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JANUARY, 847 I.E. (Imperial Era)
“Waht’s it gonna be then, eh?”
Snow is falling across Doskvol (aka Duskwall if you’re an Akorosi who would rather forget the Skovlandic origins of your city, aka North Hook if you’re in Imperial service and this city is just another posting among many, aka The Dusk to the scoundrels who live, work and die here – sometimes all at once). Where it falls through the lightniing barriers whihch surround the city, it makes the electroplasm crackle and sprarkle in greens and blues. Where it lands in Barrowcleft, it coats the fields and farmland in a soft white blanket, and the farmers curse as they try to get their wagons through the smooth dirt roads now churned with slush. Where it lands in the Governer’s Palace in Whitecrown, or the broad clean avenues of Brightstone, and around the law cuourts of Charterhall, it is swiftly dusted away by the elite Bluecoat patrols whose job is to prevent the grate and the good of the city from suffering even the slightedst inconveninence. Where it falls among the factories of Coalridge, it lands black with soot or yellow with sulphur, stinging where in falls in the eye and fizzing when it lands on the tongue – a popular game among the local children, ignoring the warnings of their mothers “don’t come crying to me when it burns a hole right through!” - the same warning that their mothers gave to them, and theirs before that. Where it falls in the Docklands, it turns the vast steemships moored at anchor somehow even more majestic, hiding the grime and ichor from the leviathans they hunt underneath a pure white. Where it falls in Dunslough, it breifly makes the prisoners and chain gangs of Ironhook Gaol look up from their backbreaking labour, until the lash of the guaard reminds them to pay attention to closer things. Where it falls in Nightmarket, it glows in the riot of colours from the electric lights that illuminate some of the finest (read: exclusive) shops and private clubs the city has to offer. In Silkshore, it falls on the fleets of gondolas that carry the rich and curious through the district’s many canals, lit in the soft red glow of the lamps that shine from the placess many brothels. In Six Towers, it blows across deserted streets, piling up in drifts around the ancient and abandoned manor houses and melting in the campfires of the many squatters who now live there.
And of course, in Charhollow and here in Crow’s Foot, the districts which form the beating heart of The Dusk, cramped home to the huddled, teeming mases of workign poor who keep the rest of the city going, the snow barely lands at all: the tall, cramped houses lean in over tiny, winding streets, almost suhtting out the sky completely.
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“Waht’s it gonna be then, eh?”
Roric has been dead barely two weeks. (It is vital tthat the readers understands this, or what foloows will make no sense at all.) At some point during the clebrations of the New Year, he passed over: the unseen bells in the Crematorium tolled for him, and the Spirit Wardens – masked and hooded – were sent to collect his corpose, to dissolve it in electroplasm as is the custom in this city, preventing another ghost from rising. In this occuasion, their quest was in vain – no body was found. It is said that he fell into the canal. It is said that he was still alive at the time. It is said that he was dead at the time. It is said that Lyssa killed him. Unless Lyssa is nearby. Nobody wants to offend the new boss of the Crows, the biggest and toughest gang that runs Crow’s Foot. If she did kill her old boss and took his plac,e weel, that’s what passses for naturel causes round here.
But nthtnig happens in isolation in The Dusk. Roric was known and popular, and Lyssa is, well, Lyssa is known. And untested. The talent that gets you to the top isn’t what keeps you there, and Roric has been in charge for five years. He knew everyone worth knowning around here and his word strecteched across Crow’s Foot. Lyssa’s word, so far, doesn’t really even stretch across her gang. With less than two weeks on the job, she’s paying more attention looking in and stamping her mark than she is looing out, and things are sratring to unravel.
One oft those things is the fragile peace Roric won between the two next most powerful gangs in the district: the Lampblacks and the Red Sashes. The two could hardly be more difernet: the Lampblacks are a mixed group, bound by working-class ties rther than ethnicty. They used to be the Lamplighter Guild, but the electric light put paid to that and now they’re just another gang. Althought they have better publicity thatn most – the common folk of the district see them mostly as “loveable rogues”, for all that they deal in violence and extortion. As long as it’s not amed at them, most are happy to cheer them on. The Red Sashes are all Iruvian, every last one of them. They get their name from the Red Sash Sword Academy, the mansion and training school for the Falling Star style of Iruvian sword play. The red sash is a sign of graduation from that school, and every gang memberi is well trained in the vicuous, curved scimitars that they carry. Althoug the Red Sashes don’t really go in for violence, as a rule. They run “victimless” crimes, and almost every drug den and brothel in Crow’s Foot is either owned by them or pays them in one way or another. It’s said that the Red Sashes act as hired killers and spies for the Iruvian embassy, dealing with things the Iruvan ambassaodor can’t handle with diplmacy. But then, lots of things are said. It doesn’t make it true.
What is true is that the peace Roric had won didn’t last much longer than he did: just last week, there was a clash betweent he two gangs that left several dead and hurt on both sides, and more than enoguh blame to go around. The start of the year seems likely to be the start of a new gang war.
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“Waht’s it gonna be then, eh?”
Opinin bout Baszo Basz, the leader of the Lampblacks, is divided. Sompe people think he’s a psyhotic lowlife. Other peple think that’s insulting… to pysychotic lowlifes.
But he has a certain easy charm, and he’s certainly using it tonight. He’s all smiles as he hands around small glasses filled with clear Skovlandic liquor (“from my private collection. It’s made from fruit. Well, mostlly fruit.”). The fumes get right up in your nose and even manage to drive out the stink of coal tar and bitumen – true to their name, the Lampblacks have thiir HQ in an abandoned coal plant. One of Baszo’s top thugs keeps hold of the bottle, making sure that your glasses are topped up. Although anyone who's hoping to match Baszo shot for shot is likely to kill their liver.
Once you’re all settled in on the chairs in Bazso’s office, he gives you another easy smile whiel he munches his way through an eel and musrhoom pie, the gravy and flakes of pastry smear acorss the stubble on his face. “Apologies for draggin’ you alll out into this weather, but what I got to say can’t go any further’n these walls. You’ve probly heard about the spot of bother we’ve been having round these parts. Damn shame about Roric.” He finishes his glass, and holds it out for a refill. “But I say where there’s loss, there’s opportunity for profit. Im’ a businessman, see? And it looks to me like there’s room at the top, opening up nicely. Just need to get a few thigs out the way first. Things that wear red, if you get my drift.” He gives a low, dirty laugh.
And then, suddenly, he’s all business and sharp looks. The smile’s still there, but there’s a bright, sharp intellgence behind it as he sizes you all up.
“So, what’s it gonna be then, eh? You wanna be just another sad little gang on your sad little corner, playing patty-cake with the minks? Or d’you wanna be someone? Cos if you do, I might have a job for you. Play your cards right, an’ this could be the start of something rather special. I got a good feelin about you. You look after Bazso and he’ll see you right, if you stick by him.” He flashes another smile. “Course, there’s always those that thik they can go their own way, steer clear of entaglements, you might say. I find it doesn’t always work out for ‘em, but if you wanna go that way, good luck to you!” He gives you a half-mocking, half polite toast with his (now empty) glass, before hoding out for another refill.
The liquor doesn’t seem to have affected him at all.
You aren't the only one of the small gangs in the Crow's Foot district that have been getting this charm treatment. If you want to see through the patter, you can Resist using Insight* in order to avoid being takn in. Otherwise, that whole "I got a good feeling about you" and "this is from my rpriveat collection" seems uttely sincere and you believe it completely - he's just that good at being charming (in his own way).
*ask your GM if Resisting is right for you!
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The stinking air in Bazso’s office made a stroll along tanner’s wharf seem like a walk among the roses. Of course, that particular phrase was born before the change and before roses tended to smell like dead rats and bananas. Still the harsh smell of coal tar tickled Jonah’s throat and forced him to stifle another cough as the Lamplighter filled the air with words even more irritating to Jonah’s senses than the bloody coal tar.
How many times during the war had some colonel or general addressed the troops with a pound and half of drivel about them bein’ sorry it’s come to this or that, or just one more push and it’ll all be over, or you’re the best and only boys for the job, your sacrifice will make us all proud. Bah! We were all bloody bodies to throw into the grinder. Nothing more, nothing less and Bazso is nothing more than a petty general dressed up in gang colors.
But one thing was true, Jonah Torrson and his comrades were good at getting the job done. You didn’t survive if you weren’t. Sure something had gone wrong the last time out, but no plan survived a meeting with the enemy. What was done was done and had to be done.
He sets the glass down, the liquor untouched. Hadn’t had a drink since Naty died. Wouldn’t until he saw things set right again.
Jonah wouldn’t trust Bazso as far as he could throw him, which wasn’t far at all. But trust doesn’t really matter. Funds were low, bloody hells, they were nonexistent. Equipment cost slugs. Food cost slugs. Electroplasm cost slugs. Killing silver belled mercenaries cost a lot of slugs. And they were all pretty much in the same boat. Out of money and practically out of options. So here he was, standing in a stinking coal mine listening to a bloated squid tickler drone on about gang politics and acting like any of them in this room had a choice as to whether they wanted to be here or not.
Bazso’s was the one and only line they’d been tossed. Ever since the disaster with the Bluecoat they’d been forced to lay low and no one was touching The Mites with a ten foot levi-prod. So now he listens…watches…waits. Waits to see what this grinning cave dweller has to offer beyond bad booze and platitudes.
Blood, all over his hands. So much blood. Sometimes in his dreams the Bluecoat won't stop bleeding, won't stop screaming, and the red, red claret just fountains out in an unstoppable, inexorable tide, washing over Finraeth, drowning him, drowning them all... until he wakes with a start in the armpit of the night, his cold sweat soaking his bedclothes
Finraeth briefly closes his eyes and forces himself back to the present. Even in his reverie, the carefully-crafted expression of detached amusement has not left his face - he learned many things at university, but perhaps the most important one of all was that vulgar displays of emotion are a luxury the nobility cannot afford. He has taken the Akorosi stiff-upper-lip almost to an art form, and nobody in his crew (with the possible exception of Casia, not that they talk much these days) has any idea of the nightmares he has suffered since that last job.
He takes a deep breath, savouring the fumes of alcohol that rise up from the small glass. He sees through Baszo's patter easily enough, but "private collection" or not, this is the finest liquor he has had in some time now. He makes no attempt to match the Lampblack shot for shot, but he drains the glass and holds out for a refill. If nothing else, it dulls his sense of smell enough to cut out the stink of coal tar. Or at least, make it slightly more tolerable.
But even the background smell is more tolerable than the drone from Bazso Basz. On the other hand, superficial charm is a considerably better alternative to non-superficial hostility, and Finraeth is himself no stranger to the forced smile, the exquisite pain of cheek-muscles contorted for hour after hour, lest some 3rd cousin of a duke or minor son of a minor noble take offence to his existence. He allows himself a brief moment of nostalgia for that time - a lifetime ago, or a mere matter of months, it depends on one's perspective - when the fear of not belonging was his only real worry.
As the leader of the Lampblacks winds up his peroration, the Cutter looks around at the rest of his crew to see who among them will take the lead in doing the talking. Gang leaders aren't really his cup of tea; they don't tend to worry about which way one passes the port, and they can cut one dead with rather more than a sharp look.
Lolo stoops, lifting the note slid under the door, sometime in the night, a letter from Ms. A. Remington to a Mssr. D. Ruskin. Remington's handwriting is small, neat, precise, obviously from someone well-educated, and the contents of her writing was inconsequential, the prattling of someone wealthy and with little of real import to say.
But, that wasn't really here nor there. This was a dipper - a letter reused for another purpose. Paper wasn't cheap, and unless you were a wealthy berker, you used it and reused it when you could. Lolo turns the letter 90 degrees to read what Johan has written over Ms. Remington's prose in his large, shaky scrawl. Bazso wants to see the Mites. Location and time to be dropped at the Tower.
Lolo sighs and tosses the dipper onto a cluttered table, to be reused later. Grabbing a slice of mushroom and eel pie from the counter, she sits on Fiona's bed and shakes the girl awake. Late sleeper, just like her father.
"Fi. Fiona. Get up. Eat some pie. Your gonna visit uncle Arruk at the Tub today."
---
Bazso. Psychotic lowlife. Lolo smiles and tips her drink back, placing the empty glass on the bar next to Jonah's full one. Jonah didn't drink no more, but this wasn't the time nor place to turn down a drink. Grabbing Jonah's glass, Lolo sits with in her lap, waiting patiently for the next round, and casts a quick glance to the kid. He'd been quiet - much quieter than usual - since the last job went bad. Frowning, Lolo clinks her glass against Finraeth's newly filled one and drains it.
Turning back to Bazso, Lolo runs a hand under her high-buttoned collar, enjoying the heat of the liquor in her throat. I'll play along.
"Your collection, eh? Liquor's good. Type of liquor that belongs to someone not just some dockside berker. I want to be a someone with fine fruit liquor. What's the job?"
Lolo sighs and tosses the dipper onto a cluttered table, to be reused later. Grabbing a slice of mushroom and eel pie from the counter, she sits on Fiona's bed and shakes the girl awake. Late sleeper, just like her father.
"Fi. Fiona. Get up. Eat some pie. Your gonna visit uncle Arruk at the Tub today."
There's some grumbling, but Fi is sitstingup in bed and rubing the sleep from her eyes soon enough. The trubulent years - where *nothing* you do is right, *everyting* you say is wrong and oh, by the way, she *hates* you - are still some way off and for the present, Mummy is still the wise and benevolnet. Although some doubt is creeping in as she processes what she heard, and what Lolo didn't say. "Are you working again? Cos I heard you got blacker-blistered after - after what happened." She gives a slight eye-roll at Lolos' exprssion. "I'm not deaf, mum, I heard the conversations you all were having in the front room."
Dareia idly swirls the liquor like wine. Ah, yes. He is just playing the game, is he not? Buttering the crew up, making them feel they are special. As much as she would love the deliciousness tearing into that facade, she knows better than to needless provoke him. Oh, but it would be so much fun though? No, best to save it for later, especially with a job on the line. She would not want that harridan Salia to snap it up from her, after all.
She smiles as an idea comes to her. She can still have fun with him.
"Oh, I have always been someone. I could hardly be here at your table getting the private collection of the great Baszo Basz brought out if I was not someone. I would very much like for the someone that I am to be a little richer and yet even more notable, though. So, please continue."
She is giving him the opportunity to be the worldy, clever crook getting false flattery over on the hapless, peacocking fop. She is a peacocking fop and damn proud of it, and she does love everyone assuming that she is hapless and not a leader in verbal legerdemain, a master of contextual manipulation, and a princess of extravagent planning.
The lock was relatively simple - one that Frake had drilled her on multiple times so it shouldn't cause her any trouble. But that clicking noise was new. In fact it sounded like the locking action on a pistol.
"H-hold it right there!" a voice stammered out. She turned to look over her shoulder to spy the steel barrel of a Grandis-West spring-lock pointing at her from a shaking hand.
"Let me just ..." she began, raising her hands. But like so many things in life, her brother thought he know better than she did how to handle it and before she could react there was gunfire and screaming. So much screaming. At least until another gunshot silenced it.
Fin's face was pale and his hands and tunic were covered with blood. At least it wasn't his. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
~~~~~
Casia passes on the drink with a small shake of her head. She was sorely tempted, but she'd sworn to herself that she wouldn't partake while she was working. It was a narrow concession, but the others depended on her. She didn't consider that wise because she knew that eventually she'd let them down. But she would hold out as much as possible.
Flowery words and flattery won't win her over again. She'd paid the price for falling for them once before and that wasn't happening a second time - the price was too high. She wasn't going to argue, though, and wasn't skilled enough with clever snippets to navigate the treacherous verbal waters that they swam in, so she let the others speak. This wasn't her battlefield. Her place of strength was shadows and silence.
That drink really looked good, though.
FLASHBACK (EVERYONE) - Two nights ago
The Leaky Bucket is not the best pub in Crow's Foot. It's not the cheapest, either. It doesn't have the no-limit games of chance that some of the other places do, or the doxies and rooms by the hour that you'll find all over Crow's Foot.
What ti does have, that none of the others do, is Mardin Gull. Gull is one of the legends of the Dusk, a scoundrel who got out of the life on his own terms. A former leader of the Crows, he left that life over 15 years ago with enough money to buy this place. He's a never-ending source of stories and advice for scoundresl who are starting out, but that's not what makes the Leaky Bucket special. It's the Truce. The Leaky Bucket is neutral ground. Start sonething here, and everyone will take out you, your crew, and anyone you've ever loved, not ncesarily in that order. Crows, Red Sashes, Lampblacks, even the ocasional Bluecoat all drink here in peace, making conversation among themselves or sometimes even with each other. If Doskvol has safe places, this is one of them.
It's also the pub nearest to your hideout, and walking distance from most of your homes. The first time Casia face-planted here in the sawdust after one too many drinks, and had to be carried home by her brother, that was when she went from "ppoor little rich girl slumming it" to "one of us" among the locals of Crow's Foot.
It's nuetral turf, strictly enforced. All the same, that doesn't stop a few nerves when the Red Sash walks up to you. He's a tall Iruvian, round-shouldered and he's got that silver moon brooch the really good ones wear, the one that tells you yeah, he got scars but you should see the other guys. He gives you a small bow, which makes his wispy little mustache droop forward and then fall back onto his liip when he stands straight again. He places a small card on the table, folded over and sealed with wax. "May the blessings of wealth and peace be yours now and alwasy. My Lady presents her compliments and asks if you will visit her at this address in your earliest convenience." He gives another small bow. "I am istructed to ensure that you understand what is meant by this."
The wax seal gives way easily and once opened the ink on the card almost glows in the candle light of the tavern. Mylera Klev, Iruvian Splendour, Cinder Street.
Iruvian Splendour turns out to be the name of a drug-den/flophouse that's clealry run by the Red Sashes. It's almost a parody of what you'd expect from the fairy tales: a miasma of choking poppy-fumes, with off-key music from poorly-tuned sitars played by drunks, while through the smoke wafts the impoverished forms of would-be belly dancers. If it was set up in Silkshore it would be laughed out of town, but here in Crow's Foot it's a poor person's idea of an exotic location. The unsmiling doorman lets you in and points the way up the stairs, all the way to the top room. Hopefully you aren't too drunk by this point. The top flight is narrow and rickety.
The top room turns out to be a surprise. A single large chamber, the internal walls knocked out. Proper carpets, well maintained and clearly orgiinal, imported from Iruvia at expense. The lighting is electric rather than oil or candle and the artworks on the wall look like the real thing. It's nothing like the rest of the place.
Mylera Klev, leader of the Red Sashes, is waiting for you. Tall and striking, her jet-black hair just starting to streak with grey, she is seated at a table. When you enter, she pours you all a cup of sweet mint tea, but does not invite you to sit. A servant (another veteran with that moon brooch) hands you the cups of tea as they are poured out, his eyes alert and sharp, the look that says Please don't cause trouble. I'd hate to wash your blood out the carpets.
After the rituals are completed, Mylera Klev breaks the silcene. "I would say thank you for coming, but that would be empty words. I know you had no choice. You must know why you are here. It is no secret that I intend to move against the Lampblacks. I have a job for you, one that fits your skills. You come recommended by our mutual friend Lady Phroiag, and I am willing to pay well. I hope I will not be disappointed with your reply."
You are so surprised by the setting and awed by Mylera Klev's obvious name dropping that you don't notice the servant-bodygaurd seems more nervous than he should be given the lack of threat that you pose. Once he's checked you out, he hardly spares a glance, instead looking around every so often as if trouble might come through the roof or window.
And maybe the drug fumes from downstairs ahve got to you as well, or you'd realise taht the normal place Mylera Klev would do such business would be in the Red Sash Sword Academy, the vast mansion on the east shore of Crow's Foot. Perhaps Mylera Klev is not as secure in her power as she seems to be?
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Not expecting to need her professional face tonight, Casia is already several drinks on her way to a comatose state when the Red Sash presents his Lady's Calling Card. At the other's prodding, she follows along behind, but seems to perk up when they enter the Iruvian Splendour. With ale-tinted glasses she grins at the dancers and considers taking a moment to observer a little more before a tug on her arm causes her to stumble after her brother.
~~~~~
"Shure," she says in response to the offer. "If the pay's good you won't fhind a better group of shcoundrels." She licks her lips and looks down at the now-empty teacup wishing for something stronger.
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"May the blessings of wealth and peace be yours now and alwasy. My Lady presents her compliments and asks if you will visit her at this address in your earliest convenience." He gives another small bow. "I am istructed to ensure that you understand what is meant by this."
Finraeth gives a slightly pained sigh and presses his thumb and forefinger of one hand across his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks up at the Sash with a slightly sardonic smile: "I am happy to confirm that that we are not, in fact, savages. I am well aware of what 'earliest convenience' means. I would imagine that there are things living under rocks who know that one."
Ever the gentleman, he offers his arm to one of the ladies in the crew. "Shall we?"
~~~~~
In the top room, he maintains a stoic facade and utterly fails to visibly wince at his sister's obvious current status. Not even when she addresses Mylera Klev in that familiar manner. (The Akorosi stiff-upper-lip and all that.)
He even maintains sufficient presence of mind to wonder why, exactly, they are meeting here. After all, the Red Sashes are notorious for owning the Red Sash Academy. Surely Lady Klev would normally conduct her business there? And why is that bodyguard so twitchy? Finraeth is no slouch in a fight, but he would very much prefer not to find out just how good that silver badge is with his sword.
Once Casia has fallen silent, he gives Mylera a very civil bow, doing his best to discreetly usher his sister to the back of the group. "I think I speak for all of us when I say that we will certainly listen with not inconsiderable interest to your proposal." He permits himself a small smile. "After all, the Prophets may say that the pursuit of wealth is the root of all evil, but one cannot live on virtue alone, can one?"
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Dareia giggles at Fin’s rather sharp rejoinder to the messenger; she prefers a sweeter touch in general, but there is something so delicious about watching someone else play the haughty noble. She makes not even the slightest attempt to take Fin’s offered arm. She brushes her hair back and shrugs. ”Nothing personal, darling. You just are not my type.” She strides along with others towards the Splendor. ”Oh I have been hoping to get a nice audience with Lady Klev for some time now. I have always loved her work.” She glances to Fin. ”And before you say anything, yes, I know it is not ‘proper noble’ styling. It has its own charm though, a certain camp to it that I just adore. Nobles could use a little more camp, do you not agree? What is the point of fashion if you take yourself seriously!” She knows, of course, that the Sash’s building designs are certainly motivated more by economics than aesthetics, but death of the author and all that.
As if to finally answer the question of what her type actually is, Dareia waves and blows kisses at a lady of the night en femme to the highest, and a strapping woman from the docks with a flat cap. The former waves and blows a kiss back, almost jumping up to say hi before noticing the group’s escort. The latter tips her hat and turns a little red in the face.
Once upstairs, Dareia curtsies and takes the offered tea with grace. She has difficulty taking her eyes away from Lady Klev. Those streaks of gray leave her feeling a tad weak in the knees and she has to restrain an impulse to shamelessly bite her lip. ”My dear lady, the mere thought of disappointing you sends me all a-quiver. I would have been delighted to come even were it up to my own choice. I am at your service.” Her tone takes a playful lilt at the last word, an indulgent hint of flirtation.
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-----
This morning
-----
A small, flat smile crosses Lolo's face, followed by a silent sigh. She's getting so big. And wise. Leaning down, Lolo kisses Fi's temple, pushes the plate into her daughter's hands. "Word is 'blacklisted.' And yer right - I'm not gonna be building ships for a while. Doing some other work today. Schedule's probably going to be complicated for a while."
Looking around the flat, Lolo frowns, remembering their last apartment, which she and Fiona had moved out of after the Trouble. "Sorry we kept you up, Fi. Eh, at least we had a front room then. Get yer coat - snowing outside."
-----
Flashback
-----
Lolo takes Finraeth's arm and walks with him silently for a minute or so. "How you doing, kid? Tough few days, yeah?"
---
Lolo's eyes widen as she steps into the top room of the Iruvian Splendor. The Sashes were powerful of course, any berker lived in Crow's Foot knew that much, but the imported rugs and electric light is still shocking to see. Lolo sips her tea absorbing the message Mylera Klev is giving them. I am powerful. You are not. There's really no choice here.
Still, she had questions. "Yer a friend of Lady Phroiag? How do you know her?"
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Jonah nursed the black cup of java while he sits quietly listening to the din surrounding him and his companions in the Leaky Bucket. He'd lost count of how many drinks Casia had already put away by the time the splash of red caught his eye as it wound across the crowded room to end up stopping at their table. The Iruvian moved with the grace and ease of a professional. Every muscle movement controlled and precise, even when avoiding a waitress with an overloaded tray and overexposed backside.
A wry smile cracks his pale face when Fin counters the Red's highfalutin airs with some pompous backtalk of his own. Growing up diggin mushrooms on the farm and then trenches during the war didn't much prepare him for such elegant verbal dueling. Who needed fancy words when knuckles to the face could say what most people wanted easy enough if they were feelin' disrespected.
He glances back at the Iruvian, judging by the way his brow has sunk into a frown and his knuckles are turning white about the hilt of his sword, the man was wishing he could dish out a little lowbrow justice. Probably lucky for Fin that the Bucket is neutral ground and the Red is under orders. Jonah knew what a trained southern sword dancer could do. He'd seen an Iruvian carve his way through a dozen Skov soldiers during a charge across noman's land. Bloody dancer was whirling death with his twin lightweight steel blades. Worse than a levi on blackcaps. Of course that particular Iruvian still ended up feeding mushrooms.
Jonah shakes his head. Man was certain death one on one, but war isn't about single bullocks buttin' heads. And while he managed to cut his way into the line, the Imperials backing him up weren't near as quick, near as skilled, or near as fearless. Jonah was one of a half dozen that put a blade into the bastard after the Skovlander line had tightened up and cut him and the few others who made it to the trench line that afternoon. One on one, they were death. Six to one, they were dead.
The scrape of a chair across the floor breaks him out of his reverie and he quickly and quietly follows the others out of the Bucket. He gives their escort a polite nod before throwing the collar up on his coat and ducking out into the dark, chill rain of the city.
The smoke, the bad sitar music, and most of all the girls working the room put Jonah on edge. He knew not every woman working the dens and brothels of Doskol were like Naty. Taken from their families at gunpoint, brought to this city of coldhearted darkness and forced to work against their will. Still, too many were.
He tries to shake the thought out of his head and manages to help Fin catch a stumbling Casia as she navigates the steep, narrow, steps like an over ballasted schooner in a squall. He knew all to well the look that flashes across the young man's face. That of a brother concerned about a sister. At least she's still here to cause you a bit of embarrassment comrade. He thinks. Could be worse. She could be a rather bored, angry, and curious ghost stuck in an abandoned railcar most of the time while her brother tries to figure out how to keep her falling to either the wardens or madness.
The thoughts of Naty keep him from really noticing anything of consequence in the ironically named Splendour. That is until they are in front of their hostess and exchanging pleasantries.
Fin and Dareia lay it on thick. Although he is pretty sure there isn't much acting on Dareia's part.
Despite the other two's attempts at noble pleasantries and graciousness, Casia actually had it right up front even if a little slurred. For the right coin the Mites would do just about anything up to and including raiding the bloody emperors bedchamber. Having enough to eat was a damned excellent motivator.
So Jonah simply nods his interest and waits to hear what the job is and how much the noble Mylera is offering.
She makes not even the slightest attempt to take Fin’s offered arm. She brushes her hair back and shrugs. ”Nothing personal, darling. You just are not my type.” She strides along with others towards the Splendor.
Oh, I think I'm going to like you. You're no more noble-born than I am, but you're *clever* - and that's considerably more admirable.
Finraeth doesn't let any of that show on his face, of course. Instead he allows himself a mock-wounded sigh and an upward glance to the heavens (it doesn't do to show real emotion, of course, but occasional displays of artifice are perfectly acceptable). "Alas! A crushing wound to a man's ego, dear lady. Still, as the poet says, taste is not a matter of disputation."
Lolo takes Finraeth's arm and walks with him silently for a minute or so. "How you doing, kid? Tough few days, yeah?"
He gives Lolo a gracious smile, and if he raises an eyebrow at the "kid" remark he is wise enough not to make an issue of it. "It has indeed. Incidentally, I don't believe I properly thanked you for keeping your head when all around were losing theirs. What you did was undoubtedly the correct course of action. I know I was somewhat distracted, but there's really no excuse for poor manners. On which topic, of course..."
He mentally weighs up whether to say anything but ultimately decides it would be the done thing. "While I would never indulge in something as vulgar as idle gossip, one does nevertheless do one's best to stay informed. I wondered therefore whether I might offer my - rather belated - condolences on your loss." His tone and expression are completely neutral, and he looks straight ahead rather than offering any potentially unwanted eye contact. It doesn't do to intrude unwanted on someone's grief.
Finraeth doesn't have anything close to the full story, of course, but the sinking of a leviathan-hunter is always news - especially when it sank in the (supposedly safe) harbour rather than out at sea.
Dareia's smile gets a smile in return. "You will find I am very genrous with those who choose to be my friends." Lolo's question gets a very faint fwrown, but she does answer after a slight pauase. "Dear Adelaide and I have knnown one another for some years now. We share a mututal interest in nice things." She doesn't say any more than that, and the imppression given is that it would be unwisie to ask more.
She nods at Finraeath. "The Prophests say many things, but they have to be interpreted wisely, I find. As for my prorposal, I want you to - hm, what is the opposite of stealinig? I want you to give someone something. It is nt something they would want, so you will probably have to break in and do it."
She takes a sip of mint tea and makes hereself more clear. "I want you to break into Bazso Basz's office and leave an item in his safe." She uses the silver sugar tongs and carefully lifts something off the table for you to see it. It is a pendant, haning from a thread made from human hairs twisted togtehther. The pendant is made of equal parts brass, bronze, gold and blood. It has runes carved into it. Looking at it makes your eyes hurt, and your head throb. Trying to read or study the runes will make your eyes bleed.
(You know all of this instaently, although you're not sure how.)
Klev gives a smile. "As you can see, this particlar item of jewelery, although rather beautifvl, is bad news. Place it in Bazo's safe, behind evertyhign else in there so that it won't be easily seen." She looks at you all. "War has come to Crow's Foot. I did not choose to begin it, but I will ednd it, I assure you. What you need to choose is whose side you are on."
"As the Prophets say, do not choose... poorly."
Baszo gives a chucle at Dareia's bold words. "Alsways been someone, have you? Well, there's a thign." He toasts Lolo, and gives a wave to order his thug to refill her glass. "Do this job I have in mind, and you'll be able to order as much of this as you can drink." He smiles.
"As you know, the Sashes deal in drugs. Victmless crime they call it, which sounds lovely until you see wht addicts are willing to do to themselves, to aothers, to score the next hit. But, it 's business. Not my business, but it's good businness. See, I got some contacts who can move an dsell the supply, and I happen to know where teh Sashes are storing their current supply."
He looks at you, wating for the penny to drop. "What I need is someone to go and get the supply from the Sashes, and bring it to me, so I can give it to the peple who will move and sell it. And by "get" I mean steal." He smiles, and drains his glass again. "Or rob. Or burgle. Wahtever you like to call it. And in return, I will make you all considerlby wealtehier." He smiles, and spreads his arms wied. "Everyone's a winner, see? Well, almost everyone."
"So. You for me, or against?"
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The building was SUPPOSED to be empty. The pistol shot slapped Jonah in the face like an angry duskgirl. His head whips around fast enough to give him a crick in his neck for the next couple of days. He pokes his head through the door from where he’d been keepin’ watch on the main street entrance. ”What the bloody….” He hisses but gets cut off when the Bluecoat starts to screaming like a banshee caught in an electroplasm storm.
By the time Lolo fires the second shot, putting an end to the caterwauling and the young Bluecoat’s misery, Jonah has shuffled his lanky frame into the room. Long fingers run through his mid length, rain soaked, salt and pepper hair. The gesture causes it to look even more unkept than normal. He snaps his teeth closed, biting off whatever remark he may have been about to make. The growing pool of blood and the boy’s uniform said it all. The heat was gonna blow like an old time devil wind. Hot and steady.
But it isn’t the blood or the uniform that catches his attention and holds his gaze. It’s the quick flash of silver glittering in the lamp light poking out of the bleeder’s pocket. Could it be? He wonders, kneeling down next to the body. Glances about. Dareia and Lolo are busy seeing to Fin. Casia’s still working the safe.
Jonah reaches down, tries to be casual, but his hands are dancing like a rat on a hotplate. Before he really stops to think, he grabs the small box and drags it free of the pocket. Fancy. Too fancy for an ordinary lawman, especially one this young. Hope blossoms. Governor’s seal? Sure looks like it. Dated twenty years ago. The crash of disappointment. Dead end. Nothing to mark the kid as a friend, ally, snitch or any other connection to the Silver Nails. Just a Bluecoat where he should not a been. Would’ve made the trouble and death all worth it if he’d been tied to the Nails, but once again Fate snarls a wicked laugh in his direction.
Click of the safe and squeak of the door opening. Music to everyone’s powder burned ears. No time to lose now. Gotta get out before someone comes to investigate the noise…or the wardens come for the body. Grab the stuff. Go. And quick as you please, everyone hot foots it the hells out of there.
It isn’t until he’s halfway back to the hideout that he realizes he’d slipped the blasted box into his pocket. Ah, bloody hells. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He berates himself. No going back now. Have to dump it later. Pulls it out of his pocket, one last look to make sure there’s nothing to tie it to his true quarry. Nothing. Starts to slip it back.
He realizes too late there is someone lurking in the alley. A green and purple checkered shirt sleeve in the dim lamplight. Can’t see the face under the floppy hat so common in Doskvol. Shadow is already disappearing down the ally. He thinks. Hardly anyone wears green and purple. His heart races faster. Can’t be sure if the gawker saw anything. But he hoped to all the Devils in Doskvol that he didn’t. Only bum Jonah could remember ever seeing wearing green and purple in this dirty little corner of the city was Kobb the Kramp. Stinkin’ snitch for...for...well...just about anyone who had a slug and a bottle of rotgut.
Jonah mutters a curse and hoofs it to catch back up with the others.
FLASHBACK (Dareia), Last Week
It turns out the Lady Adelaide Phroiag is at home, meaning that she is receiving (some, selective) visitors. As the butler leads Dareia into the main room of the vast house, Lady Adelaide looks up from the sofa with a broad smile. "My Sweet Dary, how lovely to see you." She crsses the floor to embrace Dareia in a quick hug, before handliy swiping the whisky bottle and examining the label. "Oh, Cullfield Glen! My favourite! You remebmered. What a daarling you are."
Unlike Mylera Klev, Lady Adelaide has not embraced the changes that come with age. No grey or white will ever shine out in her red tresses, and the art of the alchemists is ruthlessly applied to the first sign of any wrinkles in her face. Only her eyes show her age and her experience. She looks at Dareia shrewedly. "But this is not a purely social call, is it?"
Dareia embraces the Lady back, smiling at her recognition that this is not a purely social call. ”Would that we all had time for pure socializing these days! I am afraid I have grown more than a little terrible about not mixing business with pleasure.” She takes a seat with Adelaide. ”With how complicated the situation has grown in my stomping grounds. The conflict between the Lampblacks and Sashes is heating up, and I would like to ascertain how best we can all make out from it. I know Lady Klev considers you an associate, and I would not like to take any action that might inconvenience her if it might also inconvenience you. Would it?”
With Mylera Klev
Finraeth does his best not to look directly at the pendant. That thing is bad news, and it's more Jonah's area of expertise anyhow. He instead gives Klev a respectful bow. "How could we possibly refuse such a challenge? - But might we know perhaps a little more about the pendant; for example, how to carry it without mishap?"
As the Prophets say (well, almost) there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the putting-the-unholy-item-in-someone-else's-safe. The more they know about this thing, the better.
He gives a discreet cough. "In addition, I believe the matter of generosity was raised. How much... generosity, precisely, will this deed attract?"
FLASHBACK, Dareia
Lady Adelaiede gives Dareia an induglgent smile. "Oh, that's very adorable of you, daraling. Dear Mylera and I do go back some way of course, but I have no stake in the outome of what is going on in town. I haev other interests right now." She gives Dareia a slightly amusesd look. "I do worry a litle if that soft Barrowcleft uprgining has prepared you for life in the big citty, dear. I'm sure you thik well of yourself but you are only a small piece on a large board. Which can also be an asset - nobody is going to come for you when there are bigger prizes for teh taking. All the same, look out for yourself. The big boys and girls in this town don't have friends. They hafve interests."
MYLERA KLEV, 2 NIGHTHS AGO
Klev gives a small shrurg at Finrateths' question. "I'm afraid I am as ignorant as you are. This little trinket came my way through the Dimmmer Sisters. They don't answre questions." She taps the table. "This tray seems to keep its energies confirned, but you will have to make your own arangments. I only hire people with initative." She smiles. "Think of it as a test, if you like."
"As for generosity, yes. As long as the pendant ends up in the safe, I will pay you. If nobody is any the wiser that you were even there, I wil pay extra. It should go without saying, but take nothing from the safe. That woudl draw attention."
Dareia takes a sip of her drink before holding the glass by the top and swirling it about. ”As always, I appreciate your concern, Lady. If I may, I would answer you with an anecdote. I think it was, oh, the third time Mum caught me in the dresses. I remember her sitting there, shaking her head while she folded them up, thinking of what she would do with me. ‘I don’t know why you’d want to be a girl if you had a choice otherwise,’ she said. ‘Life’s just easier for boys and men.’ I nodded, wiped my eyes, shook my head, and then said: ‘I don’t care.’” She leans forward and sets her glass on the table. ”I play to win, but I choose the game. If I have to be twice as smart as to break even, then I will be thrice as smart and cut ahead. Some have said that I would rather lose on my terms than win on anyone else’s.” She finishes off her drink and picks up the bottle. ”But no: I would rather win on my own terms.” She curtsies. ”By your leave, Lady.”
Dareia glances over the pendant. Whatever the thing does, Lady Klev will have a way of knowing that it is in-place and active. She must not have any way to check the safe herself, else she would just have that insider put it in. Its power is likely either one of observation, and she plans to spy on the safe and its environs, or something spectacular enough that she will know it has been planted successfully. In the case of the former, better to take care how they talk around it.
”Do you have any information on the safe in question, Lady Klev?”
FLASHBACK, Dareia"As for generosity, yes. As long as the pendant ends up in the safe, I will pay you. If nobody is any the wiser that you were even there, I wil pay extra. It should go without saying, but take nothing from the safe. That woudl draw attention."
"You hwant it in the safe?" Casia slurs. "Then in the safe it ghoes. Slicker'n an eel's arse." She looks at the others with hooded eyes and winks. "Easier 'n pissin' your drawers."
She turns her swaying gaze back to Klev. "Dhoes that mean that whe get a house credit dowhnstairs?"
FLASHHBADCK, DAREIA
Lady Adelaied lisents in silence, alhtough her hand closes over Dareia's as she tells her anecdoet. "My dear, Sweeet Dary. So would we all. Until next time. Come and regael me with stories of your exploits."
MYLERA KLVE
Klev shakes her head at Dary's qeustion about the safe. "Honestly, that is not my concern. Althouhg my reports are that Bazo Bazs is curently going through the district like a clumsly fisherman with a large net. I am sure he will be asking for you soon enough. If you are in his office that should give you the chnace to see it up close for yourselves."
She gieves Casia a very small frown and a shake of her head. "I prefer not to mix business and pleasure. If iI offer one person a discount, everyone will ask for one."
FLASHHBADCK, DAREIA
She gieves Casia a very small frown and a shake of her head. "I prefer not to mix business and pleasure. If iI offer one person a discount, everyone will ask for one."
"You wouldn't have to ghive everyone a discount - jhust us," Casia grumbles but she doesn't press.
~~~~~~~
Cas lets one of the others agree to Baszo's proposal, staying quiet and to the side. Her eyes, however, subtly seeks out information about the safe. What type, where it's kept, how many ways in and out of the room.
The safe is very obvious: it sits in one corner of Baszso's "office". It's the size of a wardrobe and could contain pretty much anything, up to and including a dead body.
Or two.
Unfortnatly Casia can't see anyting about the safe that helps her. It isn't a model she has seen before. Mkaing things even worse, she notices a small sigil on the front of the safe, just below the lock and dial.
Magical portection. The safe is warded in some way.
He mentally weighs up whether to say anything but ultimately decides it would be the done thing. "While I would never indulge in something as vulgar as idle gossip, one does nevertheless do one's best to stay informed. I wondered therefore whether I might offer my - rather belated - condolences on your loss." His tone and expression are completely neutral, and he looks straight ahead rather than offering any potentially unwanted eye contact. It doesn't do to intrude unwanted on someone's grief.
Finraeth doesn't have anything close to the full story, of course, but the sinking of a leviathan-hunter is always news -...
"Hnng," Lolo murmers, accompanied by a quick exhalation, as if she's had the wind knocked from her. Noticing Finraeth's looking away from her, Lolo doesn't bother to hide her frown. She didn't mind the question - she had just as easily fished for information about Fin's mental state after all - but his query was a reminder that the Pegasus's sinking would be a constant reminder, tethered to her like the albatross of Akorosi writer Hemmensway's famous work, destined to follow Lolo throughout her life, her dead husband's memory dredged up with each passing curiosity.
"It has been hard, being separated from my work. And of course, my husband. And Fi's been as good as expected but still, how can such awful change not scar a child? We do what we have to though, don't we? Adjust, for as long as we have the ability to?"
"We're with you, of course," Lolo says, raising her glass, an invitation to pour another. "Thank you, Baszo, for opening the door to a friendship that I'm sure will be long and prosperous for us all."
Tipping the next shot back, Lolo presents her glass for another, and then another. She didn't drink often, and the alcohol was already making everything fuzzy. She just needed to keep a couple of questions at the forefront of her mind, and to get a few more shots in Baszo's stomach...
"So where'sh this stash at anywaysh?"
As Baszo talks - and oh lady does the berker like to hear himself talk - Lolo keeps raising her glass, putting their host in a position to take a drink with each raising of her own.
Eventually, her words as slushed together as Casia's a couple of nights previous, Lolo pinches her nose, and then tips her head back, slamming her glass on the table. "So you got what like, 12 heaviesh in your gang? How do you hold onto all the territory you gotsh? You've got to have your guysh out working all the time, ehhhh?"
Lolo's eyes droop, the room spins. Hopefully Baszo gives up some important information about his operations. Gonna pay for this in the morning...
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Blind to her own hypocrisy, Casia rolls her eyes at Lolo's lack of self-control.
Finraeth silently rebukes himself as he realises he's offered Lolo an unwanted reminder of her recent past. On the other hand, saying nothing could have looked callous/uncaring, so maybe there was no right move in this instance. He tunes back into her question and gives her a sardonic half-smile. "Personally, I would rather welcome the chance to meet with whomever it was that coined the phrase 'whatever does not kill one, makes one stronger.' I am reasonably confident that armed with only a little time, and a sufficiently sharp blade, I could disprove their hypothesis. But I agree with your sentiment, in the main. One carries on because to do otherwise and give up, would be intolerable."
"But you were saying you have a daughter? That must be..." He trails off. "In fact, I have no idea what that must be like. Forgive me, I am a poor conversational companion at present."
Eventually, her words as slushed together as Casia's a couple of nights previous, Lolo pinches her nose, and then tips her head back, slamming her glass on the table. "So you got what like, 12 heaviesh in your gang? How do you hold onto all the territory you gotsh? You've got to have your guysh out working all the time, ehhhh?"
Finraeth briefly closes his eyes as if in pain, but he does manage to refrain from visibly wincing at Lolo's directness. "If I may interject here, I think what my, my..."
Crewmate? No. Too nautical.
Friend? No. Slightly too presumptuous at this stage.
Companion? No. That just invites misunderstandings. Cassie would smirk for days.
Fellow gangster? No. Just no.
"...my colleague is getting at, is if we join forces with you, how confident can we be that we are on the winning side?" That gives this lowlife a chance to brag about what his crew can do; given how much Baszo seems to love the sound of his own voice (Finraeth is likewise blind to his hypocrisy), it can only be hoped that they will learn something.
Jonah's first reaction is to simply laugh in the woman's face. By God's she's not asking much. Just take this little cursed doodad that we don't know a levi-belch about. Then pop it into ole chummy Bazso's safe. A man known across Crow's Foot for his easy temper and utter lack of paranoia. Pffft. Cheeky, very bloody cheeky. But he chokes the laughter and that line of thought off quick as he can. Not good for business, or for one's health, to laugh in the face of power. And no matter what he thought of her score, Mylera had power.
Seeing Fin studiously avoid the pendent, Jonah steps up and takes it carefully from Mylera. The thing hangs there in the light of her office. Pretty metallic colors swirled with streaks of crimson. Much like the Splendour itself...a piece of rot dolled up to look pretty.
Careful to not have any actual physical contact with the pendant, he drops it carefully into a pouch and tucks it in the same pocket as the silver snuffbox. The tap of silver upon his hands sends the gears of his mind turning in a new direction. Possibilities. Perhaps the Sash's scheme isn't so awful. Might be just what was needed to douse a bit of the heat they were feeling over that young Bluecoat. If they could pull it off, might be the Mites come out of this just a bit better off than when we started. And that'd be a welcome change of luck for sure.
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The safe was big. Really big. This was good. It’d be easy to hide something small within the belly of that monstrosity and with no one the wiser. A little flower of hope was beginning to grow within Jonah’s heart. If we can get it open… He starts to think, then sees the look on Casia’s face. It’s only there a moment, but he knows that somehow the gods have stepped in to squat over that flower, stomp it into pulp, and curse the ground.
He glances over to where Lolo and Fin keep Baszo drinking and distracted. Hearing the usually controlled and clear minded Lolo slurring her words surprises Jonah. He couldn’t remember a time since he’d met the woman that she’d been that far in the drink. Then again, Fionna had always been with her those times at the Gizzard. First Casia with Mylera, now Lolo with Baszo. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on the potential need for the mites to attend a twelve-step program. Had to figure out the safe and how they could get the pendent into it without Baszo knowing.
He steps over to Casia and raises a questioning eyebrow as he glances to the safe, hoping she gives an affirmative nod a can get the thing open when it was time.
Lolo taps her finger on the glass - Another. - and then gives Finraeith a smile, a genuine smile, full of joy, as she tips the next shot back. The kid gets it! Knows what we're trying to do! Tap, tap. Another.
The room spins, and Lolo sinks her elbows into the table, propping herself up, confident that the liquor and the flattery has kicked the metaphorical day open, er door open, and Baszo was going to spill. Nodding, eyes half-closed, Lolo taps her fingers on the table, slurs a few more questions, and lets the others take the lead. Another. Another. Another.
Hopefully someone's got a good memory. You're not gonna remember a thing, girl.
He steps over to Casia and raises a questioning eyebrow as he glances to the safe, hoping she gives an affirmative nod a can get the thing open when it was time.
At Jonah's look, Casia frowns slightly before shrugging. A moment later she gives a tiny nod before turning back to watch Lolo sink deeper into her cups.
Baszo grins as Lolo does her best to match him in his driknig. He doesn't get as badly affected as she does, but he's no longer sober in any nomrla use of that word - and it makes him say things he might not otherwise. Finraeth's question gets a nod. "Ah, a lad after my own heart, wants to be on the winning team!" He refilss the glass, or rather gives the order for it to be refilled. "Reminds me of me at that age, all ambition and energy and wanting to get aeahead. Well, lemme tall you about us, an' how we're gonna whip them Iruvian tools until they run for their pyramids back home..."
In between the insults and the slurred speech, he gives you a good run-down of the Lampbloacks and their key assests: his second in command, Pickett, a shrewd planner and former army veteran; his enforcer Henner (the thug handing round the drinks) who is Bazso's main muscle and bodyguard, plus a fearsome gang of leg-breakers and mayhem-makers. The chief asset that Bazdo is obviously most proud of, though, is their status. "Us Lampblacks aren't the most conencted, you know? Them Reds might have their links to the embassy and a buch of nobles that attneded their sword school, and we don't hav nonoe of that. But we got the people on our side, see? We knock down any of them factory foremen that gets too high an dmighty, we make sure everohne gets a fair deal. In return we get to heaer most of what goes on in Crow's Foot, Charhollow and Coalridge districts, you know?" He tapps the side of his nose, but misses. He doesn't notice. "You wanna know what happend to Roric, eh? I could tell stories..."
At this point, Henner pauses from pouring out the drinks and gives a loud cough.
Bazdo jumps slightly, and smiles awkwardly. "Yeah, well, maybe I said enoufh for tonith, you know?" He gives Lolo a grin as she slumps over the table. "Fair play, Red, almost kept up with me! Come back any time, girl."
It's clear your little 'intervwiew' is pretty much over. Pickett, the second in command, hands you a note which gieves the address of the Sash'es safe house where the drugs are being stored. The house is in Charterhall district, Dalmore Way near to Jayan Park. "They come in tomorrow from the Iruvian embassy, and by the end of the week they'll be distributaed across the city. So that's your window to act."
Finraeth gives a slight frown as Casia walks past, obviously under the influence and stumbling badly. "As fascinating as a conversation with that chap might be, my blade is currently reserved for the individual who broke my sister's heart. Once I've cut their heart out, I think I might present it to her, on a silver platter as is traditional - although..." he trails off in thought. "I know silver can tarnish and I don't know if that might diminish the effect somewhat. And while gold is of course famously pure and incorruptible, the notion of gold platters is somewhat gauche - like a poor person's idea of how the wealthy would eat. It's a puzzle indeed. Perhaps something tasteful in Severosi porcelain? It's been a while since I consulted the books on etiquette, but I have to believe that they have a page somewhere on the acceptable way to do this."
His tone is lighthearted and frivolous, but the intention underneath - vengeance - is deadly serious.
The sight of Lolo's genuine smile on her face is transformative, and Finraeth briefly considers dropping his guard to return it; but settles instead for a brief nod. As a trained student, he doesn't need to write down what Bazso is saying in order to be able to remember and recall it at a later date. He concentrates keenly, leaving his glass of liquor untouched as much as possible and focuses on everything that Bazso reveals. His eyes widen slightly when the leader of the Lampblacks reveals he may know something about Roric's death, but as interesting as that may be, it is not relevant to their present situation and he suppresses his curiosity.
As the evening winds down, he helps Lolo to her feet, supporting her easily (if she's really not able to stand, he'll carry her over his shoulder) - for all that he looks and talks like the dilettante, somewhat louche, student, there's real muscle underneath his dandy's clothing. "Let us get you home, shall we, my Lady? Your carriage has, alas, been detained."
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After dropping the pouch into his pocket, Jonah suddenly freezes up and sweat begins to break out on his forehead. His hand twitches at his side where it rests against the pocket containing the mysterious pendant.
The chanting starts as a whisper in his head moments after he drops the pendant in his pocket. The mistake is realized all too late. What was it Reynard used to say when they were diffusing yet another Imperial spirit bomb. Always assume the worst. Always figure they’ve come up with some trick we don’t know squat about. Never cut corners, unless you want to end up feeding the shroom farms.
He should have remembered the old man's advice. He closes his eyes, feels himself drawn...somewhere.
She is magnificent. A vision of power, glory, and sensuality. Hovering atop the peak of a pyramid. A temple of worship judging by all of the enraptured worshippers kneeling at the stone mountain’s base. Her hair flows in a swirling wind like a golden fire dancing upon the rooftops of a burning city. Blue eyes filled with icy radiance. Rose hued lips are curled into a smile that says I know what you wish and all you have to do is give me everything and you may have your dreams. She wears robes of crimson, gold and platinum that sparkle beneath the brilliant, massive, golden orb that hangs in the sky. One hand holds a massive sword. Blood runs from that wicked blade. A crimson torrent. The other hand beckons to him. Her long, delicate fingers curling to bring him into her fold. Waves toward the multitude of others kneeling at the base of the great stone temple. Each chanting some unintelligible, repetitive nonsense as they undulate up and down upon their knees like a massive kelp bed riding the currents. The chanting that drones in his ears.
Worshipers line a long stairway that climbs the mountain to heaven. A red haired, light skinned young woman is the next to reach the top. Her back is to Jonah, but he can feel the ecstacy radiating from her youthful body, her arms raised in open supplication. The goddess smiles. Calls the girl of no more than twenty forward to kneel before her. Her head raises up to gaze into those depthless glacier eyes to seek comfort, healing, and end to her worldly pain a beginning to otherworldly bliss.
For a heartbeat the sword shines bright in the sunlight. The glare stings Jonah’s eyes. He blinks. The sound of the blade striking flesh. His heart pounds as he realizes something familiar about the young woman. But the knowledge comes much, much too late. Half of the youth falls to the left, the other half to the right. Both cascade down the pyramid to lesser pyramids. These not made of stone, but a bounty of flesh harvested over eons. A macabre horror of mortal lives lost to twisted hopes, dashed dreams, wars of pride, prejudice and purity. As the torso tumbles the woman’s head twists around. It’s is Naty’s face. A serene smile still frozen on her features as the light of life slips away to darkness. Naty’s remains land with a sickening squelch upon those who took the trip up the pyramid before her.
Jonah staggers backward, a scream rising in his throat. Her pull on his mind is not so strong that he cannot escape…this time. He begins to run. Her throaty laugh fills the sky, follows his fleeing soul. It echoes across space and time. He keeps running, tears streaming down his face. Tears of loss, tears of failure, tears of pain and of a rage that burns as bright and hot as that ancient lost orb.
The laughter grows. ”Come to me and all will be taken away.” The goddess speaks. ”Worship me and end your pain. End your guilt. End your suffering. End your futile mortal struggle. Worship me and know true peace.”
He staggers under the weight of her voice, her words, the focus of her eyes upon him. His soul yearns to believe this ancient being of death and lies. Yearns to truly find the peace that she offers. But not in death. Not to be harvested like wheat in the field of some ancient goddesses garden. He cannot. He will not. He will go on. He will find a way to bring Naty back. Her spirit was not truly in this being’s possession. No, it was stuck in a rail car in a city of darkness and grief. But he would give her life again. Give her a second chance. Give himself a second chance. A chance to make up for his failure to find her in time. To keep her safe.
The goddess laughs again. His thoughts amuse her, childish as they may be. ”Only the gods can grant life and death.” She says as he here’s the sound of the sword falling again. Followed by more laughter. ”Run…run while you can little mortal. But soon enough you will be mine.”
”No! I will not!” He places all of his pain into that shout. Flings it at her like a child throwing a tantrum at a grinning parent. ”I will not worship her! I will not worship her!” He shouts over and over as he keeps on running.
….not WORSHIP HER!” Jonah’s scream cracks the professional calm of Mylera’s office. His eyes pop open, wild and frantic for several moments. His breathing is rapid and heavy as if he’s been running fast and hard. A vein on the side of his neck pulses frantically. He reaches a shaking hand out to grab the edge of the desk and steady himself. Finally after a few more moments he begins to recognize where and when he is once again.
He mops his forehead with a stained handkerchief drawn from his coat. Moments later he pulls out the pouch with the pendant and sets it carefully on a side table.
”This….This requires a bit more…immediate precaution.” He says between ragged breaths. He looks at Mylera wondering what the sword dancing foreigner is holding back. Does she truly know nothing about this…this…thing. He can’t be sure and he’d no way of demanding. All he can do is try and figure out a way to keep it from drawing him back into Her presence again. He shivers remembering the two great mountains of lost souls, the sound of the blade striking, the laughter, Naty’s tumbling face.
He swallows, does his best to push morals and memories aside for the moment. Focus on the task at hand. Put a damper on this hellfire before it sucks you down into the pits of doom. Another deep breath. He pulls a lacquered black mask from an inside pocket of his heavy raincoat. Carved of bloodwood, it is a match for Jonah’s features but with no actual openings for his eyes or mouth. Still, he places the mask over his face and suddenly the wood becomes animate. The wooden eyelids blink over the solid black eyes of the mask and the lips purse slightly as the Whisper dumps the pendant out of the pouch and onto the protective tray. He leans forward peering with the mask’s eyes into the ghost field to see how the aether can be worked to hamper the things effects long enough to get it back to the tower.
Klev's bodyguard is there in a moment as Jonah cries out, his scimtar halfway out of its scabbard before Mylera Klev shakes her head. With a frwon, he steps back, away from the Whisper but still staring at him hard.
In the half-second before that hpapens, Jonah stares at the amulet, trying to work out something about it. He sees almost at once that the choice of trying to contain it with silver is a good one. Whatever this thing is, the silver might dampen its energies for long enough that you can get rid of it before it doew any real harm. Maybe. The shock of staring at it causes several blood vesses to burst in his skull, giving him a pounding headace - but Jonha's spirit mask protects him from the worst of it. The wooden eyelids slam open in shock, and thick, viscous blood starts to drip down the face of the mask in a long trickle that carves grooves into the wood, permanetnly scarring it.
It's not clear that Jonah is immediatley aware of this. His focus in on a thin, almost spider-web fragile trace of "thread" (human words for describing the Ghost Field almost never really work) that proceeds out from the amulet, and - away. His best guess is that whoever bound the amulat to themselves (and even the thought of the price involved in that binding makes his head hurt even more) is somehow still linked to it. Presumably, with enough time, tey might be able to track it down.
All of this takes perhaps a few instants for Jonah to process, and in that time the bodyguard gives a slight bow. "Respectfully, I think you have all dlighted Her Ladyship long enough with your company. Perhaps it is time to find somewhere else to be." It's polite, but it's not a suggestion.
Mylera Klev gives you all a brilliant smile. "I'm so glad to have you in my service. My generosity and favour will fall on you all when you succeed. Until then."
It takes a moment for the dismissal to sink through the fog in Casia's brain. "Yeah, somewhere elshe to bhe," she replies with a nod. Purposefully ignoring her brother she takes Jonah's arm. "What's hwrong with you?" she slurs as she helps him out of the room. "Too mhuch to drink? Gotta hold hyour liquor better."
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Klev's
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Lolo springs from her chair, at Jonah's side as he screams out. The shipwright had seen him go into a trance before, as they visited the site of the Pegasus - still sunk in the harbor - a few weeks back. The man, quickly becoming her friend, had suggested the visit, though he was mum on more than that. As they gazed at the ship's blackened hulk, rising on the aft end just above the murky waterline, Jonah's shoulders went slack and his eyes glassy, and the whisper murmured under his breath for a good minute, the words he uttered syllabic and foreign. Pressed about it, Jonah had simply shrugged, claiming he didn't remember much.
The force(s) aboard the Pegasus were powerful and cruel, and yet they didn't bring a reaction when Jonah had attuned to them like this simple piece of jewelry. "What in the hells is that thing?" Lolo hisses, worry creasing her face as Casia helps Jonah from the room.
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Bazso's
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"At any rate, I owe you for taking on the Blueshirt before he had chance to use his gun. When time for your vengeance comes, I'll repay the debt."
Taking Finn's hand, Lolo stands and buckles under her own weight as the room splits and tumbles. "Nice to meetsh you, Baszo. As you hear, I have a carraigesh." Dipping at the waist, Lolo gives Baszo a bow, barely kept upright by Finraeth. "Till we meet again."
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Klev's
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Finraeth's hand swiftly reaches inside his jacket the moment Jonah screams - only for him to just as quickly put both his hands in plain sight when Klev's bodyguard does his thing. He gives Jonah a sidelong glance - sorry, much as I like you I do NOT plan to take on Mylera Klev's bodyguard in single combat - only for his gaze to be drawn more fully.
"I don't mean to alarm you, but there's a certain amount of, of - superfluous sanguinuity. In the..." his finger traces a circle around his own eyes. "In the ocular department."
Once they are dismissed, and well away from the music and hazy drug fumes of the Iruvian Splendour, he looks around at the others. "Leaving aside the matter of the amulet, there was quite a lot of that meeting which struck me as odd. For one thing, the only time that bodyguard really paid us any attention was when our friend here reacted to the amulet. The rest of the time, he wasn't looking at us at all, but at the roof and windows."
He gives a self-deprecating shrug. "I realise I'm probably no match for him one-on-one, but being regarded as less threatening than the furnishings doesn't do wonders for a chap's self-esteem, you know?"
"Anyway, secondly - did that strike anyone else as an odd place for Mylera Klev, head of the Red Sashes, to conduct her business rather than, say, the Red Sash Sword Academy? If she's worried for her safety, one would have thought the obvious place for her to be is tucked away in that mansion, surrounded by her loyal followers."
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Bazso's
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He trails off, realising that she's teasing him, and gives a wry smile. "I am well aware that I am now counted among the 'humble poor' - which is an odd phrase, to my mind, as though poverty somehow confers virtue." A resort to semantics and scholarly inquiry is this scoundrel's last refuge.
When Lolo makes her move to bow, Finraeth's first thought is that she's about to potentially undo all their good work by throwing up in Bazso's office. He's greatly relieved when she keeps it in.
"Very good, My Lady, you have navigated the diplomatic protocols nicely. Now, as an encore, how about navigating the streets home? Let's begin with the little details, like these stairs." Half-supporting, half-carrying, he does his best to manoeuvre her somewhere she can throw up without causing an incident.
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Dareia maintains an unflappable mien as Jonah exclaims his “Worship her.” It helps nobody for her to overreact, even if the behavior is more than a little concerning. ”Jonah, dear, keep it to the bedroom.” Hopefully a touch of humor will keep the room’s anxieties from getting out of hand. She gives a more visibly concerned appraisal once goodbyes and other parting pleasantries have been shared and they are away from the Sashes. ”That was rather disconcerting. Do you think you have that under control now or do we have to worry about potential outbursts while we are on the mission? No judgment either way, of course. Nasty stuff and I could hardly do better.”
With Baszo
Dareia finds Baszo as unlikeable as she expected and she keeps relatively quiet during the rest of the proceedings. She covers herself by unwrapping a peppermint and popping it in. Nothing about him sits well with her so she will not feel bad in the slightest about causing him grief. And goodness that amulet certainly will do that, judging by Jonah’s reaction to it. She gives her standard pleasantries as they take their leave.
As they get onto the street, she pulls out a candy and offers it to Lolo. ”Candied ginger. It is good for the stomach. I just love the flavor.”
As soon as the crew reaches the privacy of the busy street, Casia moves close to Jonah. "Tell me you saw the ward on that safe and that you can do something about it," she says in a voiced filled with forced casualness. "Because it's not going to do us any good if when I open it we all get paralyzed or the guard gets called or some sort of demon gets summoned."
Jonah staggers under the pain as it mashes into his brain like an Imperial boot stomping a cockroach. He gladly accepts Casia's helping arm. In too much pain and shaken nerves to speak at the moment. It doesn't escape his notice that a certain amount of...balance is maintained by this gesture. He offered a helping hand getting Casia into Mylera's office she's helping him out. This one gesture of kindness and Daria's humor are enough to ground him a bit more and he's able to slowly regain both his composure and senses.
The first thing he does is slip the amulet back into his pocket and into the hidden waiting snuffbox. As the silver case snaps closed and surrounds the nasty charm, the pressure in his mind eases significantly, although not completely. The grooved mask disappears back into its usual pocket. Another deep breath and he finds himself down the stairs and out into the street.
"Many thanks Casia. The strength and comfort of your arm came just in time to keep me from ending up face first on the Splendour's carpet." He says, his voice a bit weak and raspy following his ordeal.
The damp, smoke and filth infused air of Doskvol never felt and tasted so good. He turns his face up into the rain to wash the sweat from his face as Fin speaks of the oddities and inconsistencies of meeting. His mind is still reeling too much to really follow the lad's thoughts and he still feels the niggling pull of the amulet despite the silver.
"Disconcerting to say the least." He says in response to Daria's question as he tries to rub away the pain in his temples. "I...I think it will be fine for now, although I don't think we want to keep it in our possession for very long." He hesitates. His eyes stare down the street, but they do not see the passing carriages or beggars or others walking about their business. It is unclear what he does see, but a shiver runs down his spine. "The amulet is bound to someone...or something. I don't know what. We are safe for now, but to wait too long surely invites trouble we'd rather not have."
Seeing Lolo and Fin continue to keep Baszo well in hand, Jonah takes a moment to get a closer look at the safe and how it might be breached...or what might be protecting it. Not only interested in the mundane, he also considers possible esoteric troubles. Although his spirit mask would be helpful, he still didn't trust it following the incident at Mylera's. Beside, Baszo and his man servant are both in the room it just wouldn't do to draw attention to his interest in the big safe.
Instead he simply breathes slow and steady, opening his mind to the ghost field and 'seeing' for a moment or two how the aetheric forces flowed in, through, around, and about the safe.
The amulat seems to protest and move in Jonah's grip as he tries to force it into the silver casing. There's a crackle and spark of electroplasm, and that sudden chill that's associated with reactions wihint the Ghost Field.
Jonah isn't able to give the safe as muchc attention as he'd like, the converstation around him is distracting and he needs to be careful not to draw attetnion. The safe was clearly just left here when the building was abandoned by teh original owners: it's bigger than the doorway so must have been put here when the room was being built. It's a free-standing, solid steel vault that sits in a courner of the room and must have taken seroius machinery to get it into place. It would have held the pay for the workers and any other papers that needed to be ekept secure or away from any fire that broke out.
The ward around it seems reasonbly straightfortward, the sort of thing that Jonah could put together. It's a counternmeasure that woudl defeat most theives but he's fairly sure he can deactiveate it, or at least stop it from going off. He isnt able to tell what the ward is set up to do if it is triggered. To do that, he'd need more time and privacry and/or less distractions.