From the Desk of Stover Delft, Asst. Chief Inspector, Royal Homeland Constabulary, Flint branch
To the Office of Margaret Saxby, Lady Inspectress, RHC, Flint branch
Re: Ravissant Wolf Cell
steemed Lady Inspectress, I have been charged by your office par my duties as Cell Director of our Flint branch to evaluate the junior agents of our most recently formed operating cell, officially designated Ravissant Wolf, and to determine whether or not its seven members are fit for duty as official representatives of our King and Country, able to hold full legal authority as deputies of the Crown, assuming all responsibilities thereby.
Before I discuss the individuals who currently form Ravissant Wolf (dubbed: “The Wolves” by senior agents who have the pleasure opportunity to work with them) it behooves me to discuss the christening ceremony that precedes the formation of every and all new RHC cells.
I have in the past expressed my displeasure concerns in respect to the involvement of the ministers of the Old Faith in the complex affairs of law enforcement and state security. I need not repeat those opinions here. I am a loyal man of Risur, and as such, acknowledge that our national identity is inexorably linked to our land, its spirits, and its ancient magic. More importantly, it is the will of our King that such rites be retained in the halls of officialdom, and that the skyseers who perform them be respected.
Suffice to say in the case of Ravissant Wolf, the ambiguity of the astrological visions regarding their lot, infamously interpreted as a wolf with a lamb in its jaws, has complicated the training of this band of recruits. Not a few senior agents have candidly refused to work with the Wolves, and the presence of Ifris Lanvaldan and her unnatural abilities (more on her below) does nothing to quell their concerns. The ramifications of the symbol weighs heavy on certain of the Wolves as well; they are decent if flawed men and women who I cannot believe capable of causing deliberate harm to the citizens of Risur.
Were it not for the passionate words of respected senior Skyseer Wrethu, the christening ceremony might as well have led to the cell’s immediate dissolution and the termination of our latest enlistees. Her argument, in short, maintained that a deeper look at the portents showed the wolf carrying a lamb, yes, but to presume the beast’s intent to devour the lamb, or that our new recruits were fated to cause harm, betrayed a lack of conviction. Was not each trainee magically scrutinized? While they differed wildly in temperament and morals, each had passed a battery of tests designed to assess their patriotism. Wrethu saw the wolf, while a symbolically dubious character, bringing the helpless lamb to succor in the only manner it could.
A few cynics among her order believed that Wrethu was dissimulating on behalf of her longtime contact among the Flint police department, Inspector Reginald Filby, who was assigned to provide investigative expertise for the newly formed cell. While other Skyseekers vowed to hold Skyseer Wrethu responsible should the Wolves ever betray their oaths to King and Country, the majority were swayed. I must report that I myself, though I might wish to reduce the role of these archaic mystics in our government, could not but help but be moved by the elder Wrethu’s speech.
So because or in spite of the matter of their christening, I must assure the Lady Inspectress that what follows is a sober and secular assessment of the seven men and women who, for better or for worse, go by the cell designation of Ravissant Wolf. Additional details concerning them may be gleaned from their individual files, which I have included along with this report. (See attached)
Final Analysis
There are a lot of negatives in play as it concerns Ravissant Wolf: Their dubious christening, Lanvaldan strange powers, Dane's lost memories, the mysteries and events surrounding Arbalistre, the unseemly connections to dissident movements by LeMont and Landreth's political connections. In fact the only two agents I can fully give a fully measure of faith and credence to are Police Inspector Filby and Mr. Rayne. Discounting once again the idea that our agents are at all beholden to the superstitions of an obsolete order of backwoods fortune-tellers, I believe I have adequately outlined the checks and balances to these admittedly egregious downsides.
We are then left with an operating cell with a vast amount of potential. The classic roles of the four- or five-man action team are each filled with distinction, with the most important—such as healing and front-line combat—covered by more than one Wolf.
It is often been said that the command personnel of our august body has a job akin to shepherding kittens, as our agents are so diverse, independent, and colorful. I don’t doubt that that having Ravissant Wolf under my onus will be an ongoing exercise in aggravation, but it is a challenge I would take willingly, and enthusiastically. Whatever might be said of them by the seers, the Wolves are loyal, extremely capable men, and I see them accomplishing great things for King and Country.
I thereby implore my Lady Inpectress to approve Ravissant Wolf and its members for full operating jurisdiction.
Sincerely,
Stover Delft
From the Office of Margaret Saxby, Lady Inspectress, RHC, Flint branch
To the the Desk of Stover Delft, Asst. Chief Inspector, Royal Homeland Constabulary, Flint branch
Re: Re: Ravissant Wolf Cell
Delft,
still believe you are taking a severe risk by ignoring the clear and obvious portents relayed to us through our Skyseeker contingent, but I formally give my acceptance and full measure of approval for operational status of Ravissant Wolf.
By our King,
Lady Inspectress Margaret Saxby, RHC, Flint branch
of the year 500 A.O.V. (After Our Victory). Seven years after the end of the Fourth Yerasol War, the shipyards in Flint have completed the first Risuri warship powered solely by steam engine, not sail. Your monarch, King Aodhan, has come to Flint to witness the official launch of this mighty vessel. Woodenhulled but with a heart and skin of iron, the Royal Naval Ship Coaltongue will act as a deterrent against future aggression from Risur’s enemy across the sea, the nation of Danor.
The Royal Homeland Constabulary unit Ravissant Wolf Cell has been called upon to provide security, and you have spent the past several weeks working to make sure this event goes off without a hitch—canvassing the docks, performing background checks on the guest list, coordinating with the local police to set up a perimeter around the royal docks, and following various directives of your superiors.
Now, as a warm breeze off the sea mingles the scents of elaborate floral decorations with the pervasive coal soot that always hovers over Flint, you’re at the first of two checkpoints, working with Flint police to let in a crowd of local citizens who just want to line the streets and cheer their king.
Rhegalion Arbalistre quietly watches the throngs of men, women, and children milling about below him. For a brief moment, he recalls a moment - long ago, so long ago, in a place between life and death - where countless spirits milled about similarly, shuffling about as they walked inexorably towards the Bleak Gate. One by one, two by two, the dead passed on that day - elf and human alike, despite their differences on the battlefield. He stood among them, not unlike this day five-hundred years later, among yet apart. When the mist of the spirits cleared, only he remained. The days since then remain a blur to Rhegalion, of lives lived in defense of the epiphany he had that day. The smell of the salty sea sends him back to the first memory of this life, the latest in a terribly long series of death and rebirth.
It was sudden, his rebirth, as sudden as his death. For a brief moment, he was unaware of where he was. His hand moved unbidden to his breast, where his heart had been pierced just a moment before, only to find himself whole and healthy. A flash of an elven face - not his own, he knows - struck and faded from his eyes, just as the waves lapped at his feet. Dressed in clothes he did not recognize, in a face and body that seemed foreign and familiar all at once, he took a tentative step forward. His bare feet dragged against the wet sand, unsure of themselves. A voice - his own, he realized, though he did not recognize it - quietly whispered, "One step at a time."
The task at hand brings him back to the present. The muddling mass below him is human in its rawest form - excited, unpredictable, dangerous, and in need of his protection. He holds his staff at his side - carved from a long piece of surprisingly solid driftwood that he found at the beach of his rebirth - and taps it quietly against his leg in a tune half-remembered. If anyone present means the innocents in the crowd harm, he would change their mind - forcibly. For the time being, he scans the crowd, looking with patient eyes born of a hundred lifetimes, for anyone or anything suspicious. For his part, his crisp high-collared shirt hides his thin lamellar armor under its white, fashionable exterior; with fitted dark trousers and leather boots, he looks like nothing more than an onlooker of enough means to receive a valuable position from which to watch the festivities. His newly-minted badge, bearing the number "8429" in fine print upon the silver along with the name he chose for this life, remains in his pocket on a fob chain.
"...affirmative, I see him. Tan skin, blonde hair, blue kerchief on his head. It isn't a knife, he has a rolled newspaper tucked into the back of his trousers. Confirm; no threat."
Standing on a crate beside the checkpoint where sawhorses have been erected to form a makeshift barricade as part of the perimeter, one member of the security team handling the crowd's screening does not find the irony in her instance to stand head and shoulders above the rest of the team. With the warm spring breeze blowing through her short, dark hair, the young soldier watches the incoming crowd with furrowed brow and narrowed eyes.
The stark gray and black of her Battalion uniform is decorated for this occasion with several medals of distinction across the right breast of her thigh-length jacket, opposite of the silver R.H.C badge displaying her name: Second-Lieutenant Ifris Lanvaldan. Threading a lock of dark hair behind one ear, Ifris makes a motion to point to a pair of young men in the crowd, speaking down towards an officer of the Flint police beside her. "Two young men, Dockers, one has a loose , gray woven shirt on; untucked. I recommend pulling him aside for a random search once he passes the barricade."
Jaw set and features stern in appearance, Ifris throws herself into the position of surveillance, in spite of earlier protests that she (and by extension her team) should be closer to the dignitaries and important figures attending the show, not down with the masses. Orders, though, appear to still be orders to Ifris. If she is asked to perform a task, she will perform it to the best of her capability.
The wind off of the water picks up again, carrying with it a few flower petals from the floral arrangements. A few cling to Ifris' hair, plucked out by gloved fingers in momentary distraction. The dark-haired soldier stares down at them in the palm of her glove, her expression softening for a few moments before she remembers herself and shakes them out of her hand to flutter into the crowd.
"Middle-aged, balding man. Canvas satchel at his side, looked like there might have been something sharp pressing against the edge..."
The day was setting up to be a long one.
Leaning against the wall behind him and with his hands in his pants pockets, Alastair seems relaxed, a faint smile on his face. His hair, black offset by some greyish white, is arranged in a neat ponytail, more out of a sense of practicality rather than fashion and to keep it out of his amber eyes, eyes that move over the crowd that seems to fill the streets. Dressed in a black coat reaching down to just over his knees with a white shirt under it, black fitted trousers and matching knee-high boots made of soft leather, there seems to be no visible armor or weapon on his person. And indeed he has none, at least other than a dagger sheathed in the small of his back under his coat and several small blades kept in a belt pouch. For all intents and purposes, the man looks to be just another person who has come to see the launch of the first Risuri warship.
Sighing softly, Alastair pulls his eyes from the people milling about for but a few moments and turns them towards his companions, the other members of -what is it they are called? Ah, yes...- Ravissant Wolf, or the Wolves if one wants to use a less formal designation. Another sigh. "Here I am again, in another official unit given official missions," he mutters quietly to himself. "It has been a while. At least chances are in our favor of staying alive, this not being a war and all." Despite the somewhat light-hearted content of his words, there is just a hint of bitterness in his tone. Shaking his head, he quickly shuts that door in his mind before unpleasant memories come back and returns to the task at hand; watching the people passing by for anything suspicious.
"At least Ifris seems to be enjoying herself," he notes with a little chuckle, his voice low but not so low as to not be heard by any of his team who are close enough to do so.
”…and that’s how threeeeee fingers are better than fiiiiive! Heyhaa!” With a shout and a furious finish of the rhythmic beats upon his bodhrán drum, the Docker who calls himself “Malcolm the Magnificent” extends a leg and bows before a loud mixture of cheers, laughter, clapping and some jeering mixed in; a few folks toss copper coins in his direction, which “Malcolm” deftly catches by flipping his bodhrán to the open side in front of him. The Docker street performer is hard to miss with orange breeches tucked into dark brown leather riding boots turned down to the calf, a light tan shirt unlaced and open at the chest with billowy sleeves, and a colored half-cloak of pale yellow embroidered with swirls of varying shades of blue, with the inside panels of the cloak a dark grey. A scarf, deep sea-green in color, is collected about his neck and thrown back to over one shoulder. Most notably, Malcolm’s hair is the same sea-green color as his scarf with dark blue strands near the front.
As the laughter and applause dies down, the young man moves around a trio of prudish and indignant matronly women, their flushed looks of shock and scorn to him earning only a wink and a nod, moving past them towards a group of playing children dressed in their best and only holiday clothes, yet still threadworn and tinged with the soot of those that live their lives in the downwind districts of Flint’s factories. The children stop playing in anticipation of his next trick; he smiles and tosses a few wrapped sweet candies to each of them, his hand waving in a flourish to produce a few brightly colored butterflies over their heads that turn and swerve for a few seconds before disappearing. Malcolm moves on to a line of workmen congregating on the edge of the street in between the checkpoints, with just a few accompanying women nearby that either scoff or giggle at his strutting approach to them across the crowded street. Most of the men – factory workers in the steel smelting trade by the looks of the burn scars on their forearms – most of them seem eager to recognize his approach and call for another bawdy song, but one large man seems uninterested in festivities, intent on futilely pushing forward towards the next checkpoint still some distance away, his workman’s vest showing a slight bulge in one side pocket. It is this man that the Docker approaches and speaks to next.
”What’s the rush, big man? Lambs to the slaughterhouse that way with time to wait still, but you’ll get there soon enough!” He slaps the man on the shoulder, though for a brief second his left hand brushes across his vest as he makes a flourishing showman’s gesture and points with his right hand towards the main thoroughfare in the distance. ”Crowds are thicker than blood-flies on three-day old market meat, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a fair time waitin! Here, have a drink with me. Chaps, drinks all around for us all!” The Docker unhooks a cheap tin tankard from his belt and holds it aloft as if it is full of beer, the top of it suddenly seeming to froth and bubble with a yellowish-white foam. Some of the men cheer and imitate the Docker with their own imagined mugs, while others laugh or swear good-naturedly at him, demanding the beer while they wait in line.
The big fellow scowls and blinks a couple of times at him in irritated confusion, finally shaking his head and replying, ”There ain’t no ale you twit, be off with ya!”
Clearly the lumbering lout doesn’t want to play along, but that’s fine to Devinn, as the oaf didn’t notice he had patted him down and figured out what he was hiding in his vest. A ‘skin of liquor, pouch of pipe leaf or perhaps a cheap Yerasol drug that he was probably going to sell to an acquaintance. Or use to entice a lover. Too soft and small. Not a weapon.
Devinn had already seen three inattentive saps lose their coin purses to pickpockets since he arrived, a handful of men sneaking liquor or some substance through the first checkpoint like this one, and even a scuffle between a man who thought another tough was making eyes at his woman – though thankfully those around them separated the two and broke it up before the overly anxious policemen came over. None of that of course was his concern, but those looking out-of-place or oddly focused on getting to the parade routes were his concern. Yet, none of those idiot guards were going to figure any of this out at pre-planned checkpoints with a rudimentary search of wary and reticent locals. That’s why he made his way in as “Malcolm” the Docker, as one of them, so that he could get to see the normal folk be normal and ferret out the ones that truly had something to hide.
This came to Devinn late last night as an epiphany, as he tossed and turned and couldn’t sleep the night before the big grand affair. He was due to meet his “Wolves” at R.H.C. grounds at dawn to talk over the boring plan of action again in sheer sleep-inducing drudgery, but what was one more of them standing there like a buffoon going to resolve? So Devinn ditched the meet and got himself ready as a proper Docker from the cheap side of Central would, using his to color his hair, scarf and parts of his clothing, eager as he did so. Malcolm the Magnificent was so simple and yet so brilliant – his favorite kind of disguise by being so outlandish and noticeable, yet drawing memorable attention to those parts of him that were false. The colors, the hair, the cloak, the voice, the name. And who would become suspicious of a Docker casting cantrips to color cloth or display magic tricks between songs and bits of humor? Brilliant. He couldn’t wait to try it out.
So it was that the disguised Docker made his way through the throngs of arriving citizens an hour after the first gates were opened; seeking out the stations nearest where he knew his own team would be monitoring. Predictably, Lanvaldan was up on her own private makeshift watchtower, like an osprey ready to swoop down on some unsuspecting fish. Good ol’ Rails, doing what he knew she’d do, though when she caught sight of him he thought she was going to fall off her platform and blow the whole cover wide open. Thankfully she didn’t and told one of the uniformed police guards to wave the “fool” through as he was inspecting the drum; Devinn returned her scowl with a smile and gave a jaunty two-fingered salute with a “sir” thrown in for good measure. Moving through the checkpoint he spied out Alastair – "Easy" as Devinn liked to call him - trying and failing to look inconspicuous as only an R.H.C. man could, and Devinn thought he saw Heavens too but wasn’t sure with being jostled through the chokepoint. He didn’t see the others, but figured he would soon enough...and he had real work to do as he announced his fake name and started up a popular song about beer that he liked to open with.
The big spawn-of-titan man was still frowning at him and made motion to clench a fist, snapping “Malcolm” back to the present. Putting a hand up in front of his face he played to the other workmen. ”Hey big fella no worries but your loss, fer this brew is not only free but the finest I’ve ever poured. To the beer then and a toast! What shall we toast men? Ahh I know, how about a toast to the R.N.S. Coaltongue…” Devinn’s bold voice cracks and falters as he erupts in near-giggles when he utters the ship’s name. Strangely to several who don’t seem to get the joke, a larger number of poorer men and women also break out into bursts of laughter. Even the big man chortles a few times before turning back to see how far he has to wait. ”…yes yes where was I? Yes to that mightiest of ships…and to our beloved King that would stand atop her! Huzzah!” Devinn nearly can’t keep his shoulders from convulsing, and the howls of laughter echo more loudly in the crowd around him. I still can’t believe he named it that! He may not be from Flint but his people really need to get out more! I’d write a song on it if it wasn’t for the fact that there are already dozens out there and some limericks besides. Too easy, but perhaps I can do one with the ship and the king in comparison to…wait pay attention and play that out later!
He drinks his imaginary beer in toast along with a half-dozen other men, then pretends to choke and spit it out on the ground. ”Yeeeaaaaaach! Burn me, but did I set my tankard with brew from my keg or my chamber pot this morning? I forget as I was sorta drunk at the time…” He sniffs at the tankard and then shrugs, adding, ”Well either way it’s yellow and easy enough to tap, eh boys?” Raucous laughter echoes across the street as the workmen laugh and make their own adds to the joke. With that, he marks the big man’s facial features one more time in his head, then turns and looks for a new crowd coming in from the checkpoint to interact with, the tankard stowed and his wooden tipper starting up a new beat on his bodhrán…
"How do you keep getting yourself into these situations?"
Frustration. That's all she's known these last few years. She agreed to the position in the RHC thinking they might provide a solution. A way to get things done. Instead, it has only been one boring day of meaningless and unfulfilling work after another. Nothing had changed. The military used her and now the RHC decided it was their turn.
Anya shakes her head and sighs to herself as her mind wanders away from thoughts she'd rather not linger on. She stands idly by at the checkpoint, barely registering the faces of the crowd as they pass in front of her. Occasionally her distant stare is replaced with an acknowledging nod and the feigned smile she has practiced so much when someone from the crowd would inevitably recognize her.
She casts a glance toward the resting place of the ship these people had all come to see: the Coaltongue. Seeing it filled her with conflicting emotions. Part of her bubbled over with pride at something so magnificent, guided by the hands of Risur's finest. Then there was the disgust she felt. Extravagance and sinful pride all bundled up in a nice neat package. It practically screamed out like an unruly toddler, "Look at me!"
She couldn't help but think that Risur would have been better served putting the money and resources that went into that monstrosity toward a better cause; more weapons for the soldiers, better armor, better pensions. But then again, she had a habit of questioning the military about its allocations of manpower and funds, especially recently.
The comments of one of her new partners seems to get her attention, her eyes becoming much more attentive as she looks towards Alistair Rayne. The group she found herself with wasn't ideal, and their ties to the military made for far more awkward silences than she was comfortable with but for the most part she couldn't complain. She smiles slightly at Alistair's attempts to humor himself, nodding toward another member of their group that had found his way amongst the crowd.
"Doesn't look like she's the only one. He does know we're here to provide security, right? He seems more interested in acting like a fool."
Reginald Filby vacillated from elation to boredom. Here, at a crowded checkpoint full of huddled celebrants, there were so many things to observe quickly,
Woman, nearing middle age, nice dress but out of style by years now. Alone, not laughing with friends, but very sociable with strangers. More concerned with the crowd than the security. Conclusion: maid or widow hoping to meet someone special.
..but so very few of them worth noticing. Filby checked his golden pocketwatch, a gift from his companion Wrethu upon his selection for Ravissante Wolf team. Movement caught one eye as the other focused on the watch.
Shoes. Calfskin. Expensive for most in the crowd but not outside possibility. Not the sort one wears for a hard day at espionage in a mixed crowd. Uneven gate - he's not used to them. Trying to avoid soiling them and did not expect to feel every stone and crack under his sole. By evenfall he'll be limping and blistered and his expensive calfskins will be stained, maybe even torn. Conclusion: idiot.
Thirty-nine minutes. In that time, the shift change Filby had built into today's security protocol would begin. After a fashion. In truth, there was no shift change. Several soldiers would flood an unsuspecting constabulary, whispering that their relief had come. The whole should have the appearance that Something had been discovered. The indication that a plan had been disrupted, coupled with the interruption in the routine, would create indecision in anyone with ill intentions. If anyone behaved suspiciously, they'd give themselves away and Ravissante Wolf would suppress them.
But then, in thirty-nine minutes, Filby might simply drop dead of boredom.
Nervous young man. Came with one party, but slowly backs away from them, aware of his surroundings. Interesting. Wait, no. Eye contact with attractive female, also tied to another party. Suspicion: infidelity. Conclusion: Utterly common and boring.
Filby's gaze swept over the crowd, filtering one detail after another. Dockworkers eyeing one another with familiarity. The constant mating dance of young people searching for someone to enjoy the moment with. Merchants shouting out their wares hoping to meet their own goals, or their employer's quota.
So much to see, so little of it meaningful. Even a few events that might merit the constables' attention irritated Filby. A drunk man picks a fight and is subdued immediately. A boy wanders away from his family, only to be found sampling expensive licoriche, to his father's embarrassment. Five seconds of excitement, but ultimately insignificant.
Filby watched it all. Only when his new companions begin to criticize one of their own does he remember he is standing within arms length of Raynes and Landreth. He comments before thinking, relying on his subconscious recall to deliver words appropriate to the conversation going on without him.
Too harsh, my friends. The fool has the masses watching him so we can watch them. Supposing that you....were...
Fat man with skinny legs. Sampling the turkey before, no, wrong. Small feet with no callouses. Those feet have not been supporting that bulk. Unusual, people don't change feet like they change sho...oh.
Filby lets his sentence die there as he moves away from the group. He raises his right arm in the air, extending his little finger. From a hundred yards away, a trained constable immediately moves his direction.
Filby pays no attention. Too warm a day for that jacket, though it wouldn't be much of a jacket if he were really all that fat. No, he is carrying something. A knife? A pistol? What?
The Inspector moves in quickly as the fat man moves farther into the crowd. The constable nears on the other side of the fat man, perfect for a quick arrest. Filby watches the un-fat man as he moves ignorantly toward a collision with law enforcement.
Leather dangling below the jacket as he moves. A scabbard? A holster? Ah. A purse. Dark brown, double-sewn. Affixed golden pin. What..
have we here? Reginald Filby says, unaware he began his sentence without saying it. He lays a firm hand on the fat man's shoulder and spins him around. The fat-jacket opens to reveal two pricy purses.
differentstylesdifferentcolorsnotpursesforamanwho'dyoustealthesefrom
The dialogue prattle off in his head, dour and judgmental, but his officer training filters his words as his voice rises above the crowd.
Just kidding, of course. I already know. You are a purse thief. And these he reaches in and takes the two bags while the man finds his arms pinned behind him by a constable named (he was in my briefinggroupthismorningididn'tspeaktohimbuthispeerscalledhim),
Buckley. That's Constable Buckley, sir. He'll take you to holding where you'll plead and I'll testify, and you'll be sentenced unless you have a very good reason for having two ladies' purses hidden under an oversized jacket. More over, if one of the owners of these bags was harmed over your greed and laziness I'll see that you are hanged.
As if on cue, a man shouts from light breeze, large crowd, middle-aged voice, no buildings in the square about a hundred yards away. Stop thief! My wife's purse is gone!
Filby's eyes roll up and to the right as if to glance behind him. He raises an eyebrow and locks gaze with the un-fat man as Buckley wraps a length of cord around his wrists from behind. He begins his sentence facing the thief, but turns while speaking, having decided he'd wasted enough time.
Fortunate for you, brigand, that your mark lives and is easily found. You might only see a year at the oar for this.
Everyone checking there purses, good. Look at their faces, relief, relief, "I don't have a purse why am I looking", relief, panic. Good. Found you both.
He produces a silver badge and holds it up as he works through the crowd.
Boring.
Fully into his beat pattern and on the third stanza of All for the Birds to the gathering crowd, Devinn turns his head to look at the commotion on the other side of the thoroughfare just past the checkpoint. He sees Filby clearly now with another R.H.C. garbed man he doesn't recognize, making an arrest on some corpulent sop who caught the inspector's attention for wrongdoing. Perhaps something juicy, but Malcolm the Magnificent would never abandon a well-played ballad with two stanzas to go just to gawk at the law. So he stays where he is, but performs a quick leap-hop with a customary flourish to draw the crowd in...and moreover to shift his stance to where he can see the action better across the way.
As he moves into chorus and gives a wink at two lovely fillies in overly dyed yellow dresses that have come over from the checkpoint, he hears the outraged husband's cry over his wife's purse, and knows what has just gone down with Filby. Oh how droll Mast, pinching a 'pocket? Man's gotta make coin if he's going to feed that frame...hmmm...how in Risur did that fat beast waddle by a purse like...ohh he's not fat but running a Whale Wangle! Ahh Mast, you speared the whale eh!
"...it's a wonderful song, but it's all for the birds!" Drawing the beat down he lets the tipper slide into his sleeve and waves a finger to produce a flight of four pretty but rather fake-looking white doves over the two fine young ladies, which then soar off in a trail of golden motes. The ladies gasp and giggle, even as "Malcolm" takes the gloved hand of one and kisses it; the glove is cheap dyed netting mocked-up to look like lace but he didn't expect anything different. "Malcolm the Magnificent at your service m'ladies! Look me up in Central sometime - the Cheapside streets of course!" They giggle and one tries to answer with something witty, but Devinn has moved on past them to a new set of marks approaching.
A pair of men in courtier's finery - greys and pastel blues in silk - with matching foppish hats of exotic plumage from the Yerasol have cleared the checkpoint, moving with purpose and ignoring the 'rabble' around them. Men and women give way, though several make snide comments behind their backs as they pass. Impeccable and arrogant, they seem like a handful of other North Shore types that have passed through already to finer venues. To Devinn however, the style of dress is out of fashion by three years or more, which draws his interest beyond his own sense of fashion. Well now my pretty popinjays, are you on your last silvers and can't afford a new set? Reaching above station and don't know the way? Or Danoran outsiders that got their guises wrong? Let's find out...
The two foppish faux noblemen stop up short as Devinn blocks their way, the hems of his cloak in his hands to fan it out to either side like some dreadful impression of a bat. Scowling, the men step to their left, but Devinn steps to his right to counter, bringing the men up short a second time. Another step to their left and another counter-step to his right, this time with a flourishing stomp as if in some sort of dragon-dance from Ber. A third attempt to move past the Docker back to their right, but he quickly counters with a series of stomping hop-steps back and to his left. As he does so, Devinn lets go of his cloak and raises his arms high in the air in a dramatically serious posture, quick-stepping in place as his boots make their own stomping beat upon the ground. Around them all, the crowd begins to snicker and point.
"Idiot! Leave us be!" The taller of the two men shouts the Docker down and moves directly forward in an attempt to knock him over, but Devinn spins in a circle and brushes by the man, one hand briefly feeling his laced forearm for a knife sheath; with his other hand he grabs his cloak and sweeps it high for effect as if "dodging the dragon" in a continuance of the bold Beran dancing style, drawing onlookers to that side of his body. More laughter from those around them, but the move puts Devinn out of position and the two men now angrily stalk forward away from him, moving off towards the second checkpoint and the docks beyond.
"What, no tip 'gents!" Devinn shouts at the backs of the two fops, trying to decide if he should pursue further. Not Flint surely...was that Danoran? No no not Danoran, but more like from Bole or some backwater slop in the south. That would explain it, but why the attempt to pass off the style here?
With a quick series of arcane-sounding syllables, Devinn turns a foot-wide band of the street a gaudy yellow color which fans out in the direction of the faux noblemen about ten feet or so. "Make way for the Path o' Gold that those two have left for us to treasure! Make way!" He speaks more "arcane" words and above him a tinny-sounding trumpet blasts alternating notes in fanfare. Some of the crowd laughs and starts down the path after the two men; meanwhile Devinn casts a third incantation, though this one is quieter and of a different flavor. Drawing forth his bodhrán and tipper he begins a furious new marching beat, though his mouth moves quickly without being heard above the drumming.
Talyssa stands uneasily watching Skimmer float over the large crowd awaiting the christening of the Coaltongue. The young woman feels well out of her element watching over such a large mass of humanity and wonders what Masarde is up to at the moment, wishing she was back at the ship’s workshop helping with last minute preparations instead of consigned to duties better fitting the former soldiers who make up most of her companions. Her mind drifts for a moment considering how she might modify the thin gold foil Masarde uses in the capacitor to create a sensor that would let Skimmer scan the thoughts of the crowd for troublemakers, but gives it up when she feels a tug at her mind from the small flying simulacrum.
Inevitable that he would spy a child in the crowd and want to play she thinks and smiles seeing a young girl with the same dirty blonde hair and tight ponytail as Charlotte, one of the girls she now thinks of as sisters. Wishing she could somehow communicate directly with him, she improvises, sending a sharp feeling of disapproval, hoping to dissuade her companion from upsetting the crowd with an ill-timed swoop over their heads. For a moment she cringes at having to explain Skimmer’s actions to Delft and Filby, but breathes a sigh of relief when Skimmer merely adjusts his angle for another pass. A feeling of disappointment washes over her and she wonders for the hundredth time why it is so easy for her to read Skimmer and so hard to understand people.
The young woman draws a small black book and a pen from her satchel and sketches a small cylindrical object before shoving the thought aside and returning her attention to the crowd. The warm breeze blows Talyssa’s hair back off her shoulders and her eyes dart from face to face in the crowd. The people may be difficult to read, but there might be other clues. She returns her moleskine to her satchel and draws forth her goggles and a pair of small brass and glass disks. Talyssa screws the disks onto her goggles and looks over the faces again, this time reaching with her mind for a sliver of that elusive energy she has come to know as magic.
::The crack gunfire could be heard coming from outside of the window of Stover Delft the Assistant Chief Inspector of the Royal Homeland Constabulary office. Overlooking the outdoor gun range, the wood paneled room boasted a large desk with a comfortable looking high backed leather chair that faced away from the lead paned window.
Outside, the shape of Josiah Crux could be seen carefully repacking his musket before aiming at a small target set against a bullet pocked brick wall. To his left in a training ring was Carlao Ven and Serena Taflis honing their blade skills in a flurry of strikes and ripostes.
With a loud *CRACK* Josiah fired again before lowering his musket carefully and cleaning the barrel in his usual meticulous fashion. The Ferreux Eagle Cell had returned from another mission.
Taking your attention away from the training below was a large map of the Risur Royal Shipyard and outlying square that Alastair Rayne had spent the last month carefully notating. Arrows and notes mark the map in red highlighting vantage points, visitor control corridors and possible egress routes in the event of a terrorist attack. In the corner of the room stood Lady Inspectress Margaret Saxby, the Chief Inspector of R.H.S. operations in Flint. With her close cropped blond hair, immaculate uniform and arms crossed crossed over his chest she displayed a no nonsense attitude as she quietly waited for Assistant Chief Inspector Stover Delft to begin the briefing.
Nodding as Inspector Filby arrived, Assistant Chief Delft picked up his wooden pointer and walked to the map. Excellent, now that you have all arrived, He began before before spitting a wad of tobacco into a spittoon. We can begin. Pointing to the map with the wooden rod, Delft gave a deferential nod. With the Lady Inspectresses permission?
Waving to the map in an off handed gesture, as if to say "continue" Lady Inspectress Saxby, continued to study the Wolf Cell.
Yes, well then, excellent. As you all know today will mark the launch of the R.N.S. Coaltongue. Each of you has spent the last several months working on separate investigations in preparation for today. Lieutenant Landreth, who I understand has maintained her commision.. Delft trailed off, studying the woman. Has worked on behalf of our King to continue to garner support for this massive undertaking. In addition, because of her "unique" position she was able to create a list of individuals who were tied to the project via financial channels so the R.H.S. so we could later back check them for possible Danor leanings .
Delft then points to a young, colorfully dressed man with orange breeches tucked into dark brown leather riding boots turned down to the calf, a light tan shirt unlaced and open at the chest with billowy sleeves, and a colored half-cloak of pale yellow embroidered with swirls of varying shades of blue, with the inside panels of the cloak a dark grey. Mr. LeMont assignment has been to work the docks in and around Bosun strand. He has been our eyes and ears among the dock and steel workers to ensure that we can stave off any potential worker strikes. He also served to relay any rumors of unusual activity during the construction of the R.N.S. Coaltongue and any persons of particular interest.
Moving along we have Mr. Rayne. Coming to us by way of the Grand Risur War Academe, Mr. Rayne is an expert in hand to hand combat and previously served in the 15th Flint scouting battalion who some of you might have known of as the "Bridge burners" Pointing to the map with his oak pointer, Delft nods to Rayne. The map you see before you is Mr. Rayne's handwork. He has spent the better part of a month learning the layout of the Royal Shipyard and planning threat responses and evacuation points in the event of something "unforseen" occurring.
As you all know a undertaking of such proportions as this requires a frustrating amount of bureaucracy. Seer Arbalister, Deflt points to a tall graceful looking elf with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. Has been our liaison between the R.H.S. security detail and Flint's governors office. While not a particularly glamorous assignment, we can thank Seer Arbalister for the additional police details as well as the standby fire fighting team should a fire break out during todays event.
On the topic of the local police, we have Inspector Reginald Filby. Deflt give a small nod boarding on respect towards a tall man with short hair who wears spectacles. Inspector Filby previously served in the Flint P.D. as a violent crimes detective. While Seer Arbalister worked with the governors office, Inspector Filby acted as our liaison between Flint P.D. and the R.H.S. in order to assure that there would be no jurisdictional missteps between us During the kings visit.
In addition to vetting the construction workers, investors, Second-Lieutenant Lanvaldan. Delft points to a five-foot ten tall woman in excellent physical condition with a gymnast's physique who wears a naval officers uniform. Her eyes are a deep shade of brown and her hair is coal black. Vetted the several potential naval officers for the assignment of Captain of the R.N.S. Coaltongue.
And finally we have Ms. Dane. Deflt gestures with the wooden pointer to a short brown haired woman with a grease smudged nose who wears welders goggles, a long-sleeved shoremans’ shirts and leather breeches who seems to be fiddling with a mechanical device of some sort. Ms. Dane, who previously served in our R&D division, was assigned as a research assistant during the construction of the R.N.S. Coaltongue and served to keep an eye on anyone who might be paying too much interest in the Coaltongue's magical capacitor.
Now than Wolves, let's get down to the business at hand. Handing Lieutenant Landreth two envelopes, Delft points towards the map. What you currently hold in your hands is the Itinerary of events for today as well as A list of important guests for today's launch. Beginning at 1630 local, you are to meet with the local Flint P.D. Detachment and provide a threat profile to them on who might be likely dissidents for todays event. Your point of contact will be Alfred Bellastair, the officer in charge of the police detachment, Inspector Filby, I believe you have already worked with Officer Bellastair? Following the brief you will have thirty minutes to conduct a final canvas of the seven hundred onlookers and well wishers before the King and his entourage arrive. It is important that you work the police. I cannot stress enough that the seven of you will not be able to deal with a crowd of this size alone. Should you identify any people of interest among the seven hundred you will then need to conduct a closer inspection and separate any actual threats from the innocent parade-goers. Finally, I would remind you that should you detain any individuals, make sure to question them and learn if anyone else might be working with them. Also, in the event of being assaulted, remember to follow deadly force protocols at all time. On your way out stop by the quartermaster's office and requisition any additional items you might need, your cells operating allowance for this event has been raised to seven hundred crowns. Now, any questions?::
Although Alastair registers both Anya's and Reginald's comments regarding Devinn, his mind is nevertheless a little divided between the now and the group's official meeting and briefing just a few hours earlier. Still, he does not have all that time to dwell on it as the colorful Docker's magical message snaps him out of it. Smiling at the whispered words that reach his ears, especially at the nicknames being used, he speaks his reply softly.
"Sure, go chase after them for a while. I am sure I can come up with something." The words are spoken to seemingly noone, a fact that probably causes the one closest to him, Anya, to be just a little taken aback. "The... heh... fool just asked me to take his place for a bit, so off to act the fool I go," he says to her, taking off his coat and handing it over as he speaks. "Give it to one of the officers here please. I will be back for it later."
Rolling up his shirt's sleeves as he goes, Alastair soon enough finds himself amongst the veritable sea of men, women and children, not far from where Devinn was putting on his show moments ago. Allowing himself a soft little sigh as he thinks at how his brother is the one who is actually good at this, he clears his throat and calls out, his voice clear and strong, almost like when he taught at the Academy, though with a bit more friendliness mixed in considering the circumstances. "Well, my good ladies and my dear gentlemen -or is that the other way around?- that was some perfectly good music, wasn't it? A song and a dance provide entertainment aplenty, but how about something... different?"
As he smiles and talks, he takes care to move about, opening up some space around him and also taking a look at the people moving about as best he can for anyone who might look suspicious or out of place. "Perhaps something like... this?" No sooner has he finished his little speech than his feet no longer touch the ground as he executes a perfect backflip, his landing soft and graceful. "I know, I know, not that impressive. I can see you are a most discerning crowd. So... how about I try that much harder to impress you good folk?" He grins and then he begins. Backflips that are immediately followed by front flips, cartwheels, wall flips and spins; all in all, moves that he would not necessarily try in situations involving actual combat, but in this case he has the luxury of performing them under no duress whatsoever. For the admiration of the crowd or the lack of it are not things he pays any mind to, though he pauses to joke with them and seemingly gauge their reaction. But the real purpose behind such breaks in his routine is to continue with his task, which is to look for people that have come here not just to have fun and see the launch of the Coaltongue, but to somehow meddle with it.
'But,' he admits to himself while managing a complicated enough stunt much to the crowd's amusement, especially the children's, 'I would be lying if I said I am not enjoying myself just a little.'
Out of the corner of her eye, Ifris could see Devinn's antics in the crowd, eliciting a downturn at the corners of her mouth and a momentary headshake as she raises one hand to touch at her forehead. Exhaling a sigh into her palm as she wipes her hand down her face, Ifris turns her attention briefly to the positions of the other members of her unit. She'd briefly lost track of Alastair, only to spot his head bobbing around in the midst of the crowd. She holds back her confusion at that when she spots Reginald hustling an overweight man in a heavy jacket out of the crowd.
Leaning down towards the officer at her side, Ifris speaks in a firm voice to be heard over the crowd. "Go check on Inspector Filby," she instructs, motioning to where Reginald is escorting the pickpocket. When she stands straight again, her attention drifts to where Talyssa is scanning the crowd with her goggles down. There's an affirmed nod of recognition Ifris makes to no one but herself on seeing Talyssa doing surveillance. That she understands...
With a quick series of arcane-sounding syllables, Devinn turns a foot-wide band of the street a gaudy yellow color which fans out in the direction of the faux noblemen about ten feet or so. "Make way for the Path o' Gold that those two have left for us to treasure! Make way!" He speaks more "arcane" words and above him a tinny-sounding trumpet blasts alternating notes in fanfare.
Other things, however, will require more investigation to even get the slightest understanding of.
It's right about then that Ifris finds Anya on the other side of the checkpoint. Very little scrutiny is given to the other soldier, there's a level of implicit trust there that Ifris has had hammered into her for years. She'd trust Anya to follow instructions, behave responsibly, and perform admirably until evidence proves she is capable otherwise.
By now she's confirmed the status of everyone in the unit. All that's left is to ensure that the crowd continues to pose minimal threat. From her vantage point atop her crate, Ifris sets her sights back out on the sea of bodies moving in unison towards the checkpoint gate, threading that errant lock of hair behind her ear again as she does.
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Malcolm the Magnificent skips merrily down the thoroughfare as he sing-songs out a call to join his merry parade towards the two rude courtiers; he pauses ceremoniously every ten feet or so to extend the golden "path" towards the other side of the staging area. Around him skip several children who have left their elders to join the fun, with several more running ahead to point and jape at the gentlemen who now find themselves somewhat surrounded.
The taller man takes a backhand swipe at a filthy-mouthed boy of ten but misses by mere inches, which in turn brings two burly dockmen nearby over to threaten the pair for accosting children. Women and men alike start to boo and shout down the off-dressed men. For a brief moment, things seem to run close to getting out of hand. Burn me I didn't want a bloody riot out of this! Devinn stops abruptly and lowers his stance, ready to the men if it comes down to a fight, watching intently to see if they are not what they seem, trained to respond with violence.
Mercifully, they back down, both men putting up their hands in supplication to the dockmen as the shouts turn to japes and clapping. Devinn decides to move up and keep the mood easy. "Hey now, these two seem to be gettin' a better sense of how things work here eh? Like no more cuttin' in line and bein' so pushy! Don't think they're from around our parts, so let's give 'em another chance, but keep an eye on 'em all the same and let me know if there's any trouble!" Several in the crowd nod and shout their agreement.
He turns to several of the children that are nearby who had followed along and were eager to participate in his impromptu parade. "Hey now my fine lads and lasses! Gather around a quick wink! As children shout and jockey to get close and be seen by the Docker, he waves his hand close and "whispers" loudly for all of them to hear, but in a manner that suggests he is letting them in on a profound secret. "Lads and Lasses! We've got a lot of decent grown-ups that want to see the King and what we've been all laborin' over in our town! Fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors all." Pausing a dramatic moment, he lowers his voice to a more sinister hiss. "But we gots others that may be lookin' for mischief of a foul sort, folks who don't care a whit about what we're about and what we've been through. THOSE folk could be a' prowling even now, looking for a way to do us harm. Bootsticks can't see 'em, too stupid to know what's real and what's not with 'em, and these buggers know how to fool the bootsticks. Right? You know it, I know it, and they know it. But what they don't know is that you can smell 'em out!"
With a knowing nod and a tap to his forehead, Devinn points to each of the children who don't seem to shy away at this point and nod eagerly at his words. With his other hand he pulls out wrapped sweets from a belt pouch and hands one to each, and then proclaims, "We gots our own Hunt now my Lords and Ladies! Find me those that don't belong or mean well, mark 'em to your 'mates and let me know who's who!" With that, Devinn casts a chiming rainbow over his recruits that lasts only a few moments, but sends the children charging off into the crowds on their mission.
Rhegalion steps down from his high perch, descending down a set of steep stone stairs to the fenced-off area. The stairs have seen years of wear and the engineers of Risur recently added metal railings to help prevent falls. In a city with an age of hundreds of years, such upgrades are to be expected. In centuries past, they would have likely torn out and rebuilt the stairs properly; in the modern day of progress, they simply added a cost-effective augmentation instead.
He strides over to the post where Ifris and Anya stand with his steady, almost gliding gait. He walks up next to them and pauses for a moment. He notes approvingly of Anya's impeccable uniform. He may not be an elf anymore, but the elven grooming rituals must still affect his subconscious. His own appearance - slicked dark brown hair, perfectly-trimmed goatee (a feature that most elves would approach with some trepidation), well-tailored and well-made clothing, just a hint of elven heritage in his ears and the angles of his face - would be something to look out for in the crowd. He addresses Anya with a formality that seems out of place in today's world. "Lieutenant Landreth, I was pleased to make your acquaintance today. I imagine that you will take the responsibility of advising the other authorities of who may stand out as a potential threat today. I cannot think of who among us would be better equipped to pass on this vital information than yourself. Second Lieutenant Lanvaldan, I will be in the crowd. I appreciate your vigilance in watching for my safety, and that of the nation." With a slight bow to both women (including Ifris, perched higher on a crate) that seems just as formal and out of place, he steps past them into the crowd.
Rhegalion enters the crowd, part of it but apart. He seems to swim amongst them, stepping through the crowd perfectly in the brief moments that they leave a spot open. Each of these spots lasts just a moment, faster than any person could measure and react to, but Rhegalion seems to have the preternatural ability to weave his way through the crowd as if he knows where the openings will be even before they occur. As he easily maneuvers through the crowd, he watches them for trouble. He moves in a indirect line, but continues to readjust towards a certain location as if he is drawn there.
A hundred paces into the crowd, he stops suddenly. The crowd swirls around him, barely noting the still figure in their midst. This is the place he is supposed to be, he notes without understanding why. He watches the people around him intently, seeking to know why he stopped here. Suddenly, he spots a half-elven woman standing a dozen feet away. The elven features suit her, as the tall and slender woman has her golden-blonde hair pulled up in a fashionable style and not a hair out of place. She wears a long, pale green dress of some expense that accentuates her beauty, with satin gloves covering her hands. She stares out at the Coaltongue instead of the crowd, staring as intently at it in the distance as Rhegalion stares at her. Slowly, she feels the pull of his eyes and glances over at him. They make eye contact and hold it, even as the boisterous crowd swirls around them. No one else seems to notice the two still figures, staring at each other through the crowd.
Bellastair raised an eyebrow. Really? he whispered.
Quite so, responded Filby. Check his cabinets. Absinthe. I'm sure of it. Go on.
Officer Bellastair nodded at another constable, who took one of the detectives out of the room. He looked back down at his papers. Methersby.
Filby nodded.
Sills, Levers, Dort, Meagle..
The Inspector's hand went up. Pass on Meagle. He'll spend more time staring at young women that he will watching the crowd.
The older man rolled his eyes. He's only joined up last week. How could you possibly..
Filby's voice did not lower when he interrupted. Protrusion, right pants pocket. Comb or brush. Why does a man bring a comb to scan a mob during a parade? SHarp outfit, looking to make an impression. He might just want to impress Head Officer Bellastair, but then just watch this.
Filby looked up to find a lovely young woman sorting out details for the parade. Agent Landreth? Could you come here for a minute? Thank you. Lower he says, Watch him. You'll see what I mean.
The young woman raises an eyebrow and holds up a finger. Just a moment please, I'm working. Filby nods his understanding and glanced at the young constable Meagle. Unaware he was being watched, the man stared at Agent Landreth across the room. He started biting his lips and rehearsing some sort of line.
Bellastair looked down at his papers again. I had hoped I wouldn't have to see this gimmick of yours for a while, Inspector. But I can't deny we'll miss its usefulness. I dare say people get along with one another quite well in your absence.
Well, that's to be expected. Most people spend their days lying to one another. Who could enjoy the company of a man that didn't filter out his private thoughts?
Bellastair looked over his spectacles, incredulous. Yes, who indeed?
Are there more names? Filby seemed pensive, as if the task of briefing the men and preparing them for their duty was beneath him.
No. Thank the gods you've only ruled out four. The rest seem to pass your muster.
Filby launched himself off the wall in time to pass an approaching Agent Landreth. He walked past her. Agent Landreth, I'd like you to meet Head Officer Bellastair, there behind me.
He appraoched the center of the room. Look at their faces, who's bored already? Who's looking smart? Who's organized and ready to begin?. He clapped his hands one time.
Very good, thank you. A moment of your time? Excellent. You've all been assigned your sections. Now, we're all very proud to work with such astute constables, and my friend Bellastair...
We're not actually friends, Filby.
...speaks very highly...of most of you. Now, we've considered a few of you and reassigned the ones who will really fall asleep at this sort of thing. Don't take it personally, it's hot outside, and Constable Meagle won't get many dates sweating in his uniform, so I've really just save some of you precious time. Now, please remember your assignments, your combat protocols, and please remember that street crimes in situations like today occur about once per twelve minutes per thousand folk. If a crime happens under your notice, you'll be sacked by Bellastair and lectured by me. If you uncover something suspicious, remember your signals and a member of Ravassante Wolf will investigate. I want to remind you that this event has a set duration, so there will be no breaks or shift changes. Remain alert until the streets are clear and you'll have done your city proud.
Filby swept the room with his gaze once more. Everyone attentive, no one losing focus. Good. He took one step away from the center of the room, before a thought took him.
Finally, Officer Bellastair wishes for me to remind you that the consumption of absinthe while on duty is unbecoming and illegal, and will certainly get you sacked. Good day,
Anya stared incredulously at the coat she had just been handed. Why couldn't he just hand it to one of the officers himself instead of making her do it for him? She glared out into the crowd as Alastair goes to perform his little tricks, a bit of anger flaring up at the idea of him passing off minor tasks onto her. She was almost tempted to throw the jacket onto the ground or hand it to some random passerby but she couldn't bring herself to do something like that just out of spite. Anya sighed to herself and folded the jacket up, draping it across her arm as she watched the crowd at the checkpoint die down.
Anya looked out into the crowd, somewhat amazed at it's size. She dreaded having to walk amongst that cluster of people. She prefered quiet and solitude to the mass of chaos that the area had erupted into with this many souls milling about. How they were ever supposed to find anyone in that mess was beyond her. Still, it looked as though the area was nearing it's predetermined capacity and the checkpoint would be shutting down soon. As much as she hated it, she had a job to do.
As Reghalion passes by her, Anya nods affirmatively to his comment. Talking to an elf and working with him as an equal had taken some getting used to but he had proven he deserved the position. That was all that truly mattered to her in the end and she found herself quietly wishing a few other institutions employed similar merit based promotions. At least the RHC got something right.
She looked over her shoulder at a few of the officers milling around near the checkpoint. Now was as good of a time as any to start canvasing the crowd more throughly, securing the area for the king's arrival and making sure no suspicious persons had slipped through the checkpoint. Anya turned to face the officers and spoke, "Now that the action around the checkpoint is dying down, our attention would be better served elsewhere. You're all here for a reason- you're the best at what you do. And you all know what we're looking for. I don't think I need to remind anyone what is at stake here. So what do you say we get to it?" She offers the officers a welcoming smile and gestures for them to follow her as she turns to make her way through the checkpoint. Her eyes settle briefly on the jacket still laying across her arm. If nothing else, she could at least find Alistair and rid herself of this jacket while she searched through the crowd.
Talyssa sighs as yet another scan of the crowd for magic comes up empty. She shakes her dark hair and pushes the goggles back on her brow. This isn't getting me anywhere. I can't see anything from here. I need to... She nearly shudders with the thought of plunging into the crowd when she catches a glimpse of the same young girl as before, staring up at Skimmer with her mouth open. Of course...I could get some more eyes to help me out instead of staring at my little troublemaker.
The young woman swallows a breath and steps through the barricade into the crowd. She flinches back from the first bumps, never having been exposed to immersion in so many people at once. "Hey, watch where you're going sweetheart!" cries a fat man whose belt is barely able to contain his girth within a misshapen green tunic. [i]Focus...on...the...girl. Talyssa moves her hands in what she hopes looks like an apology and murmurs "Sorry sir." knowing her voice is sure to be lost in the noise of the crowd.
She pushes on, gradually becoming more confident if not more comfortable in the huge mass of people. Finally, the girl is only 10 feet in front of her. She moves a little closer and then raises a gloved hand toward Skimmer, his signal to come down to her shoulder. In the sky above, she sees Skimmer's eyes rotate to follow her motion and feels something, perhaps joy at getting his way, radiate from her companion. Skimmer banks like hes beginning a long slow arc and then suddenly drops straight toward Talyssa. Around her Talyssa hears a smattering of cries, some onlookers swearing over the dangerous monstrosity, but above them she hears the hoped for sound of a young girl squealing with glee, a sound soon joined by several similar voices.
With a gentle thwack, she feels Skimmer land on her leather padded shoulder. Her hand moves up to stroke Skimmer's metallic beak and she turns toward the sound of the girls. A half dozen of them swarm her, led by the one she thinks of as Charlotte. Docker girls. Perfect for what she needs. The boys are always obvious, trying to be noticed. Girls on the other hand. It seems no one expects anything of them except looking pretty.
A hundred questions seem to burst forth at her all at once and for a moment, Talyssa wishes she was back safely behind the barricade. With difficulty, she pushes it back and summons a smile. "Hi. This is Skimmer and I'm Talyssa. Who are you?" Six names burst forth at once. Forcing the smile again, Talyssa composes herself, "Girls. Skimmer and I could use some help. You see, Skimmer and I are here to help watch things here and keep things safe for the King. But, its hard for Skimmer to watch everything from so high in the air and its hard for me with just two eyes to keep an eye on things down here. Do you think you could spread out through the crowd and help us look for people who might be angry with the King?"
The swelling crowd of seven hundred of Flint's, finest unwashed masses noisily passed through the checkpoints. Thousands of visitors had poured into the city of the last week hoping to see the King. The city, already a metropolis of modern design and progress had swelled in the last forty years after King Aodhan, then a common soldier during the Third Yerasol War had captured Danor's first steam-powered warship and sailed it single handedly into Flint's harbor as a spoil of war. It was then that the industrial revolution had truly begun. In the four decades since, Risur went from owning a single captured steam engine into a flurry of activity and enterprise, sparking a massive boom, unseen since King Kelland tamed the lord spirits of field and forest and of marsh and mountain.
Passing through and surveying the crowd, the R.H.S. Cell Ravissant Wolf, watched as yellow marked pages handed out leaflets of lyric sheets, block printed with the royal anthem, in order to ensure the crowds could get the later lyrics right.. As one yellow marked page brushed by her, Lieutenant Landreth snorted. Who's idea it was to have a national anthem that was three minute's long was anyone's guess. Meanwhile the other wolves move through the crowd, hunting in a pack while they they slowly began to draw in on their quarry, separating people of interest from innocent party-goers.
Twenty minutes before the parade starts! Yells another yellow clad page through a bullhorn standing atop a stack of crates the mass of people below him. Please take a leaflet for our glorious anthem! The page cries out again mixing with the sounds of idle chatter, the stamp of feet and the cawing of seagulls above.
Looking up from his uncles gifted pocketwatch, Devinn, smiled as he watched one of his "recruits" scamper through the crowd. Twenty minutes indeed.
Having done her best to point out suspicious figures in the crowd and with the majority of activity having passed the checkpoint, Ifris steps down off her perch atop the crate and disappears into the high-tide line of a sea of people. Straightening her uniform, Ifris gingerly pushes her way through the crowd, making her way up behind Rhaegalion when she spots him. Clapping a hand on his shoulder, Ifris doesn't realize what she's distracting the elven-souled man from -- couldn't know what it meant.
"Officer Arbalistre," Ifris interjects in a firm tone of voice as her hand slips from his shoulder, "I would like to accompany you on a survey of the crowd from within. My assessment of our dossiers indicated that you have noteworthy interpersonal skills and are a solid judge of character." Furrowing her brows and looking Rhaegalion up and down, Ifris' expression looks stonier than her words come across as.
"Is that acceptable?"
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Rhegalion looks over his shoulder at Ifris, then looks back at the beautiful half-elven woman. In the brief window of time, she has melted back into the crowd and out of his field of view. He shakes his head, wondering why the spirits brought him there. He turns to Ifris and gives her his full attention. "Second Lieutenant, I would be pleased to have your assistance. Shall we?" He considers offering her his arm as an escort, but decides against it. She is, after all, a modern woman of the military and would likely feel it unnecessary. Together, they maneuver through the crowd. With Rhegalion leading, Ifris watches in curiosity as he moves through the throngs as if they were water. She attempts to keep up in the same way, weaving and dodging through the crowd, but it seems to be an inimitable talent of his. She focuses on using her own strengths to get through the crowd - namely, her steely glare that causes the crowd to part.
A few minutes' walking through the crowd and they are deeply in the tight-packed number. Rhegalion stops so suddenly that she barely keeps from crashing into him from behind. He speaks to her in his rich, melodious voice. "Second Lieutenant, the police are trained to look for suspicious individuals by studying their body language, looking at their reactions to unpredictable events. This is a fine way to measure a person. However, in my case, I know to look deeper. I listen to the spirits." He closes his eyes as he takes a long breath, and she feels a sudden breeze of chill wind come across them. For a brief second, she hears a whisper on the air, mingling with the boisterous voices around them. Rhegalion opens his eyes and scans the crowd for a few seconds. "There," he says with a nod towards a man that looks like a docker wearing a long cloak. "Tell me, Second Lieutenant, what do you see? Shall we maintain our gaze upon that one?"
The page cries out the 20 minute warning and the shouts of the crowd drown out Talyssa as she implores the girls to help. The thrill of rushing off to see the king gets the better of the girls and they scatter off among the crowd eager and leaving Talyssa wondering what just happened. You've got to be kidding. That was such a good plan. I had them ready to help and... A grinding screech from Skimmer snaps her back to the task at hand. S$+%, I've still to see if I can find any threats in the crowd here.
"How about you Skimmer? See any trouble out there when you were flapping around?" Talyssa strokes the sleek steel neck of her companion and she returns her own focus to the enormous mass of people, daunted by the task. I never should have come down in here. I would have been better off letting Skimmer keep an eye on things from up above. Talyssa turns, thinking to push her way back through the crowd when Skimmer suddenly lets out a shrill chirrup of recognition.
Talyssa eyes dart toward where the simulacrum's eyes have fixed and she spots a young boy, about 11 years old. Jet black hair and a rich brown complexion. He's dressed on a loose white shirt that looks like its been handed down three times and a pair of dirty brown pants that have so much soot on them, they'd look to be black if she didn't know him already. "Colin." she breathes, recognizing the boy from Bosum Strand.
A year ago Colin had been one of the terrors of the Strand. A young pickpocket well on his way to more serious crime. Talyssa had been sent out to track down Charlotte and Colleen for lunch when a bawling Colleen had come crashing into her chest sobbing about how a boy had stolen the comb her mother had given her for her birthday. Talyssa hadn't really understood why the girl was so upset, but it didn't seem right that a boy had taken the comb. She sent Colleen home promising to get the comb back. It took some searching, but she found Colin. And it turned out the boy was willing to give back the comb if Talyssa was willing to give him something in return. And that was the day Talyssa learned to make light. Colin gladly exchanged Colleen's comb for the small opaque disk that lit up when Talyssa gave it a twist. Of course Colin hadn't been too happy when he found out later that it took Talyssa to make the light work. But a funny thing happened. A day later when an angry Colin confronted Talyssa about the light, threatening to take it out on her and Colleen, Talyssa tried explaining how she made light. Two hours later, Colin could do it too.
Back in the present, Talyssa shakes her head to clear the memory and realizes she's about to lose Colin in the crowd. Up to his old tricks... she thinks seeing him going for someone's purse. She flips Skimmer up into the air and a moment later sees Colin's face fall as Skimmer interferes with his thievery, then smile when he sees who it is. "Colin, if some of your friends are around today, I could really use your help. I've heard there might be some people here today to cause real trouble. I might have some time next week to help you learn that trick to move things without your hands if you can get some friends to help me out. What do you think?"
Hearing the warning that there are only twenty more minutes remaining until the beginning of the parade, Alastair wraps up his one man show with a bow to the men, women and children who chose to stop and take a look. "Thank you, thank you," he calls out to them with a smile. "I hope you enjoyed yourselves as much as I have, but you heard the man. Twenty more minutes before the main attraction starts and I would hate to keep you from it. So, once again, I thank you!"
With another smile and another quick bow, he takes his leave and vanishes into the crowd, the empty space which served as his makeshift stage quickly filling up with people again. 'Devinn must be done by now,' he ponders briefly, allowing himself a momentary respite from his task and catching his breath after his acrobatics show. But it only lasts a few moments before his eyes start scanning the crowd again for both his own partners, as well as any individuals reacting a little too suspiciously to the various officers present.
Nevertheless, perhaps owing to the sheer number of people moving around, despite his attempt, he notices nothing out of the ordinary, at least for now
"I see an opportunity for concealed weapons," is Ifris' response to Rhegalion, but a it's quietly spoken one. "A... few years ago, I would have scoffed at you for putting too much faith in the metaphysical. I was raised to trust the limitations of your body and what your eyes can see." Keeping the tone conversational, Ifris watches the cloaked figure step into movement with the crowd and nudges her way past a civilian to pursue at a distance beside Rhegalion. "I have become more open-minded as of late," sounds like a resigned admission more so than a statement of fact, as if she has had to become open-minded whether she liked it or not.
Following their suspect, Ifris casts a side-long glance to Rhegalion, noting the ease at which he maneuvers through the crowd. There's some frustration in her reaction to this, as trying to emulate his stride and posture hasn't helped in easing her own navigation through the crowd as he does. What can he see? The answer isn't as clear as Ifris hopes it to be, or as simple.
She opens her mouth, briefly, but the aborted question never forms. A furtive look is cast into the crowd of onlookers, and Ifris internally chides herself for distracting herself while on assignment. When she looks back at the cloaked target, Ifris' brows furrow and her head cocks to the side when the wind plays at the cloak's edges. Straps on his boots, it's--, "knives," Ifris says aloud to Rhegalion, putting a hand on his shoulder as she pushes ahead of him through the crowd, gingerly shoving citizens out of the way with all of the grace of a horse moving through the crowd.
"You there," Ifris calls out, unclipping her R.H.S badge from her uniform and holding it out, "Ifris Lanvaldan, R.H.S!" As she clears the distance to the cloaked figure, Ifris catches eye-contact with two police officers, directing them to intercept the man and block off his forward progress.
Catching up, Ifris lays a hand on the man's shoulder and squeezes firmly. "Concealed weapons are not allowed on premises," she firmly asserts, "I'll have to ask you to come with me."
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Jumping a little ahead since it flows nicely with Rhegalion's conversation/following a cloaked man. This is for Round #3, but since we finished all of the 2nd goals I thought it might work out. If I need to re-order/revise let me know.
The Inspector looks onto the crowd from a distance for a while. While his eyes scanned through dozens of minor distractions, one part of his brain considered them, while the other part tried to isolate the moment when the constables decided not to talk to him about anything.
It was strange, really, they didn't seem to not like him. Filby could always tell whether someone didn't like him, or was just nervous he'd catch them hiding something. Some of the constables had worked with him before, seen the men he'd have put away. Even seen him exonerate several innocents. It was puzzling that they put so much distance between him and themselves.
It was probably for the best, Filby thought. After all, I am in Ravassante Wolf now. Can't be thought to favor a constabulary I may need to deal with in the future. Best not to culti—
There. Eye contact. Dockers in a triangle formation. Standard for ranged assassination attempts, but no signs of ranged weapons. Maybe nothing.
But Filby's instincts were piqued. He had to explore the possibility. He reached into his coat and pulled a small vial of pale green liquid. Brewed this morning, the extract would heighten his senses, shrinking the time it took to draw conclusions from the things he'd see and hear. He downed the extract in one gulp, and looked again in the direction of the dockers he'd noticed.
Unmistakable. he confirmed. They were looking to one another for a signal.
Filby stepped into the crowd again, though the press of bodies caused him to lose sight of him mark, he imagined the space and mannerisms he'd already seen. Docker, medium build. There.
Filby approached the man, slipping the empty vile back into his jacket and squeezing in to stand beside the man. He watched intently, making slight adjustments in his footing to remain behind the man. With the close press of parade-goers, his movements didn't have to be perfect, but he didn't want to get caught staring.
Several glances, left, right, nod. Wait. Still waiting. Filby mentally catalogued every one. He could make out the location of one other in the triangle, but not precisely the third. Filby could tell it took a second for the docker to focus on his mark, so the last member of the triangle was far enough away his subject had to look for him each time.
Then, Ifris Lanvaldan, R.H.S.!. One of the pack had located someone else of interest. Sparing a fraction of a glance, Filby noted she was in the vicinity of the second triangle point.
Filby's mark looked up. Right to the disturbance perhaps a hundred feet away. He made eye contact with Agent Lanvaldan's subject. Got you.
Filby stepped forward, reaching his arm up behind the docker and signaling the constables to approach slowly. He didn't want to scare off the third man.
Some excitement, it appears, the Inspector said aloud. Crowd this size there's bound to be some trouble, wouldn't you think?
Perception (Observation):
Clutching and waving a tattered leaflet of the horrendous royal anthem like something he’d rather wipe his nose with, Malcolm the Magnificent leads a boisterous group of eight men in an off-key rendition of it, complete with drunken slurring of the words and choice alterations in the anthem to “liven it up” by Docker standards. The mocking attempt started when another group of devoted men and women started practicing the anthem shortly after they were handed out to the crowd, prompting a great opportunity for mockery. Scowling and snooting, the first group eventually stopped and moved off elsewhere, but the “boys” were having too much fun to stop then.
While he leads the rowdy men into a tawdry remake of the fifth stanza, Devinn spies out one of his lurker boys weaving through the crowd to find him; one look at the lad’s eyes reveals he has uncovered something important. Devinn looks back quickly to his impromptu chorus and up-tempos the stanza to triple-time, causing most of the men to fumble the lines and laugh uncontrollably. He doubles over in mock laughter and tosses the leaflet over his shoulder, shouting, ”There’s no saving it boys! Best to just eat the words and let it pass out the other end!” He pretends to wipe a tear from his eyes and adds, ”Ahh well, you’re right ready for the real thing I’ll wager! Go on and ‘practice’ the rest if you want, but I needs a refill before the parade!” With emphasis, he raises his hip flask and takes a swig of whiskey, and wipes his mouth with a grand ”Ahhh! before stepping away from the men towards the boy.
With a few quick urgent words, the lad reveals what he has seen near the parade lines and points off in that general direction. Devinn smiles and claps him on the shoulder, discreetly putting in his palm a silver shilling for a job well done. The boy runs back off into the crowd, and Devinn takes another swig and nonchalantly heads off in the direction of his potential mark.
As he approaches the lad’s stated location, Devinn spies his target out almost instantly about one hundred paces off – a strong and imposing thuggish looking type, not a man that relies on his good looks to get him by. A Docker by the more flamboyant dress, but definitely not one who works the crowd by playing the fool as “Malcolm” likes to do. He’s alert and aware of who’s around him, but his eyes keep looking to the parade route along the street, considering, weighing options. No Docker is that excited or intent to see the royal procession.
What’s worse, he thinks he may know the Docker in passing. Somewhere from his time at the Bedlam House in the Strand these past weeks, Devinn seems to recall a hazy name. Mertle? Mercantile? No…Cliff? Heathcliff? Mercliff. That’s it. Damn, but is that the one who was all worked up over the talk of the ship and shoved Jolly Jameson nearly over the bar? Maybe…if so he has big arms and had big friends to back his play. So where are his friends? By himself means no good for a Docker, not for him. Something’s hollowed out and rusted in this…
Eighty paces now from Mercliffe and Devinn sees a “bootstick” by the wall of an empty building that Flint P.D. appropriated for their men to take shifts from. That one has two marks on his uniform which denotes he’s been around a bit. Perfect. The bard casts and whispers his introduction.
”Guardsman. Hey you! Yes you, standing by the doorway. R.H.C. Constable Kevin Kentworth here, cell number forty-two. You with me man? I’m disguised as a Docker with blue hair and green scarf a walkin’ right past you. See me? Don’t shout now and burst my cover – if you see me just yawn once.”
The Flint P.D. corporal looks around and then spots “Kevin” and his outlandish outfit, his eyes squinting in suspicion; he looks around to see if some joke is made at his expense, a hand going to the club at his belt. Sixty paces to target.
”No jesting and no time. Kevin Kentworth, Ravissant Wolves number four-and-two. Inspector Filby is part of my team, so listen up! What’s your…nevermind that, I shall call you Bilbus. Officer Bilbus, I’m approaching a suspect who may be armed and intent to cause harm. Big fella. Not sure yet, but I need you to get some big men and make the arrest if I give the signal. You got this Bilbus? Stretch your arms if you’re keeping up!”
The officer now known as “Bilbus” scowls further, but seems to have made up his mind on the issue and nods once, then stretches his arms in the air. Thankfully, a group ahead of Devinn has allowed him to slow down naturally. Forty paces to target.
”Good Bilbus. Now keep an eye on the top of my hair as far away as you can with your boys. If you see me scratch my head, come in hard and arrest both of us, so I can use this cover again. The signal is scratching my head. Got it, Bilbus? Now put your arms by your sides and cluck like a chicken if you understand me.”
After a moment the corporal raises his arm and gives Devinn a nasty hand gesture, causing several citizens nearby to look at the officer in confusion. ”Close enough. But seriously be ready if I give the signal.” Thirty paces. Twenty.
As Devinn approaches Mercliffe, the Docker picks up on his approach and turns to face him with a frown, his arms rippling with muscles that are adorned with tattoos, one arm crossed in front of the other in a guarded manner. One hand over the other, he’s palming…a glint…metal knuckles…lovely…all out now Dev and with feeling!
Devinn walks right up next to the large menacing man and stops looking out towards the street, a noticeable pause before he speaks in a low, serious and urgent voice to Mercliffe. ”Malcolm of Cheapside Central. You're Mercliffe. I heard ya back at the Bedlam. Heard what you were sayin’ and know it’s true as real steel. I’ve talked to Jabbers, Vincent, Tam-tie and Gritters, and they all say you’re not a double-face. They say you’re not just about flash, that you’ll back it with blood.” He pauses to look right at the Docker’s eyes, to show he’s deadly serious and telling the truth, the moment of opportunity to win him over if he’s a zealot. Is Gritters dead or alive? Too late now, all in or it’s a thrashing!
”Look at em Mercliffe! These $%#$#!! sheep, they all talk loud but don’t want to do nuthin’ when it counts. I’ve tried to show ‘em through my songs, but they don’t want to listen. I’m tired of standing around when something needs to change. You have a mind to cause a jank? ‘Cause I’ll throw my lot in right now to do what needs doin’ if you’ve got the plan.”
It had been ages since she had seen so much chaos. Life under the military left a permanent distate for such swirling confusion and disorganization. Whose idea was it to let this many people into the area anyway? Too much was at stake for Risur and her enemies too numerous for two high priority targets to meet in such a large crowd. She worried for the King's safety, her hand subconsciously falling down to her gun, her fingers moving over every inch just to make sure nothing had changed. If something happened, she'd be ready for it. Until then, though, she was stuck here, surrounded by the boisterous crowd.
She passed through the crowd, sliding in between the men and women gathered around and trying to keep a low profile- a tough task to accomplish when so many recognize your face and you're practically forcing yourself into their personal space, eyeing all of them as if they were criminals. It was part of the job, unfortunately, and a job she took seriously. King Aodhan was a wise man that was leading Risur into the future. She wasn't about to let some misguided terrorist or disillusioned military veteran cripple Risur's guiding hand.
Ifris' voice rose above the din of the crowd. She had found someone of interest. Not much of a surprise. Someone seeking to wound Risur could not have imagined a better scenario. Anya makes her way toward the commotion, prepared to provide assistance, only to find that Ifris had the suspect under control and was in the process of escorting him away from the crowd. Anya gives a brief nod of approval in Ifris' direction and moves to her side, accompanying her as she escorts the suspect.
"What have we got here?" Anya's eyes glance over the man, spotting the concealed weapons. "Today was a bad day to plan treason, friend." Anya offers a somewhat brief but sly smile to her companions before motioning toward the man in their custody. "What do you say we just put a bullet in this traitor now and toss him into the harbor? We've got more important things to do than deal with this kind of scum." It may have been an act but the hatred that coated her words was frighteningly real.
Ten minutes before the parade starts! Bellows the yellow clad herald through a bullhorn from atop the stack of crates the mass of people below him. As the announcement rings through the royal square the gathered crowd buzzes in excitement. At the visitor control points leading into the square the Flint P.D. lead by Sergeant Bellastair begin a final check of the rows and rows of people waiting to greet their sovereign. The sound of the gathered crowd is nearly deafening as the wolves can make out various unsynchronized groups as they start singing the royal anthem or other festive sounds.
The mass of humanity is like a flood waiting to be unleashed and collectively the wolves know that they only have a few moments remaining before the ropes will be pulled back and the peasants will surge into the square. May the Old Gods help them should any threats escape their net.
His escape seemingly cut off by Ifris, Anya and Rhegalion, Coulton Velt looks at the woman who has clasped his shoulder tightly and opens his mouth to speak but is quickly cut off by the threat from Anya. As Ifris begins to pat the man down she quickly takes note of the mans leather armor concealed below a cloak. Collecting the two daggers she had previously spotted she pockets them away. Glancing around behind him and to the left he scowls, his face going hard. You can't just do that. You got police over to the place. Who do you think you are? We got laws here. Frowning he shrugs and trys to back pedal on his outburst. I didn't know that I couldn't carry my daggers. The docks can be dangerous at night. I got a right to protect myself!
Coulton is clearly lying. He knew that he was not supposed to be carrying concealed weapons and he is clearly trying to make a scene as if to warn someone.
As the constables approach slowly, the greasy haired docker whirls and turns, looking Inspector Filby in the face. Get off me buddy! He says gruffly. Sneering arrogantly at the former police inspector, Iscalio never notices the constables as the form a ring around him with their batons drawn menacingly. Eyes flickering from Filby to the police and back to Filby the man sighed in resignation.
Yea, I supposed there was bound to be trouble. Iscalio grumbles while slowly raising his hands above his head in surrender.
Nodding to himself, Inspector Filby gestures to the the man who has apparently surrendered. Check the left pocket if you please officer. No your other left. I noticed the protrusion when I first approached the man. Careful now, I believe he has at least one flask of Alchmists Fire on him.
Slowly moving forward the police officer carries his batton ready to lash out the docker should he make any sudden movements. Carefully patting the man down he reached into the mans jacket pocket and removes a single blown glass flask that roils with contained liquid fire.
Nodding more to himself then the gathered officers, the inspector gestures for the officer to hand him the flask. As I suspected. I could smell the kerasol and guano on him when I approached. Its the only compound I know of that has both ingredients. Officer, take him to the holding area. I suspect I will have some questions later. Oh and there is also a dagger hidden behind his back. Noticed the posture? Filby pointed out while stepping forward in one quick motion to disarm the man. Flipping the dagger over he handed it to the officer in question and then turned away. Place him in the detention area for the time being and put the dagger in evidence. I'll let you know if I need to question him further. You may go now.
Approaching Mercliffe Palanto, Malcolm of Cheapside Central quiet and serious nods to the man. Eyeing Malcom, Mercliffe, large and imposing with his sleeves of nautical tattoos grunts. Yea, you're damned right they are sheep. They go along and do whatever the king and his freak of a governor tell him to do. It ain't right that someone can live forever while us normal folk die each day so that the one percent can live like royalty. Digging a hand into his pocket, Mercliffe digs out a wicked set of brass knuckles and flashes them to Malcom. I didn't come to start a fight, (LIE) but I won't be pushed around neither.
Pausing Mercliffe begins to say something else, but before he can, Devinn is able to spot a grizzled sailor who is pushing himself towards the police police line. As he passes the two dockers, he whirls around.
Devinn? Devinn is that you? Thames Grimsly, the nascent leader of the dock workers guild exclaims as he skids to a halt. Hells man, what have you done to your hair?
Glancing between Grimsly and "Malcom", Mercliffe's eyes open wide in a realization and opens his mouth to yell.
Gritting his teeth, Devinn sighs and reaches into his pocket and flashes the man his silver badge of office while nodding to Bilbus who closes in from behind. Mercliffe Palanto, Devinn begins slowly with a commanding voice. You're under arrest for seditious activities and the carrying of a concealed weapon. Don't make any sudden moves. Your surrounded and cut off.
Gritting his teeth, Mercliffe lets the spiked knuckles fall to the cobblestones with a clatter. Your making a mistake Malcom, or whoever your name is. You threw in with the wrong bunch. This city is going to hell and the people aren't going to take it much longer.
The disguise broken, Devinn frowns before gesturing to the officer. Take him away Bilbus and place him in holding. I may have questions for him later.
As the tattooed brute is led away, Thames looks at Devinn in a new light, half smiling to himself. Well lad, it seems you move up in the world from hustling dowager's. By the old gods am I glad I ran into you. I was just down at the Crooked Doxie when I heard that the boxer from the Broken Skull, Marne was planning to attack the governor during the parade. Between all of the security and checkpoints it took me over and hour to get here. We gotta find him before he does something stupid and makes the dockers look worse than we already are.
Thames Grimsley is a grizzled sailor who has been trying to organize an official dockers’ guild for the last several months. Thames is a grizzled sailor, still with a full head of hair in his early 50s. Though he only worked the docks in his youth, Grimsley spent decades sailing—primarily as captain of a ferry service in Flint’s harbor, but with a stint in the navy during the last Yerasol War. In the last big docker riot he took a gash from a policeman’s knife on the side of his face and since then has tried to organize a unified front for the dockers’ concerns. You also have heard that in his youth he spent a couple of months working at a theater and he supposedly has a very stylized public speaking voice, though one full of unnecessary, melodramatic pauses.
Mercliffe is clearly lying. He came here for a reason but he's not willing to tell you what it is.
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Rhegalion interrupts Anya from going further with her threat. "That will not be necessary, Lieutenant. I'm certain that he was happy to hand over his weaponry rather than risk being summarily executed. Isn't that so?" With a scowl, the docker nods in agreement. He glares at Anya, clearly resenting the threat. "Now, let's find someplace more appropriate to speak about this, where there is not so much of a chance of violence."
The four of them walk into an alley, with Anya and Ifris both poised to seize the docker if he attempts to run or commit violence. Rhegalion quietly speaks to them both when they arrive. "Please ensure that no civilians come into the alleyway so that I can speak to him in privacy. Thank you." With a glance at each other, the two women nod and take up a position so that the alley is theirs and theirs alone.
Rhegalion and the docker walk a dozen paces down the alley until Rhegalion stops and pulls up crate from the wall. "Please, sit." When the docker does so, he pulls a second one and sits opposite him so that he can see his allies but that the docker's back is turned to them. "I apologize for my associate's threats. That was unnecessary." The docker murmurs in agreement, glaring downwards. "I am Rhegalion Arbalistre. What is your name?"
The docker looks up at him, surprised. Clearly, he thought that this would go a different way - a much more violent way. A polite query throws him off-balance far more than a strike to the back of the head. "I'm called Coulton, boss man."
"There's no need to call me that, Coulton. Rhegalion will do fine, or sir if you must. I want to speak with you about what you were doing," Rheglaion asks firmly but gently.
Coulton hesitates for a moment, not sure of whether to lie or to speak the truth. "I wasn't doing anything," he says after his hesitation, clearly choosing the former. "I was just minding my own business when you lot came up on me."
Rhegalion stares at him intently, as if measuring him. "No, Coulton, you weren't. Your intent today is not to partake in the festivities, is it?" His question is quiet, but the point is forceful. Rhegalion knows that Coulton is up to something, and that certainty unnerves the lanky docker.
"What do you mean? What else would I be doing?" Rhegalion continues his intense stare, making him shift uncomfortably. Coulton looks back at the two women watching from afar. He sighs and puts his head down in his hands."What's going to happen to me?" Coulton asks the question from the position.
"Have you committed a crime yet, Coulton?"
"No! That's not..."
Rhegalion continues setting Coulton up to come to the conclusion that cooperation is the best option for him. "However, if something happens that you were involved in - even if you don't do it yourself - you share in that responsibility. You know as well as I do that you were trying to warn someone back in the crowd. Do you have any associates that you want to tell me about?"
Coulton pauses again, thinking hard about what to say. He pulls his head up and looks at Rhegalion somewhat desperately. "Please, I got mouths to feed. I don't want to be involved in this. It's other people's business, not mine."
"You are involved, Coulton, and that was your decision. I understand why you made it. Dock workers are poorly treated in this city. You are taken for granted and ignored on a good day, and treated like second-class citizens on a bad day. This is wrong, and you are absolutely right to stand up and speak out against it. But you have a decision to make now about what sort of statement you want to make. You're not a violent man, Coulton, I can see that. You're a man with a good heart and a righteous motive." Coulton nods along with Rhegalion's narrative, agreeing with him even though he doesn't realize it. "You can choose now to sully yourself with the actions of others, or you can choose to do what you know is right in your heart. I think that you'll choose to do what is right, rather than choose a path that wasn't your idea. I mean, you didn't want to go along with it, did you? You knew it was the wrong way to get your message across, didn't you? You want me to be able to stand up and tell people that you made the right decision, because the dock workers do the right thing."
Coulton nods even as he puts his head into his hands a second time. "What do you want to know?" He sounds defeated and hopeful all at once.
"Just who else we need to talk to today. That's all."
Coulton wipes his lips out of nervousness. "Okay. Okay. You want to talk to Mercliffe. He's got tattoos down to the wrist on both arms. You also want to talk to Iscalio, who's kind of a greasy fellow. Both were pretty close to me when you snatched me up. Rhegalion stares at him with that same look of intensity, as if asking the obvious question about whether or not that was all. Coulton shifts on the crate. "And Dafton. He's in charge. He's a bare-knuckle boxer at the Broken Skull over in the Strand. I'm... Not sure where he is right now. The plan was for him to take a swing at the governor during the parade. Look, I ain't got a problem with your kind, that's not what this is about." He seems almost defensive about it. "It's about justice, like you said, and getting some awareness for our exploitation. We're not looking to hurt no one. Honest. That's all. Can I go?"
Rhegalion stands up and looks down at the sitting suspect. "I'm afraid that you'll be in our custody for a little while longer. I'm sorry, but it has to be this way. You've got rights, and as long as no one commits any crime, you'll be fine. You just have to be patient. Do you have any questions?" Coulton shakes his head to indicate that he doesn't. "I'm proud of you, Coulton. You did the right thing. Thank you." He beckons to one of the policeman that Anya and Ifris called over, who comes and handcuffs Coulton while Rhegalion tells them what they are looking for.
Devinn watches distractedly for a moment as Officer ‘Bilbus’ and his crew take Mercliffe away before they disappear in the swirl of the ever-increasing crowd, the spiked steel knuckles palmed in his hand. Dafton Marne. Of course. Who else would a juggernaut like Mercliffe tag along after and stretch his neck out for? ”Damn!” is all Devinn says after a moment. He made a mistake by not checking out the Broken Skull these past weeks, for he was familiar with Marne’s reputation as a boxer. Even more so as an enforcer for various shady enterprises, and a man who put other men into healing wards outside of the knuckle brawls as well as inside the ring. He should have come up with something to scout it out, but his ruses didn’t cut well in places like the Broken Skull. To say that bilge-nest was a hangout for Dockers was a farce, certainly not for Dockers that kept to the code. He should have checked it out though.
”Huh?” Thames Grimsley shifts his stance to take a step closer, his voice a mix of irritation and confusion. ”Lad, didn’t you hear me? We gotta move now if we’re gonna find…”
”I heard ya Grims,” says Devinn, cutting him short but nodding to show he was with him. ”He’s going for the Govenor, and three-to-one that Mercliffe was in on it.” Devinn reflexively reached for his uncle’s pocketwatch with his other hand that wasn’t holding the knuckles but stopped himself. He knew how much time he had. Not enough. ”Come on Grims, we’re gonna push left and see if we can get down the side of this street along the ropes back towards where the procession turns the corner to the square here – if Mercliffe was decoy he’d be doin’ something to get the procession to slow down back that way, and give Marne a good shot. Let’s go…no wait!”
Devinn turns around back towards the main gathering area between the buildings, the crowd pressing towards him and making it nearly impossible to see. Several onlookers were eyeing him suspiciously, but he ignored them and started jumping in place, looking for help. They had to be around here! Come on Alastair! Too many people, too many wearing black and brown and grey, but then he thought he saw a man that moved through the crowd with both ease and purpose and a distinctive streak of white hair. That’s gotta be him! Too far for messaging though and can’t get to ‘em. "Hey! Hey Easy! Here!" Devinn quickly takes off his green-colored scarf from around his neck and waves it in the air while jumping up and down, spilling a few wrapped sweets onto the street around him in the process. Does he see me? Come on! Three, four, five times in the air until he can’t see him any more in the crowd. I hope he saw that. ”Okay let’s go Grims.”
The pair start moving down the rope lines, pushing past anxious citizens who want to be the first to get into the processional square. More scowls and rude looks as he and Grimsley jostled by them, though his hair and garb earned a few smiles and claps as well. He was going to miss Malcolm the Magnificent from Central. ”Blast me Grims, but you b&+~%!$sed up my play as Malcolm for good,” said Devinn as they pushed past a large family and came to a brief space around some stacked crates where a herald was standing, waiting for the signal to tell the crowd to move. Devinn sighed as he walked around the man, paying him no attention. ”I liked him too. Just do me a favor and don’t call me Devinn unless I’m, well, lookin’ like me next time, all right? I’ll fill you in on the other…stop a moment Grims!”
Devinn’s eyes caught the shrill metallic cry of Talyssa’s whirlygig bird as it swooped in a circle over the crowd to his left, then proceeded to land on the shoulder of the raven-haired woman with her distinctive goggles set just above her eyes, her workman’s garb unremarkable and seemingly smudged; he could have walked right by her a dozen times and not noticed her in this crowd, but the clockwork creature as well as her location as far away from the masses confirmed her to him in a flash. Devinn gives Thames a push and the two start walking forward again - he had no time to divert and head to her with all these people in the way, but as he reached the closest point between them of he her with true urgency in his voice.
Devinn loses the and curses openly, though Thames Grimsley is no stranger to swearing. They continue to move on down the rope line, looking for Dafton Marne before time is up.
As Alastair makes his way through the crowd, all the while wondering how the others are doing, an answer of sorts is given in the form of Devinn's apparently bouncing form and his brightly colored scarf as he and it seem to appear and disappear amidst the people several times. "Hmm? Devinn? I hope he had better luck than I did," he mutters to himself as he starts to make his way towards his colorful fellow Wolf.
"Excuse me, pardon me," he says as he makes good progress despite the tightly packed crowd, moving closer and closer to Devinn's last location. Looking around to see if he can make out any sign of the bard, he instead spots Talyssa, or rather it is her tiny mechanical flier that catches his eye first. 'What was that thing's name again? Ah, Skimmer, yes,' he briefly wonders as he manages to make his way to her, avoiding several excited and somewhat inebriated men and their bottles on the way.
"Talyssa," he calls out with a smile. "Hey, Talyssa! I think I saw Devinn going this way." As he speaks, his eyes are less on the girl in front of him and more on the people all around them, looking for any sign of the rest of his teammates and whether they have been at all successful at locating any suspects.
Pushing through the crowd, their movement was slowed to a near crawl as only a few minutes remained. In three hundred paces they’d reach the end of the rope lines and run into the wall of a warehouse, with all alleyway points around it blocked off with wooden barricades and guarded by Flint P.D. men who allowed no passage. Somewhere beyond that was where the procession was being staged, so no chance of someone like Dafton Marne getting past them unless he planned on taking down a half-dozen guards at once in full view of a dozen more. So where was he? They were running out of room, and running out of time. Maybe I outsmarted myself and went the wrong direction…put all my crowns on the hard way and seven’d-out…no no no… He was just about to tell Grimsley to head to the police and tell them to stop everything while he would turn back the way he came, knowing he wouldn’t get very far. He drew in breath to tell Grims and his eyes flickered up to the draw of yet another yellow-garbed herald fifty paces ahead of him on the rope line. That’s when he saw it.
The herald’s bright yellow-livery was too small in the sleeves and hem for a man of his size; who would not get their livery tailored properly for the event of the decade? The man’s forearms were muscled, nearly bulging through the tight sleeves that weren’t meant for him. Standing in front of the rope line and handing out leaflets to passers-by, he held a bullhorn in the crook of his arm. A steel bullhorn, with possible ridges to the handle. His brown hair looked wrong, almost moppish. A wig. The herald smiled to a woman as he handed out an anthem leaflet, but the smile never touched his eyes. It had to be Marne.
”It’s him,” breathed Devinn as he put a hand on Grimsley’s shoulder and turned him around to face each other. ”Behind you near the ropes, the bleaking herald! He’s got something in that bullhorn, a weapon hidden.”
”You sure lad?” He looks behind him briefly and turns back to Devinn. ”Maybe. He’s the right height, but Marne’s near bald, and that one’s got a crop of hair.”
Devinn rolls his eyes and shakes his head at the hair comment. ”It’s him. Stay still and block the view so I can do something. If it goes down all wrong you can clean up what’s left of me.”
Holding Marcliffe’s spiked knuckles in his right hand, he moves closer to Grimsley to block observation and flips the knife in his wrist sheath forward into his left. With a quick stroke he slices the skin on his right forearm as lightly as he can manage, sending up a welling of blood that begins to stain the cuffed sleeve. He returns the knife to its sheath and dabs the knuckles into the blood that is coming into his right hand, all the while racing his mind through the next moments of his ploy.
”What? Why are you, why did you just…”
”Shhh! Grims no time now! Just stay here and be ready.” Devinn gives Thames a clap on the shoulder with his left hand and then moves past him, walking directly towards the herald that he thinks is Dafton Marne.
There was no way he’d convince the bareknuckle brawler of his desire to join in; it had nearly not worked on Mercliffe after all, and he had never met the boxer directly, just seen him brawl once in an all too brief fight with some unlucky sap. Marne had good line of sight to any obvious attempt to take him down, and Devinn couldn’t risk the man setting off a pellet grenade or worse with all these people about. He wasn’t a scholar though, that was for certain. Clearly, he hated Stanfield if Mercliffe was any indication. Hated him for what? For being a freak and living forever, that’s what. Hated Stanfield’s power over death. So if these freaks could live forever, what else could they do? That was the gambit. He knew he was rushing it and the con was full of holes, but no time to work it out any better.
Devinn walks towards the yellow-garbed herald with a fixed smile and his right hand down, his left hand open and forward as if to ask for a leaflet right before the procession starts. As he approaches, the man sees him with those cold eyes, knowing he’s a Docker that he doesn’t recognize. Devinn smiles and gestures with his open hand for a leaflet, which the man seems to accept as normal enough. As he closes the final steps and takes the parchment, he pauses and hisses lowly for only the man to hear, his smile dropping and his eyes showing both urgency and as much fear as he can muster.
”Marne they killed Mercliffe! The Governor’s undead freaks! He knows about you! Two of 'em just like him found Mercliffe and ordered him to give you up…t-they had m-metal skullcaps and black gloves and just looked at Mercliffe and he started bleedin’ from his nose and ears! Just stared at him with their minds like! B-Before he could take a swing his head cracked like a bleaking melon, and they flashed badges and took him off and no one said nuthin, like they all was in a trance! You gotta get out here! Right now!” Devinn holds out his right hand, showing Mercliffe’s spiked knuckles in his palm, slick with blood.
With Rhegalion having convinced her capture to spill pertinent information, Ifris finds herself unable to enjoy the sensation of victory. Knowing that there are still other perpetrators out there -- at least one more if not others -- she paces with tense posture back and forth behind Rhegalion. With an officer handling the suspect's apprehension and Anya here to watch Rhegalion's back, Ifris motions towards the crowd.
"I am going to see if I can assess the situation and provide an update," Ifris states flatly before she breaks away from the group, wedging her way against the flow of the crowd back towards the barricades. Propping a foot up on the supports and using a hand planted on a passer-by's shoulder, Ifris maintains a brief elevation with one foot on the saw-horse's crossbar. Scanning over the heads of the crowd, she spots Devinn with a man baring a trumpet. Brows furrowed, Ifris assesses the situation for only a moment longer before springing off of the saw-horse and back into the crowd.
The sea of people proves a sizable barrier to Ifris, slowing her progress down. She offers an alarmed look to a member of the police force that she spots within the audience, but he's too far away to make out what Ifris is trying to get across and caught up in the flow of the crowd. "Move, move, move," Ifris grunts as she shoves people aside, walking with a narrowed profile between the onlookers.
She isn't going to make it in time.
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The sound of Devinn's voice catches Talyssa unexpectedly and she spins to seek its source before realizing that he has her. A plot on the Governor? Not the King. Dafton Marne? Why does that name sound so familiar? Her mind whirs while she takes in the rest of Devinn's request. Find the rest of the wolves. That's something I can do.
It suddenly hits her. Marne. A fighter. Rough sort. But how will I ever find him in this crowd. Better to find Devinn. Now, if he messaged me here, he would have had to be... Just then, she hears a familiar voice. "Alastair. Excellent. You know where Devinn is? He just told me there is a plot against the Governor. It's Dafton Marne. I've heard of him before, but there's no time. Show me where you saw Devinn. He needs me to get the rest of the Wolves." She signals Skimmer to swoop down as Alastair fills her in on Devinn's location and bright scarf. "Perfect Alastair. That will be easy for Skimmer I find. I just wish I could help Devinn with Marne too." Skimmer swoops to her shoulder, the clicking of metal on metal preceding his weight settling in its familiar place. "Can't miss him Skimmer. We need you eyes up high. Alastair says he has a scarf the color of the sea and wouldn't you know his hair matches too. Get up there. As soon as you see him, give us a screech and point with your snout. Then go find the other Wolves and bring them to Devinn."
As quickly as he swooped down, Skimmer relaunches into the air. Talyssa's eyes follow Skimmer up. Good thing I had him today. I don't know what I would have done in this crowd without him. A loud screech rends the air, managing to penetrate the sound of the crowd. "This way Alastair. Skimmer is going to find the rest and bring them." She begins pushing her way toward Devinn's location. Putting aside her uneasiness with the crowd again, she concentrates on just pushing through, trying to keep the direction Skimmer was pointing with his rigid body locked in her mind. And then, there he is, the green and blue-haired Docker confronting a much more poorly disguised Marne just ahead.
In the distance the outlying crowds begin to cheer as the first of the noble carriages begin to approach the royal shipyards. Ahead of the Wolves the police begin to unclip the ropes that lead from the checkpoints and onto the bridge that the procession must pass through before reaching the R.N.S. Coaltongue that waits like a looming behemoth of iron and steam in the docks to the north. Excitedly the mass of humanity begins to push forward, while the wolves knowing that one threat remains frantically try to slip and push their way through the well-wishers towards the lurking man who intends to do harm to the governor of Flint.
Knowing they just have a few moments left before they lose the chance to sweep in on their target the R.H.C. Cell encloses on their prey. Agent LeMont is the first to reach the brooding man. Hulking with missing an ear and with short cropped hair, Dafton Marne was not given the nickname "Skull Crusher" for his genteel ways. A savage through and through and one of the champions of the Broken Skull Tavern just approaching the man was intimidating.
Growling under his breath, Dafton whirls on Agent LeMont with a speed that belies his size. Glancing at the man, the piggy eyed thug squints at Magnificent Malcolm from behind his sloped brow and blinks slowly. Wha? They killed Mercliffe?! He managed to stutter before glancing around in haste. Glancing to his left he sees the crowd as it begins to push its way through the checkpoint. He can make out the shapes of others approaching and some sort of weird mechanical contraption flying overhead. Pausing momentarily the brute then glances to his right towards the space that was once occupied by waiting people that now lies empty. Gritting his teeth the man’s hands curl into fists as the first carriage begins to trundle into the square and the crowd erupts in a cheer and begins to throw flowers ahead of the rolling wheels. He has to make a decision. Cursing under his breath the man turns to the right and yells over his shoulder a gruff thanks before running towards the alleys beyond.
Watching the man flee, Thames chuckles to himself before his steely grey eyes focus back on Devinn. Well lad, He says finally, a smile appearing on his face. It seems that you managed to with words what few have been able to do in a pit to Dafton. Bravo! Eyes going somber, Thames turns back to watch the crowd erupt into another cheer before turning back to Devinn, now with a serious look in his eyes. Devinn, he says slowly, looking the young man up and down, trying to come to terms with the changes that he sees in what was once a frivolous youth that has seemingly morphed before his eyes. I'm not sure how well connected you are, but I saw the badge, and I know a bit about what the Constables do. So if you see the governor tonight, I want you to pass on a message to him from the Dockers for me. Tell him... He says slowly, choosing his words carefully. Tell him that the people are tired of the local police harassing us just because a few of the cities nobles don't like being made fun of in tavern songs. Tell him that the people are mad because of the arrests the police have been making in the last few weeks because the dock workers refused to work sixteen hour shifts of loading and unloading industrial cargo. Running his hands through his hair, Grimsley sighs and you realize that he looks like a man who is tired and trying to bring order from chaos. Tell Governor Stanfield that the people are getting restless and they are raring for another riot. Shaking his head slowly, he looks Devinn in the eyes. I'm trying to keep the Dockers calm, but if Stanfield can't take some pressure off of us, I’m afraid there's going to be blood in the streets. Eyes searching, he takes a deep breath out. Can you do that for me?
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"What, and ruin my chance of telling him that His Majesty's naming of the ship is the worst-kept joke of Flint? Awww Grims now that's just not right!" Devinn holds the jest for just a quick moment before nodding. "Aye I've seen it too these past months. I'll do it if I can; probably best if I write it out for ya and present it proper like. You better be sure to be ready if you're puttin' your stamp-and-seal on this, becoming the face of the Movement with Stanfield's men. Someone's gotta speak for the people though." He looks up and down critically, adding, "Best I get you an introduction to a tailor as well."
Devinn spies out Talyssa's pet and a familiar screech, and sees both she and Alastair approaching with the movement of the crowds. He thinks he sees Ifris in the distance from another direction, but can't make it out for sure. Devinn smiles at Thames Grimsley and slaps him on the shoulder. "Go on now Grims, best you enjoy the festivities and I'll take care of this - otherwise you'll be spendin' your afternoon in a watch station dealing with bootsticks and bureaucrats." With that, Thames nods and moves on into the crowd like any other citizen to see their King. Devinn has little room as the people push past his area to either side, but he puts a foot on the dropped bullhorn and draws it closer to him, looking around the "scene" for anything else Marne may have dropped in his haste to get gone.
As Talyssa and Alastair approach, Devinn grins boyishly and waves at them heartily. "Jet! Easy! Glad you could join the gala! I hear there is a parade or something to see around here, but can't tell with all of these people." He chuckles but then looks at both of them with a more critical eye. "How'd fishing go? I caught two...yes yes pardon me Whirlygig Bird, hello to you too..." says Devinn distractedly as Talyssa's pet swoops over again with a particularly loud screech as if not to be forgotten. He holds up the bullhorn to start looking at it with one hand, still clutching the bloody knuckles in his other hand with blood slightly trickling down his arm. "Anyways I caught two fish by my count, though one got away as you see." His smile fades a bit as he adds, "I lost Malcolm though today, blast it. I liked him too." Devinn says it as if 'Malcolm' was a real person, but his smile returns quickly enough.
The crowds continued to yell and cheer. The noise made by seven hundred people could not be described. It was a visceral feeling. It rolled throughout the royal square. The sounds of so many people gathered together in one place echoed through the buildings and alleyways that surrounded the Wolves. It could be felt deep within their cores. These were the people that the R.H.C. was trying to protect. Though they many never know what the cell had done on their behalf, had they failed, the cheers would have turned to screams. A riot could have broken out. Times had been hard as of late. The grinding of gears towards the progress of industrialization had crushed many a man. But it had not gone that way. Instead the Wolves had managed to locate those who wanted to fan the flames of anger that many people held deep in their hearts. The carriages rolled onward, and the crowd forgot for the moment the staggering work, the squalid conditions and the smog covered sky. Today was a celebration.
Gathered in one place, the R.H.C. cell stood around the figure of Agent LeMont as he debriefed them on the events that led to the ringleader of today’s events fleeing away into the shelter of the city beyond. He was a loose thread that would eventually have to be dealt with, but that could be handled by the local authorities. The final tally concluded a police officer pushed his way up to the assortment of men and women that comprised the wolves. Reaching the group he respectfully nodded. Excuse me constables. He said, addressing the remark to Inspector Filby and Lt. Landreth. I was asked to relay a message to you from Assistant Chief Delft. He instructed me to tell you that at your earliest convenience you are make your way to gangway of the R.N.S. Coaltongue. Apparently there is some sort of last-minute meeting he needs you present at. Please follow me.
Following the officer through the crowds that lined the Royal Square, the wolves were led past the police line and followed the barriers, crossing over the three hundred foot bridge and onto the Royal Naval Shipyard beyond. In the square ahead the massive shape of the two hundred and ten foot Coaltongue dominates the view. The flag of Risur does not yet fly high upon its mast. That would follow after the ship was officially christened. However, the naval ship is properly dressed. A line of flags hang suspended from the aft of the ship, up to its mast and then forward to its jack stand. At the foot of the White Cloth Covered Gangway reads the words. "R.N.S. Coaltonge (ASC-1)". In neat rows on the side of the square are carriages that slowly continue to trundle onward before disgorging its passengers. Next to the gangway are two long tables that flank a wooden podium that bears the royal seal of Risur on its front. Leading you through clusters of naval officers, aristocracy, servants and wealthy merchants the officer takes you towards the gangway where you find the Assistant Chief chewing on a bit of tobacco and eyeing a halfling chef who is carrying a tray of chocolate confections towards the docked Coaltongue.
His attention turns to the wolves, and he smiles. Only the finest for our king, right? Now then, he says, we’re about to earn our pay. Lots of nobles about, so first, don’t make a scene, and definitely don’t talk to any of the nobility unless they address you first. Second, if something does go wrong, try to handle it yourselves, would you? I’m going to be busy applying my not-inconsiderable charms to very important people. The Constabulary doesn’t get by with just good will and pretty faces, you know. And third, you did good work, so I’ve got a surprise for you. He grabs his cane and leads you to the gangplank of the Coaltongue. But he’s not pursuing the halfling chef. Rather, ahead of you waits Principal Minister Harkover Lee, the king’s chief advisor and personal bodyguard.
Waving tiredly to Minister Lee as the man descended from the Coaltongue the older man smiled and waved back. Stepping forward and putting weight on his cane, Stover gestured to Minister Lee. Wolves, meet "the old man". He announced, his eyes twinkling in affection for the elder mage. Chuckling softly, King Aodhan's bodyguard and chief of staff turns his steely gaze on each of the members of the Ravissant Wolf Cell.
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Moving up to stand before the minister, Ifris rigidly shifts to stand at attention, shoulders squared and chin tilted up ever so subtly. She gives a shake of her head just enough to nudge an errant lock of dark hair from across the bridge of her nose. "Second-Lieutenant Ifris Lanvaldan, Sir." She isn't sure whether she should suggest reporting for duty, or if that would be too presumptuous. In any case, Ifris doesn't make much of a show of herself other than her formal manner, only a brief glance is cast askance at the others to see if they're treating this meeting with the proper respect.
Filby walks upright, confidently. The finely detailed cane he carries, the head trimmed to resemble a snarling wolf, appears to be a perfectly ornamental gentleman's toy. He does not lean on it at all. Rather, he uses it to describe his posture and to punctuate gestures.
He slows as the Ravissante cell nears the Principle Minister, taking up space on the walkway such that his associate Lamont has to slow to avoid bumping into him. The whole has the affect of allowing the female members of the cell to reach the Minister first.
As the members of Ravissante Wolf form a natural procession to meet the Minister, Filby takes his place in the line he helped create. Nodding to Alastair Rayne, he gestures toward those in line ahead of him. Ladies first.
Devinn LeMont, now answering only by the name "Kentworth" adjusts the bag over his shoulder and puts a hand to steady the grey bowler-style hat on his head to keep it from falling, a questioning look directed at Filby. There's a slight moment of confusion until he realizes what Filby is doing, and with an 'ahhhhhhh you sly dog!' knowing look towards him he covers with a cough and stands to the side, letting Rhegalion easily pass him and taking up the rear of the line. He plops both his sack and pack down next to him, and patiently produces a deck of cards from somewhere, seemingly focusing on shuffling the deck as he waits, a slight smirk upon his face.
Before they trudged off towards the R.N.S. Coaltongue and the impromptu meeting with the good Assistant Chief, Devinn insisted on retrieving his bags that he had stowed aside at the checkpoint, happily waving the others on and that he would "catch up" later. Obviously, Filby didn't think that was the best idea, and the crowds had moved on past the point where getting to the checkpoint was easy to manage. In an empty room of a watch point he left behind poor "Malcolm" and adopted "Kevin Kentworth" with a sigh and change of clothes, reversing his cloak and using his magic to change his hair back to brown with white locks, and his scarf to a solid drab grey color. Doffing the hat and pinning the R.H.C. badge to his cloak to complete the transformation into Kentworth, he joined the others on the trek to the docks.
Several times along the way he corrected Lanvaldan and Landreth with "Kentworth" or "Kevin" every time they got his name wrong - a preposterous but amusing banter as they approached the royal docks and their meeting with Assistant Chief Delft.
Alastair, having retrieved his jacket from Anya after thanking her in his usual friendly way, raises an eyebrow at Devinn's new persona. "So, it is Kevin now," he quips with a soft chuckle as he walks next to the bard on their way to the gangway and then the gangplank of the Coaltongue. "I think I liked Malcolm a bit better. After all, isn't Kevin a little too similar to Devinn?" His tone is a little teasing, the words meant in good humor.
As they reach their destination and their walking slows to a stop, he takes a look at Reginald, who is responsible for said stop. Taking note of the nod and the gesture, he shrugs and takes his place behind "Kentworth". "The Inspector seems to be quite the gentleman," Alastair whispers to the bard with a smile, all the while thinking what would be the best way for him to introduce himself to the Minister.
'Ifris' perfectly proper manner is an option, I suppose,' he ponders as he listens to the woman's introduction to the old and powerful wizard. And then he asks one last question of "Kevin". "Do you think Anya will try to one-up her?"
Kevin Kentworth continues to one-hand shuffle his cards as he partially leans against the side of the gangplank railing, though he tries nothing tricky so as to not lose cards over the edge into the water.
At Alastair's question his mirthful smirk becomes more pronounced, though his eyes don't leave the cards. Saying it low enough for only Alastair and perhaps Arbalistre and Filby to hear, he answers, "Mmmm...we can only hope for that can't we? Perhaps we can get the good Principal Minister to comment on his preference of army over navy or vice-versa."
During the next moments of shuffling cards, Devinn looks slyly to Alastair and then back again to his deck, as if considering something. He palms the deck in his right hand, briefly touches his now-grey scarf with his left hand, and then quietly speaks a few arcane syllables as he deftly touches both index fingers together end-to-end. After that, he seemingly resumes going back to shuffling his deck.
When his position the queue of his fellow cell members reaches Minister Lee, Rhegalion offers a formal bow - even after the informality of the Assistant Chief referring to the mage as 'the Old Man.' "Minister, I am Rhegalion Arbalistre. Making your acquaintance is pleasing to me. It is not a common occurrence to meet someone of your station and stature." His words flow out of his mouth without difficulty - though his anachronistic and formal word choice is surely an oddity for onlookers. However, the man may be inured to such things - or to polite words than seem like flattery. As he speaks, he tries to gauge the man's reaction, but a man of such means is unlikely to leave his residence without a mask of patient and polite calm.
Offering an askance look to Rhegalion, Ifris looks a bit taken aback by how the others are conducting themselves. It isn't a jab at their decorum, either, but rather how she seems to be the only one following a rigid military posturing at meeting the king's bodyguard. Inwardly, Ifris is chastising herself for being so inflexible. With the strong set of her jaw and stiffening of her back, though, she tries not to show this conflict outwardly.
Alastair nods in agreement to Devinn's magically asked question before making his way to the Minister and introducing himself. Hands clasped behind his back, his introduction to the powerful mage is a courteous, yet simple "My name is Alastair Rayne, sir," the words accompanied by a slight bow of his head in deference to the other man's position and personal history. There is a brief pause after that as he momentarily wonders if there is something else he should say or do, and then he smiles just a little and moves back and out of the way so that the rest of the Wolves may introduce themselves.
As Alastair finishes his introduction, Devinn discontinues leaning on the gangplank railing and adjusts his hat, deliberately placing his deck of cards back in a belt pouch in a casual manner that does not attempt to hide it either. He smiles and moves forward up the walkway towards the Principal Minister. Most powerful wizard in Risur – no don’t do that. He’s human just like any other bloke, used to others fawning and preening about no doubt. Must do something better… In Devinn’s brief experiences with North Shore nobility and the wealthy, oftentimes being memorable is more important than being proper, as no one remembers otherwise. It did have its risks however, but what was a day like this without favoring chance and good fortune?
”Constable Kevin Kentworth at your service ser!” He puts a leg forward and bows with a flourish, though not deep enough to lose his hat. ”And you have been introduced to us as…” He pointedly looks back towards Assistant Chief Delft, then back again to Minster Lee with a grin. ”A wise and scary woman once told me that truenames are never to be revealed, but all other names are akin to clothes, each with their own story. I should think there’s quite a story to tell with that one, but clearly its history is deserving only for those who earn it. Therefore, it is an honor to meet you, Principal Minster Lee.”
He respectfully nods but then quickly adds, ”Does the Minster favor cards? Once duties are dutifully discharged, I should be happy to serve as an impartial dealer at your table, or to stand in if you’re ever short a man, of course!”
Listening to Devinns offer the Minster's mouth curls up in a vague hint of a smile. Who ever told you about truenames was wise beyond her years young man. Eyeing the way that Devinn manipulates the deck, Lee breaks into a grin. As it so happens I am quite fond of Ecarte and Loo. Next the Inspector and I are having a game, I shall remember your name. Clapping Devinn on the shoulder, Lee chuckles. Just make sure you stack the deck in my favor, eh?
Turning back to the others Minister Lee thanks each of the Wolves one at a time, making small chat for a few moments before gesturing to their immediate supervisor, Assistant Chief Inspector Delft. Well then, I just finished checking the Coaltongue for magical threats and thankfully none seem to be present. I am quite confident that security is well in order and I learned that you managed to waylay several Dockers that had intended to start a riot, excellent job on your part. Still, I wouldn't mind if some additional constables were present to be extra eyes and ears. You never know who might let their guard down in a situation like this and I would appreciate your input on how the various individuals in the crowd will react.
Nodding thoughtfully, he looks in the direction of the main checkpoint where a horse drawn carriage has just arrived bearing the coat of arms for Duchess Etheyn of Shale, the kings sister. Besides, I suspect there are a few recalcitrant guests here who might need corralling. Turning back to the Wolves Minister Lee sighs, and suddenly looks like the sixty year old man that he is. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must prepare for the kings arrival. If you have any questions ask Asst. Chief Delft, this isn't his first gathering of the wealthy and powerful. Nodding respectfully to the Wolves supervisor, Lee heads towards three Risuri admirals who seem to be discussing something of importance.
Shaking his head ruefully, Stover Delft turns back to the wolves. Despite the limp and the way that Delft leans on his cane, the man has an energy about him. I don't care how powerful Lee is, or that he has the kings ear. You couldn't pay me enough to do that job. Now then, remember what I say about bothering me unless its important. You have the badges after all. Use your best judgement. Turning away he Delft starts to mingle with the crowd before he stops and turns back. Unless it will cause an international incident. Then I want to know. Have fun!
As Delft begins to move away, the Wolves look over the gathered nobles, wealthy merchants, servants and military officers. There were several hundred people gathered in this location all waiting for King Aodhan to arrive before the launch of the Coaltongue. Deciding that it would be best to split up, the wolves begin to make their way through the crowds listening to snippets of conversations and talk, all the while remaining wary of threats or useful intelligence.
Splitting off from among the others, Ifris and Filby make their along the edges of the crowd. Ahead of them, the pair is able to make out a clump of white uniforms worn by officers of the Risuri Navy. Leading the conversation is Captain Rutger Smith of the R.N.S. Impossible, a man that Ifris is quite familiar with from her period of vetting him for possible command of the Coaltongue. Smoking a fat cigar, the man eloquently blows smoke rings and he gestures with it to expound some point to a nearby black-bearded dwarf. You see good dwarf that if you truly take into account the post-Malice writings of William Miller, you would understand that all conflicts could be avoided by a sufficient understanding between opposing groups.
Scowling the dwarf shakes his head. Poppycock! The Dwarf explains, his arms flailing wildly. Heid Eschatol theory dictated that any ordered system will inevitably be ruined by some random accident, so a single misunderstanding would doom the Millerite theories of peace.
Shaking his head again, Smith begins to argue another point before his eyes alight on Ifris and Devinn. Ah Lt. Lanvaldan The Captain says at once, reaching into his breast coat and withdrawing two cigars. Mr Tuvuere and I were just discussing the merits of Eschatolgy vs. Millerism. Tell me, what do you think? Can conflict be avoided through understanding or will chaos eventually reign?
Moving through the crowd, Talysaa stops abruptly. In front of her was the man she had been assigned to shadow for the last month during the construction of the Coaltongue, Geoff Massarde. Dominating the attention of the group, Geoff is easily recognizable by his pale red skin, piercing black eyes and curving brown horns. The man was a tiefling. Holding a wine glass in his hands, the man is assaulted by questions by several military officers as well as a fat industrialist. Everything from how the ship will hold up in combat to the thickness of the exterior armor is asked and the engineer seems to answer each question with a bit of satisfied aplomb. In the middle of explaining the pros of magically propelled steam power, Geoff stops as his eye catches Talyssa's before he wavers her towards him. Gentleman, with an airy voice. Meet Miss Dane, one of my principal assistants during the construction. Oh and who might your friend be, dear?
As the final three wolves separate themselves and begin to wander among the groups of invitees to the grand unveiling of the R.N.S. Coaltongue they are stopped within a few moments by a dark-skinned, distinguished woman in her 60's who speaks with a poets precision. She is trailed behind by a young woof elf woman who appears to be in late twenties. Reaching the group of three constables, the woman pauses to consider her words before speaking softly. It makes the Wolves feel as if she is giving them her full attention. Good Afternoon, She says softly, the large cluster of diamonds in her ears twinkling. I am unsure if you recognize me, but I am Duchess Ethelyn of Shale. It was my understanding that you have some sway over the arrangements of this event. If you could do an old lady a kindness, the air here is already leaving me winded, and the company is already giving me a headache. I know my brother's party is going to run late, so I need a room I can nap in. I'd be very grateful if you'd arrange this for me.
The wood elf handmaiden is in fact actually a high elf. This is not suspicious by itself. Many high elves - especially woman - prefer to pose as wood elves to avoid hassle.[/b]
Raising a hand and waving off the cigar politely, Ifris approaches the conversation with a certain level of disappointment. Being recognized in a crowd was something she was coming accustomed to out of necessity, but being thrust into the spotlight as the first human psion had been a difficult challenge to adapt to, easier some days than others.
"I'm a soldier, Captain, not a philosopher." Glancing at the dwarf seated with the Captain, Ifris' brows pinch together for a moment.. She looks back to the Captain, angling her head to the side in a subtle gesture of concession. "But, I know what I've experienced. I know what I can see with my eyes, touch with my hands; I know what my senses and experiences tell me. I can distill all of that down to an idiom that was told to me at a young age." Looking between the Captain and the dwarf, Ifris states plainly, "No plan survives contact with the enemy."
Taking a step aside so as to allow Devinn to join the conversation -- and to Ifris' hopes take control of it so she can excise herself, the Lieutenant still has some conversational fuel left in her, even if it is exhausting. "No one strategy or ideal is foolproof or the right choice. You wouldn't employ the same battlefield strategy on every theater of engagement, so why should the same be said for politics, philosophy or religion?" Ifris clears her throat, lifting a hand to thread an errant lock of hair off of the bridge of her nose. "Adaptation is all that matters, in the end. Escatologist or Millerite, it doesn't matter. If you can't adapt, you die."
Rhegalion does a double take when he sees the elven woman who accompanies Duchess Ethelyn. Since the death of Srasama - his first death of many, as well - very few high elven women remained. Posing as a wood elf is not unusual, considering the attention a high elven female will receive, but it is still noteworthy. He vows to speak to her, given the opportunity, about her heritage.
He snaps to attention to the request of the Duchess. "Madam Duchess, we would be remiss if we did not recognize you. I am Rhegalion Arbalistre, and these are my companions, Inspector Reginald Filby and Lieutenant Anya Landreth. It would be our pleasure to make any arrangements you may need. Is there anything else you may need that we can see to? We are to assist in ensuring the security of the ship, and your security is of utmost importance to us as well."