Yes, this is truth thinks Clive to himself as the fear washes off Jono like a plague. This is what is right; let Thusiax talk all he wants, at the end of the day, only the cold and the fear remain.
Clive's thoughts are interrupted by his mask getting slightly warmer and tighter, is if it is reacting to his thoughts.
Snapping back to the present, Clive begins speaking, lest he slip back into those thoughts.
"Be quiet and listen." said Clive from the darkness behind the lanterns, knowing that he couldn't be seen. He shifted about a person-width to the right and said in a higher octive "We have been contracted to end your involvement in the Gardens. Before we carry this out, however, we will give you a choice: you may leave of your own volition, or..." Clive let the obvious threat linger for a moment as he once again quietly shifted places, this time about about two people-widths to the left and in a more hissing accent "We are not without heart, however, and willing to exact revenge on your behalf. If you give us all the information you have on your enemies, we shall seek retribution for you, thus insuring the balance is met. What say you?"
Velas bows to the majordomo. "I am humbled that you would say so," he says softly.
He also bows to Lord Cornell, although the act does not reach his drow heart. Just like Alights--odd and cruel. I've bathed in this, he thinks. With nary a smile, complete obeisance, he effortlessly moves through the maze of shadow. Was there a sashay on the last turn? Perhaps. Velas and his art are inseparable.
Upon sitting in the designated chair, attentive yet relaxed like a cat, Velas nods at the question. "The fabrics I seek are cutting edge, forged in a crucible of crime and blood. They do not have names, but descriptions. Fighting-silks in the Arena. Something about illegal silver. Some mix of retroengineered gnollworks, seasoned with demon ichor. It is said some of the best gladiators and sin-plyers are using these. I'd like to use some in an upcoming performance. ...Would you be able to release your Thusiax for a few days, for this purpose?"
Velas awaits calmly. The threat of sunshine or beatings is always a possibility, but those who lay their hands upon him usually have recriminations from Amaranthine patrons.
Compel+low society+mastery from the terror
Deceive+high society
Cornell hems and haws a bit about how valuable Thusiax is to him, but eventually relents lest he offend your patrons.
Gere-Nevin. Summon Thusiax. I have little need for him now and this...singer...has use of his particular talents.
Velas bows again to Lord Cornell, smiling slightly.
Roll 1d3 for the stress you inflict on him.
Regardless of how well you convince him, there’s an odd look to his face as you speak. He’s memorizing your voice!
But if he recognizes you, you can’t tell.
He sighs. Ok. I'll retire. I'll retire. I'll pass leadership on. My enemies? Did those filthy humans have something to do with this? Their hydroponic farms? I don't know much about them, but I'll help any way I can.
Thusiax receives the summons from Gere-Nevin, but no details, so he heads to Lord Cornell's chamber somewhat apprehensively. If the old bastard has uncovered more dirt on me, I'm a dead elf walking...
Entering the chamber, Thusiax sees the other figure seated in front of Lord Cornell. He moves down the corridor of shade in the centre of the long room, keeping his both his apprehension and his curiosity hidden in his movements. As he moves up beside the stranger, he glances at his face... and his heart skips a beat. Velas. He's... he must be here on the Ministry's say-so.
Thusiax bows to his master. "What do you wish of me, my lord?" he asks, his voice deadpan but holding just a hint of obsequiousness.
Cornell gestures laxly to Velas. This Drow has need of your services. Normally I'd keep you...grounded, but he's the favorite singer of some Aelfir that I wish to court favor from. Impress him and it could serve well for the both of us. I'll let you two get acquainted...elsewhere.
He returns to his work, quite done with this conversation and the distasteful business.
Thusiax bows once more to his master. "Yes, my lord," he murmurs, and turns immediately to leave the room. Once outside of Cornell's chamber he turns and waits for Velas to join him.
By the grace of our Hidden Lady! Two days of house arrest, and I was already going a little mad...
Velas nods to the major-domo again on the way out, and once comfortably away from the Lord's manse, he speaks briskly to Thusiax.
"We're off to the Red Row to find some fabrics, Thusiax. It is imperative that we find them post-haste, as I'm already behind in development of my next recital. Arena silks firstly, I'd say."
As they get even further away, he says quietly to the other drow, "Mutual friends had me get you mobile. Now, we do have to go to the Arena, but tell me what you're up to otherwise." Velas' tone is matter-of-fact, bordering on scorn and imperiousness.
Thusiax turns his masked face slowly towards Velas. "Many thanks for whatever ruse you pulled to get me out of Cornell's manor," he says somewhat coldly. "Be sure that I will help you in kind with whatever you have planned. Then I must be about my business." He returns his eyes to the front.
"I merely told him the truth, dear Thusiax. We're off to get some fabric. After that..." Velas let the sentence dangle. "Let's see what Red Row turns up. I've been bored lately anyhow."
Moving back to the "center", Clive returns to his normal voice and says "Tell me what you know of them."
He seems to relax a bit. There are a few conglomerates running hydro-farms. Using mage-tech to grow plants like the sun, huge vats of fungus. No respect for the old ways. It’s hard, because it’s cheaper and faster. Those downspire can better afford hydro-mushrooms than my crop. I understand why the poor and starving would choose their stock, but this life is all I know. In a generation, there will be no dark farmers...and will the humans keep prices low when competition is gone? I’ve been making plans to sabotage a few of the hydro farms, but I know who will truly suffer if I poison their spores. I’ll retire quietly, but if I can aid you in taking down the ape who forced you to do this to me, I shall.
"Wait," Thusiax says as Velas makes to set off. "Have you been in contact with Clive at all? We were mid-op when I was... grounded."
"I would welcome your aid. His name is Michael, and he you are quite correct in thinking that he runs one of the hydro-farms. While I do not think he needs to die either, having him removed from Spire in a haze of scandal should be more...satisfying. Tell me what damaging information you have, and we will make sure it gets to the right ears."
Jono thinks for a moment, his tongue clicking against his teeth. Michael...Michael...I've heard he's been sleeping with his Drow assistant. Public knowledge of that will make life hard for both of them...
"Well, tell me what the op is," says Velas. "That Clive. How a one-armed fellow can climb around on the edge of nothing is beyond me. But we're getting fabric as well, or your dear Master will be quite suspicious."
"Very well, anything else?"
Thusiax thinks for a moment. "We're attempting to free up some food supplies for folks downspire. It's a bit murky. Clive can be gung-ho, I want to make sure he's not getting himself in trouble."
Not that he could do any worse than I did, he reflects ruefully.
"Food is a basic right," says Velas, some idealistic color coming into his cheeks. "Lead on. ...I'll try not to be gung-ho. But ooh, this is making me irate just knowing about it."
That's likely enough. If word gets out, the other humans are likely to hang them both. Racial purity is big in the human world. He looks pained for a moment. You should leave, I think. Take your lanterns with you.
Red Row is crowded, noisy and foul. A crush of humans, drow and gnolls pack the streets, waiting to get into Mother Moon's arena to watch desperate souls battle to the death. It's a vicious, nearly lawless place full of urchins and gangs, with virtually no guard presence.
The back side of the arena holds the fighters' quarters. If it's arena fabric you want, this is where to find it.
What do you do?
"Let's talk to some bruisers, then. I'll try to make this quick. Where's Clive now?"
Velas strides towards the fighters' rooms, not waiting for an answer.
Velas, you approach the fighter entrance. A gnoll stands guard at the entrance, his fur a sandy blonde, a jagged scar running along his snout. The fur around his arms is shaved, strange symbols and arcane markings carved into his forearms.
Mayhelp you? he barks as you near.
"Hello. May I speak with your current champions, or their manager? I am looking to purchase something, and will pay well."
He snorts. Nofans beforefights.
You might need to compel or deceive him.
"Very well. We expect to hear of your 'retirement' within the day."
Clive will close down the lanterns one at a time, then leave the way he came: quietly.
Velas chuckles, sounding almost embarrassed. "My dear sir. You misunderstand me. I'm here from Amaranth. We will happily pay you. And should you refuse us, well...I'd truly hate to have to relate to my superiors that you led us astray. I was told this is the best place to find gladiatorial fabrics. Gladiation is an art, as you well know, and one I would choose to honor in a performance." He produces a strip of silver, examining it, and speaks to his palm. "Or, we could go elsewhere."
You scurry away unnoticed. As promised, you hear tell that Tebthym has taken leadership of The Rot. You’ll need to reconnect with Michael to work out the details of the produce smuggling. Perhaps waiting for your co-conspirator?
Realization dawns on the gnoll’s face. Imsorry Imisunderstood. Yesplease goaheadin
He moves out of the way and lets you back into the fighters’ entrance. It’s a narrow hall leading to a large room that reaks of sweat and blood. Rusty weapons line the walls. Various fighters dress for their upcoming fights.
What do you do?
Thusiax follows Velas' lead, yet where Velas struts, basking in the attention and admiration of others, Thusiax moves with a minimum of motion, fading into the background as much as possible. He is Velas' shadow, and attempts to be as uninteresting and featureless as a shadow. We make quite the pair, operationally speaking, he muses. He draws the eye and captivates the mind, leaving me almost invisible against the backdrop of his brilliance. Not only that, but his mind is quick, creative. A pity he is such an insufferable egoist. To him, the world is but a mirror.
Velas seeks out the most outlandish and brutish of warriors, ideally someone with some sartorial taste beyond bare flesh and straps of leather onto a pauldron. He checks each fighter with a cool gaze.
There is indeed a fighter who fits the bill. Lithe and swift, Ryloj Teken'rret fights with a razor sharp glave. He wears flowing silks and clanging jewelry to confuse foes as he bounds and whirls around the arena floor, always staying just out of reach. He's perched on the top of a low wall, waiting for his battle to be called.
"Ah, Ryloj, forgive me for intruding on your martial meditations," says Velas, gliding up to the warrior. "I am Velas, an artist lately of Amaranth, and this is my compatriot, Thusiax. Might I speak with you after your bout? I am in search of fabrics, such as those you wear, only found in the Red Row."
Velas is a bit of a fancy bird surrounded by war hogs in this...arena...or pre-arena, but he does his best, ending his request with a slight bow and a smile.
Thusiax steps forward as well. "My master, Lord Cornell, sends his regards," he adds to Ryloj in a quiet voice.
At the mention of Cornell, Ryloj's eyes widen. He nods. Of course, of course. It'd be an honor to share what I have for a friend of Lord Cornell. He reaches into a crate behind the wall, his long, slender arms stretching almost impossibly far. He's not even looking in the crate, but he pulls out two or three bolts of ornate silk, including one that seems to shift color based on his body heat.
Is this for you, singer? I think this would complement your coloring well.
He leans in close to Thusiax. When you speak to your master again, please inquire if he's considered my proposal. He'll know what I mean.
Thusiax nods, business-like. "I shall also be sure torelate the generosity and helpfulness you have shown my master's favoured artist. Good luck in your bout."
He nods and sends you on your way.
Perhaps you two should link up with Clive to complete this mission?
"Now we're covered with a reasonable story," says Velas briskly, after paying the gladiator and offering his most flowery thanks, "Let's deal with this Clive issue. Where can we find him?"
"You're welcome," Thusiax says wryly. "But yes, do let's find Clive. I'm hoping he'll be at his safehouse. If not, he may well be in the Gardens, pursuing the mission alone."
Leaving the gardens the way he came in, Clive makes his way back to his safehouse and begins going over what he knows. While the mission had ultimately been successful, the resolution had left a bad taste in his mouth.
maybe this business with Michael will give me a more satisfying conclusion? thought Clive as he began going through the rituals to maintain the bonds that trapped the gods in his equipment.
Thusiax leads Velas to CLive's safehouse via an inconspicuous route. When they arrive at the unassuming doorway Thusiax gives the knock that identifies him to Clive.
Velas looks around the tiny landing, the yawning Perch all around them. "Wish we could have stayed in Red Row. You know, the Bound operate there as well. I don't like heights without a proper harness."
Clive opens the door hidden behind a false-front stack of crates and looks surprised to see Velas. "I see you have brought....a guest." says Clive as he gives Thusiax a distinctly unpleasant look. "Come in." and with that, Clive moves out of the doorway and allows Thusiax and Velas to enter. Once they are inside, he secures the crates, then the door, and leads them into his planning room. "I have dealt with one of our problems in the gardens, but I think we should have a discussion about what we want to do about Michael."
"It wasn't my idea," Thusiax responds tersely to Clive's greeting.
His hated mask off, Karkoush inquires after the details from Clive, nodding in approval as the one-armed drow relates his story. "You've succeeded where my ideas failed," he acknowledges clinically. "Although our primary objective remains unfulfilled. As much as I'd like to see Michael and the blood traitor burn, we need him to secure access to foodstuffs. Unless we can... replace him."
Shall we skip ahead to your meeting with Michael and bring this mission to an end?