat, and hefting an accordion slung around his neck, breaks into the commonly sung tune of 'Great Sister Lyme is no friend of mine'.
The Stirge, arriving way too late to board the ferry, can only watch from the river bank as it is pulled across the river... a small island of light and song moving across the darkly flowing water... as he watches, a voice calls up to him from the water. A man in a small rowing boat softly lit by a lantern at bow and at stern shouts, "You missed the Chain 'ave you sir? 'Appens that I can take yer 'cross if you need to be there in the next hour. It'll cost yer a little sir but you'll get over without bein' fleeced by them Festival types that work the ferry... and I reckon you'll be ashore even before that ferry's gate opens on t'other side".
The Stirge was no longer a well-dressed nobleman. Instead, his appearance and clothing looked like that of a mercenary or warrior bristling with equipment, most notably a large greatsword that a discerning eye would know was capable of storing magics. Varian had already placed some magics therein, to strike its victim with a silent scream of pure terror.
As he approaches the ferry's landing spot, the Stirge eyes the rowboat suspiciously. He was glad to have a way across that wasn't the ferry - one that would help him keep a low profile. But he wasn't sure if this man was trustworthy, or if the boat was seaworthy. "Have you done this before? Sister Lyme does not take kindly to fools." He approaches to inspect the man and the boat.
The Stirge looks around to see if he had any other options.
Elsie gives the man a cool look. "Yes indeed, but none for such as you. It is a private matter." Elsie turns away from the man and nods in reply to the other woman's comment."Yes, but the description fits what Lord Varian was able to uncover.
- There doesn't seem to be anything untoward about the man offering to take 'Varian' across the Lyme... and the boat looks sound enough.
"I wonder if he's the man that was in the hood that I saw in my vision," Tella muses softly.
The Stirge gives the boater his fare, whatever it might be, and settles in for a ride across the river. "Ever heard of a fella named Mahaas?" he asks the man.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Darc listens and gives a wry smile, "Two heads are better than one, more heads to punch." he remarks to Elise. He spends his time watching the colorful ferryfolk, relaxing as they make their way across Sister Lyme, even humming along with the tune being played. Even as he does this, he pulls his cloak tightly around him, to keep from the cooler night air.
Sat in the back of the small boat, a shadowy figure within his cloak, the Stirge’s questions about Mahaas draw nothing more than a shrug of indifference, ”Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him mate… I don’t live over Festival way though – I am an East Ender through and through - so maybe I ain’t the right person to be asking”. And, in comparative silence to the clanking chain and dissonant song of the large ferry that they soon overtake, the boat makes good headway across the Lyme… the lanterns aboard the board provide a dim illumination of the waters immediately around the boat – and other than a suspiciously corpse like shape floating past the prow near the mid-point of the trip, the Lyme is mercifully quiet. Arriving at the far shore some ten minutes before the ferry, the pilot takes his fare and casts off once more… leaving the Stirge to silently await the arrival of the Ferry.
Festival up close is even more insane than seems feasible. A vast bloated isle of garish colour rises from a wide, crowded shore of bright buildings, seemingly a freak gust of wind away from tumbling into the silty waters about her. Banners and hoardings and signs proclaim the last chance to see the ’Dreadful Supper of Four Broken Men as One’, the ‘Awful Whale-Girl’, and ‘Foul Mother Stricken’. These signs compete for height and colour and size, obscuring Festival as it rises through crooked streets to a great fayre at its summit.
And as the chain ferry clanks to the harbour, there is a rush of entertainers - a dwarf in red cries out an invitation to see the Great Ape of Farthest Mwangi; an impossibly tall man wearing a hood with a single eyehole holds out a vast hand for alms; and a curious and ugly organ grinder sends his human-faced monkey to collect coppers while he plays his strange-looking organ.
Elsie chuckles at Darc's joke. "Well, I think dealing with just one of his heads will be enough for me!"
Once the Ferry has arrived at the harbor Elsie keeps a sharp eye out for their missing companion. Once enough time has passed she shrugs, "Perhaps we had best move along here. Since this Mahaas likes to wear these hoods we can start by looking for shops where he would...acquire them."
The Stirge was grateful that they were not attacked and devoured by some deizen of the Lyme. And very pleased that he had managed to get to Festival ahead of the group. After paying the boater his sum of coin, he starts to look around. This seemed like a good place to have ones pockets picked, though he hoped his fierce appearance would discourage such attempts.
He looks for a place to observe the arrival of the ferry and the investigators, and stalks away. Pulling up his shadowy hood, the Stirge blends easily into the night.
Like a ghost, Tella slips behind the man and quietly places a handful of coins into the man's pocket or purse. Her fingers are nimble, but she never acquired the skill to pickpockets, or do whatever the opposite was. After a few moments, she rejoins the others and nods at Eliseera.
"A good plan, unless he buys them elsewhere," she murmurs. "It'd be best to keep an ear out as well and be done here. I've never visited Festival, and now that I have, I don't have a desire to return."
The hooded man, toweringly tall at near seven feet, mumbles his thanks to Ruby as she drops the coins into his palms... as, sat upon a moss-ridden mooring post, the organ grinder continues to play a tune that manages to be, at the same time, impossibly sad and upliftingly jovial. The monkey, dressed in a clown's approximation of a pirate, skips through the crowd - jumping from shoulder to shoulder and chittering for coins...
...but the investigators have other business to attend to and, as quickly as they can through the mass of pleasure-seekers milling around the slipway, make their way into Festival proper. Stalls, sideshows and impromptu stages line the jumble of streets giving the entire place the air of circus... the sights, smells and sounds are positively giddying... and everywhere there are signs and calling voices promising the greatest show, the most powerful alcohols or the most delicious food in the entirety of Castorhage.
...and following the group, flitting from shadow to shadow, the Stirge moves unseen.
Eliseera's suggestion of finding a clothier or tailor, someone that could make a cloak for Mahaas, proves to be a difficult ask... there are few artisans on the isle but the group do finally arrive at 'Henrico's Tailoring - Clothes for Perfomance'.
Within the cramped shop, lined from wall to wall with theatrical costume, Eliseera finds a greasy-haired elf sucking on a pipe as he stitches a set of harlequin britches together. The questions about Mahaas elicit nothing at the first attempt, it's not a name that the man seems to recognise... but the description, a cloaked man affected with the two-headed fluke, gets a positive answer, "Mahaas? That's 'is name is it? Oh yeah, I seen 'im around for sure... he come sniffin' around about a fortnight back, looking for offcuts and threads he was... rifling around in my bins. Did I make 'is cloak? Nah, not a chance... from the look of it, he stitched his garb together 'imself. I ended up chasing 'im off when he got a bit tasty with 'is knife... you wanna find someone like that 'ere on Festival, you've got to go askin' in a local's tavern - not the fake stuff set up all garish for city folks... a real tavern, the Grinning Lacedon's a good a place as any... or, if that don't get you anywhere, fella like your Mahaas is bound to be known to the Watch, their tower is down near quayside".
"Thank you for your time. Your words have proved most helpful." Elsie drops a gold coin in his hand. "It would be best if no one else knew where you pocketed this coin, don't you agree?"
Once they have left the shop, Elsie looks around for someone who can direct the group to the Grinning Lacedon.
The Lacedon lurks in a mouldy corner of the Footings, a good fifteen minute walk from the tailor's... Tentatively following half-remembered directions from Ruby with assistance from a few disinterested locals, the group arrive at a curiosity - the building literally sags. It leans between its neighbours, a dying building of dying timber and dying stone. The stone resembles rotting teeth in a swollen timber mouth. Above the street hangs a revolting object, a mummified ghoul, its leering face grinning directly down at the doorway.
Within, the twisted ornamentation grows and festers. Here is an obsessive collector’s lifetime of obsession — about lacedons. There are paintings of their demise at the blades of heroic nobles, several bones in walnut cabinets, an obsessive amount of religious protection, and in one corner is a whole preserved skeleton. A sour-faced old woman behind the bar watches the group enter... and raises her eyebrows at these strangers...
Tera feels her eyebrows rising towards her hairline as she recognizes something about the woman at the bar. She thinks about telling the others, but decides to keep it to herself and slides up as quietly as she can without looking like a pickpocket or thief. She catches the woman's attention and motions for her to lean in close.
"A mead if you have any," she says just above the din of the tavern as she quietly slides five gold towards her, "and information on an unfortunate fellow with a second face that he keeps covered with a hood and goes by the name of Mahaas, specifically where he stays and when he haunts here."
Damnation, they're going inside a tavern, thinks the Stirge as the others enter the Grinning Lacedon. Deciding that entering the building behind them would draw too much attention, he waits outside, with the expectation that they would leave again once they completed their investigation. He keeps an eye out for any suspicious characters lurking about.
Darc detaches from the girls, as he sniffs the air, taking in the smell of ale, and a wide grin, "Ale, full and foaming if you have it?" His cloak is loosened, as he looks sightly more relaxed at the bar. He surveys the rest of the customers, nodding acknowledgement from any that look at him with the glint of friendship in their eyes. As he does this he looks for any hiding within their cloak and any games for small gambling going on. He gives the bar keep some coppers for the ale, looking at the pot and its content, once more he takes the aroma. The smell of the beer, is the first indication of its quality, Darc's nose wrinkles. His big hands encompass the pot of beer, as he bring the brownish liquid to his lips.
As Tella speaks to the bar woman, he winces at her openness, but trusts her directness will bring quick results.
With an elbow resting on the bar, he stands, watching and drinking slowly. Aware of any that take a particular interest in the questioning.
Elsie eyes the barkeep curiously but quickly dismisses her from her mind. She takes a seat next to the petite lady Tella and, seeing she did not want to draw too much attention to herself, decides to draw attention to herself. Asking the barkeep for a second glass of mead for herself she nods in encouragement to Tella. Giving Darc a knowing look she spreads a smile to all she catches an eye and a wink for those who look promising....for information preferably, but entertainment if necessary.
The woman, fixing Tella with a dismissive sneer, slides four tankards on to the bar. One of the pewter mugs sits in a spillage of stale ale... and, as she pours Tella's mead into it her eyes seem to dare the woman to make a complaint. When none is forthcoming, she mulls over the query, "Many come in here... the rats, the filth, the scum of Festival... some with names, some with reputations that precede them, some who have abandoned their names... why would I, of all people, care for their names?"
...disdain writ large across her face, she slides the other drinks - all quite intentionally under measure - to the rest of the group.
Elsie raises an eyebrow at the woman's attitude but her voice is calm as she takes her drink. She knows more than she lets on...as do most barkeeps. "I am not saying you should spend much time wracking your brain for all the names you have come across. Still if you do make the effort, I would be willing to offer more..." She murmurs softly under her breath.
"Because you have an appreciation for the finer things and, as my friend says, we can pay you very well. Now, what say we make a deal? I ask a question, you answer, and some of the gold in my purse mysteriously wanders into your hands, hmm?"
Eliseera quickly comes to the conclusion that the barkeeper is not from Festival - her manner, her disdain for the clientele, the way in which she carries herself... that could only come from one of noble bearing in the Capitol. As the offer of money to ease the flow of information is made, she sighs - a world-weariness in her eyes, "Keep your money... I have no need of it. You are looking for Mahaas? I know of him... scum he is, maybe he was a better man before the two-headed fluke took him... but now there is a craziness about him. He's lodging with that Uriah Mean, and we all know about that miserly pawnbroker".
Whoever this Uriah Mean is, there is no doubt about the barkeeper's opinion of him, she spits on the sodden floor when his name is mentioned...
"Very well, thank you for your time. We shall take no more of it," Tella tells the barkeep before turning and walking out the door.
Uriah Mean.. pawnbroker...
Elsie's eyes widen on recognizing the barkeep's origins but keeps her mouth shut. She has good reason to hide herself here...no need to reveal her here... She then notes the name dropped and calls upon her memories of the man as she motions for Darc and the others to follow her.
The name means little to any of the group but it is clear that they have exhausted this particular line of questioning, and so – making their farewells to the barkeeper – they head back out into the streets. And, remarkably quickly, hit paydirt with a little more questioning of the locals… a man selling poorly painted clown dolls out of a doorway sneers at the mention of the name, “Mean by name, mean by nature. He has no soul, that vile gnome - all he loves is money, and his every waking thought is driven by how to acquire more of it. His tenement is over near the Chain Ferry, ain’t no way you can miss it — it’s the place that looks like it’s falling into the river. It’s one of the worst in the area – and that’s quite the achievement - Leaks and holes, rot and mould — that’s what thrives there – dare say that suits Mean. Yeah, and if you see ‘im, tell ‘im Ratchet Jones says hello and then tweak ‘is nose for me”.
.
Continuing to shadow the group, the Stirge overhears them asking about the home of Uriah Mean, and the street vendor quickly decrying his name and pointing out how to find his tenement. This was exactly the opportunity he was looking for. Since they had just been by the chain ferry, it was relatively familiar territory--there was a good chance the Stirge could beat them there.
Knowing the party's likely destination, the Stirge now tries to travel ahead of the group. He attempts to arrive at the tenement before the others, and then intentionally allow himself to be observed by the party casing the home of Urias Mean.
"It is, but I saw two cloaked figures in my vision, one of them could have been Mahaas, since I didn't see him, but that still leaves the other man," Tella says as they make their way to the tenement building Ratchet had described.
Once all of them, minus Varian who'd been gone for a while, begin to approach the tenement housing where Mahaas supposedly lives, Tella spots someone doing a rather poor job of discretely casing the building.
"Do any of you see what I'm seeing," She asks, not quite sure what to make of this development.
Elsie turns her gaze slightly trying to catch the mysterious figure out of the corner of her eye. How long has he been there? Is he observing Mahaas...or US?
"I do...and he seems to want us to see him...Interesting."
At Elise's comment, Darc nods and strolls into the shadows, moving in a roundabout way to the observer. His black cloak hangs down, its bottom edge now heavy from the muddy and dirty walk through Festival's streets. He gets close to the man and stops, watching him briefly before starting to talk. "It's rude to look and not introduce yourself. So go find some other innocents to stare at. Voyeurs have short lives, when not invited." he says in a rough voice, with no warmth, waiting for the man to disappear into the night.
A river barge hangs crippled at the foot of an exhausted stone tenement that rises spastically beneath dislocated gables. The whole structure appears diseased — thick lichens hang from walls from which stones protrude like broken limbs. A chain lashes the barge tightly to the slum, so that the vessel is suspended partly above the tainted waters, almost as though it appears reluctant to touch them. The whole place — building and barge — are strangled by straining moss-choked timbers that look as if they could snap at any moment and bring the whole place down.
Three iron balls — the guild-sign of the pawnbroker — hang over the barge. Pails, cast-iron street lanterns, handcarts, rope, and a confusion of other miscellany are all marked for sale, and the whole structure seems to groan under the sheer mass of the wares. Everything, it seems, has a price, even down to the hastily chalk-scrawled “10 shekels” on the rusting iron anchor of the barge itself.
An unkindness of mangy ravens lurks on the teetering gable above, cawing as the group approach, and picking at the remains of what looks like a dead alley cat... and there, only partially hidden in the shadows, a figure watches Eliseera and her companions.
Standing in the alleyway is a lean but well-built . . . human? It's difficult to tell for sure. His skin is pale and gray, and his face and figure are cloaked in unnatural shadow. He wears chain armor, painted black, and strapped to his back is an enormous blade, sheathed in what appears to be a deadly sharp scabbard.
The shadowy figure's eyes focus intently on the the tenement. He does not turn as Darc approaches; it is only when he asks his question that the shadowy figure turns and eyes Darc up and down in appraisal, letting silence hang in the air. It is several seconds before he finally speaks in a rich baritone voice. "Innocents? The Stirge does not watch the innocent. He watches the guilty, the evildoers, the damned. One man's voyeur is another man's investigator. Which means we're more alike than you think. In fact, it seems like all of us--"Varian nods in the direction of Darc's companions--"are here for the same purpose. Mahaas."
The figure takes a few steps out into the open, to make himself fully visible to both Darc and the others. "So, now that I have introduced myself, perhaps you can do the same. Who are you? And why are you investigating Mahaas? Maybe you can call your friends over. We all see each other now."
"Ah, yes. If you are 'The Stirge,' then I am Changer. Might I ask how long you have been following us," A dark haired and clothed individual says, her mouth and nose covered by a black scarf. Her eyes glitter dangerously as she eyes him up. She did not trust this fellow, and wasn't at all shy about letting him know it.