20 MARCH 847 IE
The Grinders are not subtle - the clue is in the name they took as a gang. When Hutton is pissed off, he doesn't write poison-pen letters to the newspapers, or spread visous rumours about his enemiees, or snub them at cocktail parties. He gets his gang together and they kill people. Right now, their traget is the Dusk Mites. Hutton's agreement with Lyssa of the Crows means that the Crows have withrawn their protection, so Hutton is free to target you as he pleases. Luckily for the Dusk Mites, their gang hideout is secret so it's hard to find you in person. But all Hutton has to do is wait for one of you to be careless - and then he will strike.
And so it happesn that this morning the Bluecoats found the body of Dareia Aristedel Elpis on the corner of your street. The Spirit Wardens came and did their thing, and now Sweet Dary is no more.
25 MARCH 847 IE
Moving very slowly, Min begins to prepare himself a cup of tea. As he does, he struggles to piece together his memories of the previous day. He spoke with someone, about something important.
Who was it, now?
Memories are tricky thins, specially post-Loutus when the word "real" doesn't necesarily go with "actually happened" - but there are fragments of a conversation, and a name that goes with them. Batesh! That's the name, and an image to go with it - a civil servant at the Iruvian Embassy. In fact, if you had to create a paintinge with the title "Minor Flunky of the Iruvian Embassy" (oil on canvas, c. 847 IE) then Batesh is pretty much exacly what you'd come up with, from the expression on his face down to his soft, curly boots. The conversation was mostly one-sided, with Batesh doing most of the talking. How did it go again? Oh yes, something liek this.
"Really, what *are* we going to do with you, Min? The Akorosi of this city have a saying called 'leting the side down' did you know that? And her Worhipfulness feels, if I may be so bold as to speak for her, that you are in very real danger of letting the side down." Her Worhsipfullness of course, being the eminent Mylera Klev, leader of the Red Sashes and one of the key players in this city. Batesh gives you a baleful look. "Her worshipfulness, again if I am bold to put into words what she feels, would like to think that you could perhaps learn to act in her interests. Which, for now at lesat, are Iruvia's interests." He serves you a cup of tea, which is the equivalent of a thug poking you in the chest to make sure you have got the point. He then - insult to injury - repeats himself, in case you werne't listening properly. "Mylera Klev's interests - Iruvia's interests - your interests. All alingned, as the prophets used to say. May their moouldering corpses rest in perpetual peace." There was a lot more in this vein, about how doing things their way would lead to longer life expectancy and maybe even some Coin, and about how not doing things there way would be unpleasant. That's the short version, anyway - the long version is blotted out by the Lotus, maybe not a bad thing? And - eventually - the point.
"Her Woshipfullness is very anxious to keep the favour of the local nobles." Batesh curls his lip here, becuase obviously who can truly be a noble unless they can recite the names and deeds of their great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents? "Which is where you come in. Lady Adelaide Phroiag is giving a party tomorrow night, after which there will be a reception of a more - discreet nature where some sort of deeds will be plotted. Her Worshipfulness has promised to send someone to help." Meaningful paus. "You are a deniable asset, and indeed some people deny you are an asset at all. But luckly for you, her Worshipfullness does *not* think that. Yet." Batesh flaps his hands. "So go. Be an asset. Tomorrow evening, Lady Phroiag's. Do not forget."
So that was last night, which means the tomorrow night of last night is in fact tonight. It would seem you have somewhere to be, most noble exiled scholar.
25 MARCH 847 IE
Lady Adelaide Phroiag is NOT obliged, oh no not indeed. Dressed in her finest mourning-black, she has conducted Dary's funeral - a private matter, you were very pointedly NOT invited - and said goodbye to her few guests. She now receives you in the Slightly Less Good Drawing Room, reserved for people she is less than pleased with but has to do business with anyway.
You were received by a stone-faced butler who drew you in here and then left, clsoing the door firmly behind him. You were not offered any refreshments. Her ladyships unhappiness is clear even before she arrives to tell you in person. "I didn't think much of you, but I did rather hope you could keep alive someone I cared about. If I thought I could get justice from the Bluecoats I would have instructed the butler to refuse entry to you at all." She glares at you with red eyes. "And if you are planning to tell me that you cannot deliver justice for my dear Dary then this conversation is about to take a very unpleastnt turn, my dears."
Min's distaste for Batesh is slowly curdling into loathing. In the days of his great-grandfather -- may the scent of violets adorn his memory -- this crawling little functionary would not have dared raise his eyes above the ankles of an Al-Biruni. Even in Min's father's time, the creature would not have ventured anything but the most carefully phrased respect.
But that was then and this is now, and for a fact Min is low on Coin and prospects both. He has neither estate nor retinue; he is out of favor with the Great Black Tent and he has enemies within the Round; heaven is high, and the Emperor is far away. In short, he is a penniless exile.
It is true that he still has a great many useful contacts, plus some small talent with the Weave. But for an al-Biruni to survive by couch-surfing, cadging small loans, and doing odd magical errands... well, that might literally be a fate worse than death. Starve with dignity, and your ghost might still find its way to the tent of your ancestors. Debase your noble name, and you will surely wander whimpering and homeless through the Broken Dark forever.
So Min lifts the corners of his mouth in a gesture that is not remotely a smile. And he adds the name of Batesh to a particular internal list. And he takes his leave.
And back at his lodgings, he reviews his sadly depleted wardrobe. There is a shirt that will do, just barely. The waistcoat can be made acceptable with a bit of Weaving (Min learned that trick as a careless young man, and it has served him all too well since). And of course he has carefully preserved the ceremonial dagger that shows his caste, and the sash-fobs that proclaim his family, marital status, honors, and rank.
(The sandals are unfortunate. He never did learn how to Weave a glamour over sandals. He must hope that people do not pay attention to the sandals. He will put the sandals firmly out of his mind now.)
"'Lady' Phroaig," he says out loud. Honestly, these people. Coin flip that she'd bought the title; almost certainly it was not more than a generation or two of age. Well, needs must when the Negative Spirit drives. Off to a party.
20 MARCH 847 IE
The news hit Jonah like a sucker punch. "What in the hells you talkin'bout Kobb." The whisper snarls at Kobb grabbing a fist full of the snitch's filthy green and purple checkered shirt. "None of the Mites been hit, you start spreading rumors about us and I'll send a ghost so far up your backside..."
"No..no. I'm tellin' ya the truth plain and simple, Boneshaper. Someone sent Sweet Dary into the deep dark juss this mornin." Kobb the Kramps eyes are wide and full of fear as they shift back and forth trying to avoid looking at the darkness growing in Jonah's eyes. "Saw her myself. A bunch of these were strewn all over the street." A shaking hand pulls a quartet of paper wrapped hard candies from a crusty pocket. "I...uhhh...grabbed 'em before the Wardens showed up."
"Picked her clean's more like it right Kobb." The question wasn't really a question. Jonah knew how the little man lurked in the shadows and alleys of Doskvol. Drunk most of the time. But always...always...Listening at key holes, peering through windows, rustling through garbage. Looking for a bit of gossip, innuendo, or anything else he could trade or sell to jeep the juice flowing. Most of what Kobb sold wash useless rot. But occasionally...
Which is why Jonah was in the dark alley dealing with the man in the first place. Trying to find a line on a bunch of cultists calling themselves the Path of Echoes. It was a name that popped up here and there as he kept digging through the university archives. Along with some group calling themselves the Reconciled. Mostly nothing but a few rumors or outlandish stories gathered by skeptical scholars who called the very idea of preventing ghosts from going feral a dangerous delusional, dream for crackpots and lotus smokers.
But none of that mattered at the moment. Kobb tossed a writhing aetherbomb bomb at his feet. Why the blazes would someone kill Dary?
"No! I swear to ya. I ain't lyin'. She's gone Shaper."
He tosses Kobb a couple of slugs and the bottle of Blue Lightning he'd brought along. "We haven't talked. Got it." He says giving the man a cold, hard stare. "But you here anything about who and why you leave word at the usual place."
Then he's gone. Heading back to see Fin and Cas.
By the time he get's there, its obvious they already know.
25 MARCH 847 IE
Jonah stands stoic and silent while the noblewoman unleashes her grief and fury upon Jonah, Fin and Cas. He couldn't really blame the woman. They had let poor Dary down. No one had even warned her there might be trouble brewing. Although too late for Dary, Jonah had personally made sure Lolo know that things had gone from bad to worse with the Grinders and it'd be wise for both her and Fiona to keep a low profile for a while.
His ribs still felt like a giant was stomping on them, but most of the other bruises and cuts and whatnot were gone. Only the lingering chills of the ghost field and the levithan's fury still kept him tossing and turning most nights. But that was nothing compared to the simmering anger he felt toward Hutton and the Grinders. What had gone from honest accident had now escalated into all out war. Lady Phroaig was right, if they planned on being anybody in this town, the Grinders needed to pay and pay dearly. Until they were dealt with, even Naty would have to take a back seat.
"Justice or would it be revenge? Because that's more what I'm lookin' for. Hutton's head on a pike and his ghost bottled on a shelf, is what I'd like to see. It's also likely the only way to get the them to back off. Force a change in leadership." Jonah says. "Trouble is finding the bas$#$d and gettin' through all his damned misguided Skov troublemakers. I ain't makin' excuses, just pointing out the challenge. Gonna need a bit of time and resources to get the job done right."
EARLIER
Stumbling to her feet, Casia makes her way to Finraeth with her friend following closely. "Look who I found, Fin! Cinna!" she says, turning and grabbing the blonde by the arm and pulling her closer.
"Hello, Handsome," Cinna says with a grin and a wink. She's clearly had less to drink than his sister. "Long time no see, eh? Casia has been tellin' me what you two been up to lately. Congratulations is in order."
Finraeth raises an eyebrow at the two young women, one of whom seems rather more the worse for drink. "A good evening to you, too. I'm rather pleased with how things turned out, as well; a jaunt into the Ghost Field followed up with an unexpected visit with the midnight aristocracy, and yet we survived." He tugs on the sleeve of one of the barstaff and deftly procures a bottle of something a little more drinkable than they have been indulging in. He fills the glasses to the brim and hands them round. "My treat. To dancing into the jaws of death, and making off with her gold teeth." He feels - for now - temporarily unstoppable, but fate has a way of catching up with you, and hubris always has to be paid for, in time; and with eye-watering rates of interest.
20 MARCH
It wasn't his pride that killed her, he knows that intellectually. But for all that, the guilt (should have seen this coming. Should have been more careful, more attentive, more watchful, by the damned dead gods this is the Dusk and you don't get to take your eye off the bullet) adds an additional crushing weight to the sense of grief that he feels.
When Jonah arrives, it's clear that the man has also heard. He opens his mouth, but says nothing and closes it.
Opens it again. Still nothing.
There are no words. Right here, right now, even for him, there are no words.
25 MARCH
It would be easier if she shouted or threatened. It's the cool, collected way that Lady Adelaide wields her words, conveying that he (that all of them) aren't worth her anger, only her disappointment; it cuts through whatever defences he could muster like a ringing slap to the jaw.
He takes refuge from it all (Lady Adelaide's wrath, his own grief and guilt and shame, all of the things he can't deal with right now) by retreating into his most detached and amused tone of voice. "Really, Jonah, I'm somewhat disappointed in your answer. It almost sounds as though you plan on leaving some Grinders alive. Personally, I would consider that a most regrettable oversight."
He gives Lady Adelaide a smooth bow. "I can assure you, my dear lady, that by the time I am done they will be no more than a name the fate of whom is whispered by mothers to frighten their children."
He puts his hands on the lapels of his mourning coat and tugs it back into place. "I am, in short, going to f%$* them up."
One corner of Lady Phroiag's mouth turns up in the hint of a smile. "Dear Fin, you have quite the way with words." Jonah's talk of revenget and justice gets a raised eyebrow. "To the uper classes, darling, revenge and justice are the same thing." Which probly explains a lot about how they got to be the upper classes.
She claps her hands together bringing this breif meeting to a close. "Much as your company thrills me darlings, I have things to do. But I'm with you in spirit, and I have reached out to my friend Mylera Klev." She frowns breifly, perhaps remmebering that you worked against Klev and Bazso Bazh both a few monnths ago. She shakes her head. Oh well, no matter. "As you know, the Red Sahses have their own difficulties right now, but she has sent me a - person." Make of that what you will, her face is giving nothing away.
She rings a bell, and one of her footmen opens teh door, ushering in an Iruvian man. "This is Min Al-Biruni, aparently. Mister Al-Biruni, this is Finraeth and Caisia Spinther, and Jonah whose last name I don't know but is probly something Skov and unpronuouncable anyway." She smiels brightly. "I'll leave you to make your introductions, then." Do esxcuse me.
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The Spinther name carries a tiny bit of history that those that pay attention to that sort of thing would note. There was a scandal not too far back regarding the family being discovered smuggling. Granted, all powerful families engage in the practice to some degree, but the Spinthers had the audacity to get caught. In any case, the consequences were profoundly devastating to the family's standing, with the complete destruction of their reputation - and their assets.
The woman hasn't been long in her adult years. Small and slender, she could still pass for a teen if one overlooked the early beginning of wrinkles around her eyes. The same eyes shared with her brother. While his might seem clearer, she doesn't seem to miss the details around her. The reddening of her nose demonstrates her time spent with an empty tavern cup in her hand. Her long, dark hair is pulled back into a single pony with a strip of leather holding it in place and her clothes are a hodgepodge of expensive materials that have been patched so much that very little remains of the originals.
"Casia," she says, extending her hand. "This is my brother Finraeth. You can call me 'Spit'."
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Finraeth's studies at the university (both formal and extracurricular) left him with sufficient knowledge of Iruvian culture and customs that he recognises the decorations the newcomer is wearing; and sufficient knowledge of the language to know that even attempting to speak it, as badly as he does, would be a great insult. He sticks to his best Akorosi, stepping forward and grasping the man's hand with a firm grip and looking him straight in the eye. "How do you do. As my sister says, I am Finraeth, although in the Dusk I go by the name of Polish." His gaze tells Min that he hasn't seen Min's sandals, because to have seen them would be bad manners; and therefore he has chosen not to see them, because good manners are part and parcel of a gentleman.
Like his sister, and like Min himself, Finraeth is wearing fine clothes that have seen much better days: the frock-coat is stained and has fraying sleeves, and pairing it with that shirt and that waistcoat (the only ones he has left, alas) is an act of daring. It would be easy to look at this tall young man in his early twenties and see no more than a fop, the sort of arriviste that his middle-class parents no doubt intended him to become when they sent him to the university to move up in the world; but there's a set to the shoulders and a muscularity in his grip, together with a confidence that he can hold his own in a fight. A keen observer would note the marks at his belt consistent with where a pistol and dagger would normally be (it is the height of bad manners to be visibly armed in polite company); and a very keen observer would note the slight draping of his coat at the small of his back that suggests a concealed weapon (it is the height of folly to go anywhere unarmed).
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Min pauses for just the fraction of a second.
The young woman and her brother are not exactly nobility, but their family was important and connected, even if they later fell on hard times. (To an Iruvian noble, caste is nearly immutable. The tosses and turns of fortune may affect wealth and status, but not your place in the Prevalence.) There is a lightning calculation to be done here. Fortunately Iruvians generally are used to this -- they've all been doing it since childhood -- and the nobility better than most, and Min better still.
Min bows, and puts one hand forward a little, palm up and open, as if tentatively offering some small invisible gift. A fellow Iruvian would instantly see that this is the Third Generic Bow ("You are of lower caste than me, but not grossly so, and presumed still capable of honor") combined with the Gesture of the Three-Quarters Open Heart ("Neither of us is obliged to the other, and I am aware of no grounds for conflict. My opening attitude is friendly.") Of course, nobody in the room is Iruvian, so they probably just see a nice bow.
"Health and a light heart to you, Spit and Finraeth! May the memory of our meeting ever call forth the sweet scent of acanthus and iris." Health and a light heart implies that they belong to a martial caste. If they were peasants or merchants, the greeting would be "health and good fortune" or "health and long life". But it is presumed that martial castes make their own fortune, and aren't very interested in long life.
"Spit" because to comment on a given name is a gross deviation, and usually a sharp insult. Casia could have said "you can call me Princess Mamoru Moonshine Jagermeister," and Min would have repeated it without a flicker.
The iris is of course the flower of valor, courage and hope. The acanthus is a bit unusual here: it is the flower of artifice and cunning, the bloom of successful craftsmanship. So this translates to something like "I look forward to working with you / hope for a successful partnership".
(Min is perfectly capable of speaking "normally", in Duskvol vernacular or several other dialects. Going forward, he will adapt to the common speech of the group. But first impressions matter.)
Having no understanding in the slightest of Iruvian culture or social norms, Casia takes another look over the newcomer, her gaze not blatent, but not subtle, either.
"So what do you do, Mister Al-Biruni?" she asks. "In spite of his cultured airs, my brother's our muscle. Jonah handles the spiritual and other-worldly. I excel at getting in and out with our enemies none-the-wiser. What do you bring to the table? Other than your impeccable manners, of course."
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Revenge and justice are the same thing. The words echo in Jonah's head. The Skov merely nods his head at the arrogant noble. And isn't that at the root of so many of the world's problems. He thinks, but holds his tongue. He really wasn't interested in talking politics with this creature. At this moment he found himself almost longing for the eerie quiet and unfathomable power of Lord Scarlock. At least with Scarlock, you know you're a bug living at the man's whim. None of this cockamamie pretense of manners and concern.
In Jonah's mind, the reality was that Dary's death made Phroiag look weak. It was a blow to her image and status. The fact that a good woman died for no other reason than she'd once associated with the Dusk Mites didn't matter. Her constant smile, her fondness of candy. Not of consequence to the bored rich woman ensconced in the safety of her wealth and titles.
There was no doubt, Jonah would do what was necessary to end the war. To end Hutton and his inept leadership of the Grinders. The man was a fool. He used what was an honest unfortunate accident. Could even be argued self defense. Hutton's girl wasn't going to let Lolo go, that's for damned certain. He used that to go out and kill someone completely uninvolved. Then called it revenge. War. Maybe. If it had been Jonah bleeding out on that filth coated street, or Fin, Cas, or even Lolo. Eye for an eye. Street law. But instead it was Dary and now the stakes had increased a hundredfold.
The Whispers eyes focus on the man Phroaig was saddling them with. Her eyes and ears most likely. He thinks, noting a slight shimmering of the ghost field as the Iruvian steps forward and introduces himself. Maybe her knife in the back when the time suits and the job is done?
Jonah offers Min Al-Biruni a thin smile, tipping his fingers to his hat. Haunted eyes peer at the Iruvian, taking in the man and the slight stink of unfamiliar sorcery. "Jonah...Boneshaper. It's as the lady says." He nods to Casia. "I dabble a bit in the arcane and spiritual." Judging by the well used and many times repaired spirit mask hanging at his belt, the scars marking his face and hands, and the coal dust, salt powder, and blood stains on his long coat, the man does more than 'dabble.'
His salt and pepper hair still has a few red tinged highlights marking his Skovlander background. His beard and mustache are well kept. But all isn't well, as no matter how hard he tries, Jonah can't help but wince whenever he turns to his left side. The effect of his still unhealed ribs and what replaces his smile as he nods to the southerner.
"Welcome to the team."
Finraeth winces at the bluntness of Casia's question. "What I believe my sister has just demonstrated is that we do in fact lack someone who can ask the sort of question she has just put to you, without annoying everyone in the vicinity." He shrugs at the glare she gives him, although he suspects he will pay for the remark in due course.
Thankfully the newcomer seems to take the question in his stride, and he nods. "Planning is good. We have had a tendency of late to simply react to events as they occur. I think it is time for us to start imposing our will a little."
25 MARCH
You take your leave from Lady Adelaid'es house, with your number - and your resolve - both increased. Whether or not this newcomer has a longer-term futuer in the Dusk Mites is an open question. But for now, his skills can be put to good use.
The next few days are spent planning, and then you will act.
28 MARCH
Iruvian culture is practicaly *built* on stories, both those which are recognised as fables and/or useful lies, as well as the larger stroies which form part of the official narrative and which only the brave or very, very foolish will openly challenge. And in between there are, well, the stories that might be true or could be true one day but aren't yet, or used to be true but aren't now, or are true as long as you believe in them - really, it's an endless list. Those who understand this and know how to use stories to their advantage - they get to rise to the top. Those who don't - well, they soon find out just how far and how fast you can fall in that society.
So when it comes to putting a new story into the weave of the Dusk, Min is the natural choice. The qeustion really is where this story should first be introduced into its new habitat, so that it can thrive and grow and breed.
Spider Items
Fine cover identity: Paperwork, planted stories and rumors, and false relationships sufficient to pass as a different person. [0 load]
Zuben Al-Genubi is loud and brash. His hair is long and braided; his shoes have high heels; his hat is cylindrical and adorned with three medallions. He is dressed all in green, except for his waistcoat (white) and his sash (red, and quite narrow -- really more like a belt). His sash has no fobs. He speaks with a heavy accent, gestures widely, and smiles often.
To a Doskvol native, he's a loud cheerful foreigner: friendly, perhaps not too bright. A fellow Iruvian will instantly identify him socially as a merchant of the second (lower) merchant caste, and ethnically as a mountain Zarg -- and not just any Zarg, but a Lesser Zarg of the Scrodlings. Zargs generally are country bumpkins, a bit backwards, a bit greedy. The Scrodlings are known to be somewhat unstable and prone to fits of religious mania. An Iruvian of a higher caste -- which is to say, most Iruvians -- will view the merchant with amusement and disdain, tempered with caution should he begin to act erratically. (The Red Prophet was a Scrodling, after all.)
Of course, Zuben Al-Genubi is really a wig, high heels, some makeup, and an hour of careful Weaving. Or (looked at another way) Zuben Al-Genubi is a set of papers, a registration with the Iruvian Consulate, a passport, and a carefully forged set of ancestry documents. (Min is quietly pleased with these last. All Iruvians but the lowest castes have ancestry documents. Zuben's are a perfect forgery of a set of bad forgeries. That is, they look exactly like something a foolish low-caste merchant would buy in a lame attempt to prove that his grandmother once sat on the Round.) Looked at still another way, Zuben is rumors, stories, connections; this person did business with him; this other person remembers seeing him regularly at the Change; he frequents this Iruvian tea-house; he is friendly with a particular gondolier. Some of this is Weave, but most is simply dropping hints and speaking with confidence. Because looked at yet another way, Zuben Al-Genubi is just Min Al-Biruni with his shoulders thrown back and his eyes gleaming with cheerful certainty.
Being Zuben is like clenching a muscle. It requires constant alertness and awareness. If another Iruvian were to see through him, the humiliation would be great. (Of course, this itself is a reason the identity works! Who of higher caste would pretend to be a half-sash merchant? Who but a Zarg would be a Zarg?)
And yet, being Zuben is also like relaxing a muscle. Zuben's ancestors were nobodies; he has no noble Name to live up to. Zuben has never been involved in court intrigue, or known the sting of defeat in that game. Zuben is not an exile. Who would exile a Scrodling merchant? Kill him, certainly. But exile? Whyever bother?
And Zuben is not poor. No, he never has much Coin on him, but everyone knows that he's a reasonably successful trader. Not rich, exactly, but a man with all sorts of contacts and fingers in many pies. Everyone knows that he's been involved in some sort of deal, or is about to be involved, or might be. So Zuben is welcome in many places and tolerated in more.
And Zuben has little dignity and no worries beyond his next round of buying and selling. And Zuben has no enemies among the Round, and Zuben has never been married.
Zuben Al-Genubi, brisk and cheerful, walks the streets of Crow's Foot.
Spider items
Fine bottle of whiskey: A rare distillation from your personal collection, potent both in its alcohol and its ability to impress.
Zuben is sitting in the Mustang Inn, having a pleasant conversation with the lead scout of the Silver Nails.
Tuhan is Severosi -- all the Nails are -- and he's a bold fellow. Well, most Severosi are; they have to be, to live in the Deathlands. The spirits are scattered more thinly in Severos, there's less Sour Ground, the madness is generally weaker. There are enclaves of clear ground, and the Severosi have fast horses to move between them. Still, the weak and the timid left or died long ago.
Tuhan wears his hear in a lacquered crest, his arms are covered with apotropaic tattoos, and on one finger he wears a silver nail, hammered into a ring. Despite a ragged scar down one side of his face, he's a handsome fellow, and charming. And he's nobody's fool!
But few men -- bold or timid, fool or cunning -- can resist the charm of fifteen-year-old Skov Island single malt.
Finraeth is among those who cannot resist the charm of a good single malt; he sits (like a good bodyguard) at a respectful distance from Tuhan, although close enough to be there if trouble looks imminent. He catches Min's eye and nods. Whatever the plan is, he will follow the Iruvian's lead.
Zuben has a story to tell. It's a convincing story... he hopes.
Zuben has some experience with the Darklands. (This is true. Min has some experience with the Darklands.) Zuben went on two expeditions, one voluntary, one less so. That's plenty. He never, every wants to go back. Still, he does a little business in Darklands... business. Artifacts; information; passing along contacts. This is known.
The Silver Nails consider themselves the premier experts on Darklands exploration, of course. In fact, they're rather possessive about the whole Darklands thing. The occasional prospector or small group of explorers is fine, whatever, beneath their notice. But they're likely to get annoyed if anyone else spends too much time out there -- especially if that "anyone else" is large, well organized, and looking for anything of value. So Zuben steps carefully here; he's small time, he respects their expertise and doesn't get too ambitious. It would be too much to say the Silver Nails like Zuben, but they know who he is and have no issues with him or his business. He's a minor part of the landscape, has been for a while. So, have a drink? Why not, if he's buying.
But Zuben has a story to tell...
"They wouldn't dare." Tuhan is getting a bit agitated -- annoyed, even. Not at Min (or not yet), but at the very idea that the Grinders -- the filthy, grotesque, proletarian Grinders -- could be a threat to him and his fellow high-bred Severosi friends.
(The Severosi aren't aristocrats, exactly; they're horse nomads. But they're very aristocratic in their ways: honor codes, noblesse oblige, swift resort to violence. And a very long time ago, before they came down through the passes in the southern mountains to build cities palaces and ships, the ancestral Iruvians moved in tents across a vast savannah. So despite great cultural differences, the... shape of the man's mind, is not unfamiliar.)
"I thought so too! Of course!" Zuben nods energetically. "So I took notes."
"Notes?"
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Later:
Letting go of Zuben is as simple as taking off a wig, wiping off a bit of makeup, letting a couple of minor Weaves dissipate. But it feels like... both a relaxation and a resumption of tension. Like opening one hand and clenching the other, Min thinks.
"So... what now?" Finraeth asks, watching the transformation with one eyebrow raised.
"Exactly now? Nothing." Min reaches down to pull off the shoes, tucks them into a nondescript carrying sack. "They took the bait, yes. They believe, or half believe, or anyway believe enough. It makes sense to them that other groups would be jealous -- of their competence, of their ability to go where others do not. They are very proud, and the prideful always imagine that others are jealous. They imagine that they have 'mastered' the Darklands, and in fact their skills are a source of real pride, and of wealth. They have ambitions, because the prideful always have ambitions, and so they imagine that others seek the same goals..."
"Meanwhile the Grinders are arrogant and unlikable, yet strong enough to be plausible rivals. A sudden attack would fit their known patterns of behavior. There is also the element of class; to be assaulted by such rabble would be an outrage, beneath contempt. Yet contempt contains the seeds of fear. Easy to believe that the rabble are ready to rise!" Min stretches, cracks his neck. (Zuben is taller, but also has a tendency to hunch and bob his head a little.) "And they accepted the "evidence" whole -- that was fortunate, honestly it wasn't my best work -- short time!" Min feels his own personality coming back, like pulling on a glove -- fussy, careful, fastidious, aloof. Zuben is much more gregarious but also rather sloppy.
"Then... what was the point?"
"If you are building a fire, what is the the point of carefully arranging kindling? You must gather the materials together first, before you can strike the spark." Zuben is entirely folded up and put away now. (Has he over-used Zuben? It's hard to tell. This was a particularly protracted and high profile display, though. Perhaps he should be more cautious with this identity.) "This is but the first step. Now the Nails are in the right state of mind -- agitated, paranoid. The next actions are up to your colleagues. Our colleagues."
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Casia takes a sip from the clay bottle in her hand and then stows it back into the pocket in her cloak from whence it came. To occupy her mind, she tries to remember what day it is. She could ask the man behind her, but that would defeat the point and Min would probably look down on her. What kind of boozie would she be labeled if she can't even remember what day it is? The frustrating thing is that she can't bring it to mind. Oh, well. What does it really matter what day it is? They have a job to do. Even so, she can still feel the judgement coming from his eyes.
She nudges the boy sitting next to her on the cobblestones with her foot as she spies their target coming down the narrow, filth-strewn street with a couple of his companions. The boy hops to his feet and without a backward glance, jogs forward to pester the men.
"Coin to spare?" he repeats as he paws at their coats. "Coin for food for m' lil sister? Please?"
Predictably, they shove him away and one of them raises a hand to backhand the boy, but with a skill learned in the harsh alleys of the city, he easily dodges it and races away down the street to vanish into the dim light. Casia ignores them as they continue on their way and in a few moments, she feels the presence of the child behind her.
"Did you get it?" she asks without turning.
"If you gots m' coin then I got it," the lad replies.
Casia turns slightly and holds out two of the smallest of coins.
"You said three," the boy argues with a frown.
"I don't see it."
With a smirk, the boy produces a small blade. Somewhere between a knife and a dagger, the blade is sharpened to a razor's edge and the hilt is carved bone - the initials upon it are distinctive.
A third coin appears in Casia's hand as if by magic and she holds them out. The trade is made and the boy vanishes into the passersby on the street as if made of smoke.
Concealing it from the crowd, Casia looks over the blade with an appraising eye. "This belongs to Casiv ... Castiv? ... Casave?" she shakes her head in annoyance. "That fellow that just passed us by. He's a known hitter for the Nails." She grins. "He doesn't know it, yet, but he's about to make an attempt on Hutton."
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Min waits patiently, watching the young woman work her skills.
Comrades are to be judged along several axes. Caste is of course one. Competence is another. The marks of alcohol consumption are so obvious that almost any careful observer could see them. To Min's eyes, they are screaming headlines. Incipient alcoholism, or full-blown but high-functioning? Look below the headlines, read the finer print.
The family was known -- these people do not divide merchants and aristocrats clearly, so either high merchant or low aristocrat, with Min cautiously assigning them to the latter based on the brother's obvious competence with edged weapons and violence. But they had a fall; this also is known. Min is very familiar with having a fall.
He scans the young woman's clothes, tentatively assigning dates: the clothing is good to excellent but several years old, the patches cheaper and more recent. There are laugh lines on her face, but they are overlain by newer lines of worry, fear, and despair. Her hair is hacked, bluntly cut, obviously done by herself -- as is often the case with such, it is slightly off-center. Nobody ever taught her how, because the family had people for that. Now she does it quickly and sloppily, because she does not care. Min nods, internally. It all fits.
Caste is fixed, or nearly so. It is almost impossible to change one's place in the Prevalence. The Great Black Tent can make reassignments, or, very occasionally -- Min flinches internally a little -- the Round. But these are rare as death by lightning. So, her caste is fixed, and for that it does not matter how far she may have fallen economically, socially, or in any other way. "Bind the hawk, blind the hawk, still it will not eat carrion." So along that axis, Min does not care one bit about Casia's poverty, alcoholism, social standing, or mental health.
But competence is something else again. So Min watches, patiently but very alertly, as Casia works her skills.
"There is a Weave I know, that might be useful here."
Iruvians have been Weaving for many centuries, since long before the breaking of the world. And like everything else in Iruvia, Weaving is heavily influenced by two things: aesthetics and caste.
In terms of caste, Min's family are aristocrat-bureaucrats. At their highest levels, they produce not generals and warriors, but high judges, students of fate, and royal viziers. So when they produce Weavers, there aren't usually a lot of fireballs or demon-summonings. Their Weavings are almost all nonviolent, mostly designed to affect perception or the mind. "Enchantments and illusions!" one northerner once said to him. Min's lip curls slightly, remembering: how vulgar.
Because the other influence on Min's Weaving is aesthetics. Subtlety and indirection; elegance and precision. To create the illusion of, say, a demon would be almost embarrassingly straightforward and... obvious. A truly graceful Weaver would touch the mind of the target, here and there, until they convinced themselves that a demon was present, the eye and brain building an abomination of terror out of random sounds and shadows. The end result might be the same, but one would be brick-work while the other is Art.
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The bedroom is elegant, but sparse. The dim light from the single window barely illuminates the space. It smells of mold and mothballs. The townhouse is divided into a number of these same rooms - all five floors - two rooms per floor. The nicer ones face the street at the front, but the cheaper ones - like this one - face the narrow alley that runs the length of the row at the rear. At Min's questioning glance, Casia shrugs.
"The man that lives here has no family and twice a week spends his nights at a certain bawdy house," she explains. "That doesn't mean that he's celibate the rest of the week - he just brings them back here. The ladies were quite willing to spill his secrets for a kiss and a kind word. Well, that and a couple of coins."
She moves through the room and to the window, peaking around the curtains to confirm what she already knows.
"Don't ask me his name, though. I haven't a clue and they weren't forthcoming with that. I guess they do have some sort of morality."
Satisfied with what she sees, she ties the curtain back and opens the narrow window. The cold and damp air immediately rushes in, but she ignores it. She points across the dark chasm of the alley to the window across the way, lit from behind by a lamp if the steady light is any indication.
"And that, my dear Min, is the recently acquired residence of our friend Hutton. If the paranoid t~~# hadn't changed locales since we last paid him a visit then this would have been much easier. Last time we left a cursed blade to send a message. This time we don't want him to think it was left intentionally, but rather dropped by accident."
Leaning out the window, it takes a couple of careful tosses before she catches her hook on the peak of the roof. Pulling the rope taut, she secures it to the foot of the heavy bed.
"Now you said that you could enchant this knife with a weaving, yeah?" the girl asks, holding out the stolen blade, covered in a threadbare scarf. Her hands are steady and Min detects no impairment on her in spite of frequent appearances of the clay bottle she carries. "So what we need is for whoever touches this to see a tall, thin man - just like we had it stole from - running away. Please tell me you can do that?"
"Now you said that you could enchant this knife with a weaving, yeah?" the girl asks, holding out the stolen blade, covered in a threadbare scarf. Her hands are steady and Min detects no impairment on her in spite of frequent appearances of the clay bottle she carries. "So what we need is for whoever touches this to see a tall, thin man - just like we had it stole from - running away. Please tell me you can do that?"
On short notice, this will actually be difficult. It would have been much easier to do over the space of an evening, back in his lodgings, sitting comfortably cross-legged on his last threadbare carpet. But it's still within Min's skills to do it here and now, and quickly. It'll just be... a bit unpleasant.
Min holds the dagger in a cloth, not touching it, and begins to speak softly to it. The language is Hadrathi, which was old when the Sons of Iru were still wandering the high steppe. What people spoke that tongue, and whatever became of them, are things beyond Min's knowledge. These days the old language is mostly used for cursing -- it is rich in scathing expletives. Outside of Iruvia, very few remember that it has other uses.
A bit later...
Min tries not to sag. He's weary now, and it's not just ordinary fatigue. Weaving, especially so quickly, drains the soul. He won't be quite himself for a little while. Until the next session with the Lotus, comes the thought, unbidden, quickly suppressed.
"This should do, I think." In fact Min has gone a bit beyond instructions, because... elegance. The first person to hold the knife will very probably believe they saw the thin man. The second person to hold the knife will be inclined to believe the first person. The third person will have a slightly increased tendency to believe the first two. It's a recursion in the Weaving, which should diminish to nothing once the knife has passed through a few hands.
Min hands the knife back carefully, still wrapped in the cloth. "Be careful not to touch it yourself! If you do, you will snag the Weaving yourself. And since you are yourself its first cause, the result could be... unpredictable."
Casia nods and stows the enchanted knife - still covered with the scarf - in her belt. Taking a last drink from whatever she's carrying, she hands the bottle to Min. "Hold that for me, I'll be back for it," she says with a smirk. "Now when I get across the alley and signal you, untie the rope from the bed. When you see me come out, close the window and the curtain. There might be unfriendlies on my arse. If they see you, this is all for naught."
Approaching the window, she tests the rope one last time before scampering out the window. Min watches her cross the dizzying drop like a spider on a web to the rooftop across the way.
She waves back and gathers in the rope when he releases it. Slipping over the edge of the rooftop, she gives a quick prayer to whatever gods might be listening that security on a window five floors up from the ground is not the resident's first concern.
Keeping her main climbing rope tied at her waist, Casia pulls a second one and hooks it at the edge of the window, letting the rope unspool down to the alley below to leave an obvious trail for anyone to follow. Silent as a churchmouse, she unfastens the window and slips inside.
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Once inside, Casia stills herself to listen to the house. Having cased some of these houses, herself, she knows that the master suite is normally on the fourth floor - the one below where she's currently located. The top floor usually allocated for children's and nanny's rooms. If they don't have children then the rooms are most likely used for storage. Hearing no voices or movement on her current floor, she assumes the latter.
She does hear voices below her. Though, based on how muted they are, they're probably not on the floor that's her destination.
Keeping her back to the wall and her feet close to it to avoid creaky floors, she moves around to the stairway that she assumes descends all the way to the ground floor. Continuing to stick to the wall side of the treads, she inches her way down to the first landing and listens again. The voices continue their muted conversation, confirming for her that they're most likely on the third floor - which plays into her plans perfectly.
Continuing down the stairs, she reaches the fourth floor and stops to listen carefully. Nothing but the voices from below. She creeps silently from door to door until she reaches the one she suspects leads to Hutton's room. With hands that hardly shake at all she carefully trips the latch and eases the door just enough to hear inside.
Muffled breathing.
She nods and opens the door a handspan before backing away from it. Looking around, she spies a nearby table with some sort of vase on it. Meant to convey a sense of refinement, she grins at the piece of no-doubt expensive pottery that will be sacrificed for her plan.
Moving next to the small table, she carefully extracts the dagger and, avoiding contact with the knife, places it just underneath the table on the floor as if accidentally dropped. She then waits.
Any man worth his salt would have thugs that would actually patrol the house rather than sit on their arses, but Casia begins to have doubts when, after ten minutes of silent waiting, the voices come no closer, nor recede farther.
'Gods! How did you advance to where you are by hiring incompetents?' she questions internally as her muscles begin to fatigue from the stress of silent stillness.
She's finally rewarded when the voices seem to reach a conclusion and she hears a pair of footsteps moving below. Relief as well as adrenaline floods her when the creak of the stairs below reaches her ears. The footsteps get slowly louder as someone is climbing the stairs up to the floor that she's on.
She carefully calculates how close the figure is coming for the best effect as she flexes her knees getting ready to run. Just as she's sure that the patrolling thug has reached the landing half-way to the fourth floor, she reaches out to give the unsuspecting vase a shove to the edge of the table where it teeters precariously for just a moment before falling and shattering with a piercing crash.
"Oi! Boss? You okay?" a voice calls from the landing and footsteps grow louder.
'This is it!'
Catlike padding is binned entirely as Casia bolts for the stairs upwards, attempting to make her footsteps as loud as possible.
"Whassat?" a groggy voice calls from the partially open door and Casia just makes out the top of someone's face cresting the stairs as she dashes out of sight, making the turn on the next landing. Racing for the window, she slams the frame back against the casement and slithers out and up, giving her bait rope a tug to set it swinging before flattening herself on the rooftop above.
"Who the f%@& was that?" someone at the window calls out. "I didn't see 'im, but it looks like he headed off down to the alley."
"Well, get some o' the boys down to either end to see if we can cut 'im off," another voice demands.
Footsteps fade away from the window, but Casia remains, listening for any indications of more clever pursuit or for someone to discover her 'bait'. Any moment now, someone should ...
"Hey! What's this?!"
Casia grins in the darkness; The hook is set.
~~~~
The woman remains on the roof as the search below eventually proves fruitless. As the manpower is slowly withdrawn back into the house, she scampers carefully over to the rooftop of the next house in the row before making her way back across above the dark alley with judicious use of her favorite climbing rope to rejoin Min in the musty bedroom.
"Mission accomplished," she says with a grin and holds out her hand for her bottle, intending to reward herself by getting good and plastered.
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The scratch, hiss, and sizzle of a match striking was the only sound inside the abandoned railcar. Sulfurous smoke fills the air. Pale yellow light briefly illuminates Jonah’s face. The tiny array of scars below his right eye, flecks of gray in his beard, the thin cigarette held between thin, chapped lips. The light flickers as the Whisper sucks the match flame into the inky, black cigarillo. The tip hisses and smolders, blood red. For a moment, the crimson point is a singular devil’s eye in the near darkness after Jonah extinguishes the match with a practiced flick of his wrist. The crimson eye flares bright, dims again with the sound of smoke slowly exhaled from lungs.
He’d been sitting there in the dark of his small room for…well he didn’t really know how long. Didn’t really care. A mournful whistle drifts through the damp night air. The Silk Express out of Whitehollow. Undoubtably arriving right on time. The trains always run on time. It’s one of the few things the Dread Emperor insists on. A quick calculation, his arcane mind can’t help calculating obscure, meaningless minutiae when he was like this, meant he’d been here for a good six hours. Ever since Casia and Min had set out to stir up the next bit of trouble between the Grinders and the Nails.
Initially he’d just stepped out of the Mites hideaway for a walk. Clear his head. Things had been tense, ready to boil over ever since their meeting with Lady Whatshername. Dary’s death had hit them all pretty hard. Even Naty had been more subdued, quiet, a ghost walking on eggshells. The earlier business with Quellyn certainly hadn’t helped either. Concern for his aethereal sister wafted through his heart like the smoke in the air. She tried to blame herself, he pleaded with her not to. Hoped the stresses of recent events would not send her beyond his help? He didn’t know if they would. He told himself he should. He should be working to prevent such a catatrophe. Researching. Tracking down these Reconciled. Doing everything he could to save the girl he couldn’t save before. Instead, he found himself once again at war.
Another cloud of lung gumming smoke fills the air. It’s not a straight blood and mud, kids by the hundreds, nay thousands, dying in the trenches kind of war. No, not that. Never again would he fight that kind of war. No, this was a different kind of war. Much more like those final months and days of the Unity War where he perfected his craft behind the Imperial lines. When he fought with daggers in lost alleys, poisons in gold lined cups, hidden explosives, and aethereal terrors released to torment the never-ending night. That was the kind of war he fought now. No armies marching. No nation’s flag rallying the troops. Revenge and survival fueled this trial of killing and destruction. Only a few dozen lives were truly at risk. And yet, this tiny war was far more important to him than any fight for Queen and Country had ever been.
For Queen and Country. How often had those words echoed in his ears and filled his heart with courage enough to charge across the cratered snow fields and into the teeth of the Imperial trenches? Too often. How often had those same words reverberated in the night as a rail station was blown, an enemy patrol ambushed, or inside a wedding hall just before unholy ghostly chaos erupted.
Such sentiments didn’t resonate these days. With Jonah or anyone else for that matter. The war and the Emperor put a cold, hard, bloody stop to those delusions of grandeur and power.
And truth be told, Jonah never really, truly believed. Not deep down in his heart. And certainly not after that those first cold, mud, blood, and pestilence filled, years in the trenches. Like everyone in their first months of service during the Unity War, he’d believe the rhetoric and propaganda. An independent Skovland would be free and strong. Skovland should decide its own fate. All Skovs should enjoy the fruits of our hard labor rather than send that wealth oversees to benefit the Emperor and his chosen supporters. But in reality, people like him and his farming family were just trading servitude to one noble for another. Certainly Queen Alyane was a decent leader who cared about her people and truly believed her noble words. He’d no doubt of that. But how many awful kings and queens had come before? Too many to count. And who among Alyane’s advisors and the other High Noble families really bought into such revolutionary ideas as giving power to the common folk? Who would build upon such ideals after she died? How long before Skovland brought forth its own Dread Emperor?
The dark reality was that they fought because they had to. Either because the conscription brigades forced them to. Or for the promised three meals and three slugs a day. A quick bullet to the head was a better death than starving in night’s icy embrace or down in the mines. Coin, food, and a chance for something more. That’s what put most of us in the trenches. Most, but not all.
Another match. This time it reaches out and calls to life a second flame. One of pale blue, that stinks of leviathan oil. Light from the oil lamp illuminates the sparse room filled with the scattered detritus of experiments, scratched out notes, and long, lost dreams. Across the way sits a small chest. A bare patch on the wood where the Serpent and Sword of Skovland used to reside. Such things long forbidden within the Empire. Making his way over to the chest, Jonah slips a key into the heavy metal lock. Tumblers, rusted from disuse protest their sudden need to adjust. The hidden spirit that keeps watch surges upward only to fall back into slumber as it recognizes the individual opening its forbidden sanctuary.
Hinges squeal and the musty smell of stored cloth mixes with the stench of cigar smoke. Gazing inside is gazing into a past Jonah didn’t like to recall. A pair of tarnished silver medals stare up from the neatly folded and musty uniform. A packet of yellowed documents, his official discharge papers, the Writ of Reconciliation bearing the Imperial Seal, a few notes from Naty. His service pistol. A few other mementos from those who never went home. He clears it all out, setting it carefully aside. Then slips out the false bottom.
Hidden underneath is space for four spirit bottles. Only three remain. Three frost coated, metallic bottles. Their contents dormant, their seals unbroken. The fourth spot once held the ghost of Wally. Who, as far as Jonah knows, now roams freely among the denizens of Doskval. Another deed he’d have to account for to the gods, if the gods weren’t all dead.
Smoke wreathes his face as he reaches down and turns the second bottle to reveal a hastily scrawled label. Captain Skint. The two simple words are written in Jonah’s own blocky hand, the greasy white letters still as legible as if they’d been scratched on only a day or two ago.
Jonah takes the bottle from the hidden cache and sets it on the makeshift table of scrap wood and eel crates. Do I really want to do this? The cigarillo flips nervously from one side of his mouth to the other. Can you carry the weight if….no….when the boy causes more harm than good? Because you know it’ll happen… eventually. The little remaining remnant of Jonah’s conscience pleads. Is it worth it? He didn’t really know the answer. Leaning back, he stares at the cold container, watching the moisture from the damp air slowly gather and then freeze to a thin frosty white. He remembers.
Captain Skint, whose real name was Arlen Cardella, was the third son of a noble family that had long ago lost or outlived their fortune. Broad shouldered, a true Skov’s head of flaming red hair and hands big enough to hold a cannonball in an iron grip. He was a gods bedamned poster child for Skovland’s army of glory and valor. But more than just his looks, the Captain, unlike most such scions of the upper classes, was actually liked by most of the other lads in the trenches. Affable, generous, always willing to lend a hand. He actually earned the respect of his fellows. That despite never paying for his own drinks and owing everyone in the squad what must have been a year’s pay, on account of his having the worst luck at cards or dice as anyone Jonah had ever known. The man was always skint, never managing to have two slugs of his own to rub together. Thus his unofficial moniker, which true to form, he happily embraced.
But it wasn’t just his friendly, benevolent noble nature that made him the talk of, and eventually a danger to, high command. His true power. His true threat. Was that he was a true believer. He believed in not just Skovland and the Queen, but in all of the ideals that supposedly unpinned the struggle against the Emperor. A truly free, independent society. Economic wellbeing for all. The elimination of the noble and the social hierarchies that had ruled society since before the breaking of the world. And he had the inherent charisma and persuasive gifts to really, truly, sell such ideals. As long as Skovland and Queen Alyane fought against the Emperor, Skint was her fanatical warrior.
And he hated the Empire and all it represented. Most especially, he hated the unbending, patriarchal, hierarchical Iruvians who filled out the ranks of so many of the mercenary units brought in to fight the Unity War. Iruvian culture and society fired a special boiling disdain and disgust within the free thinking Skint.
Jonah recalled the Third Battle of Mintner’s Pass. The Queen’s 7th had been stymied in the pass for a month. The Alduran Flying Blades, and Iruvian mercenary company had just been brought up to support the Imperial defenders. Seeing the Iruvian banners across the summit, Skint launched into a series of speeches and tirades that fired the blood of every soldier within ear shot. By the end every man within earshot of Skint would have freely and willingly jumped into the pits of all the hells just for the chance of drawing Iruvian blood. There was so much hatred, zealous courage, and idealistic stubbourness filling the trenches that twilight that when the whistles blew to go over the top, it wasn’t a battalion that charged the enemy lines, it was a horde of devils intent on delivering the Iruvian’s to the Abyss.
Although Jonah didn’t realize it at the time, Skint was one helluva weaver. Just no one knew it, least of all Skint himself. To this day, Jonah isn’t certain how the man wove the power of the ghost field through his words, but he did.
The Skovland forces broke through the pass that day. Jonah and his comrades, slaughtering the Iruvian mercenaries. The actual memories of the day are just a blur of blood and death and screaming. Afterward every man in his squad received the Queen’s Star for what they’d achieved, most of them posthumously. Over seventy five percent of his comrades were gone. They’d won, but the price had been too blasted high. Orders to hold, to fall back, to regroup and rally were all ignored in the frenzy caused by Skint’s aetheric enhanced words. It was after that grim day that Jonah understood the real threat and danger Skint presented. He’d burn down the entire world to achieve his vaunted dreams. Stand atop a mountain of free corpses, all equal in their rotting death.
Jonah witnessed Skint’s power more than a half-dozen times over the few months of his ground service. Witnessed so much more death and destruction. Felt that power engulf his own mind in its rabid, chilling grasp. It was his transfer into the covert forces that likely saved his life, else he would have eventually ended up amongst Skint’s long list of glorious and patriotic martyrs to Skovland’s glory.
It wasn’t until the final month’s of the war that he saw Skint again. He was gaunt, his uniform a shambles, his fiery mane reduced to a ragged stubble across his scarred scalp. He was leading a large scale incursion into Imperial territory held by the Silver Nails, a diversion mostly, while the main army retreated toward the capital. Jonah’s saboteurs were acting as scouts and help fend off enemy arcanists.
Before he they set out on that final foray, Skint came to Jonah, a haunted look in his usually friendly eyes. It was like he knew his time was growing short. Knew some force of fate was finally calling in the marker for all the blood he’d spilled. The crazy thing about it all, Jonah still actually liked the man.
”Don’t let them bottle me.” He says, his voice filled more with anger and disappointment than fear. ”Don’t let the damned Imperial spirit trappers get me. Promise me Jonah, promise that you’ll be the one to bottle me if I catch a bullet during this mission.”
”What’re you talking about Skint.” Jonah tries to laugh off the man’s desperate plea. ”You may be a demon’s bi$ch when it comes to cards, but you’re downright untouchable when the heat’s on. Damned bullets are afraid to touch you. They always have been.”
Skint smiles at the mention of his gambling troubles, despite the fact no one has had time to play cards for months. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. That ice blue gaze burns with the same determination that’s carried him this far. Only now, there’s something more in his haggard look. Not just exhaustion, it is a knowing. Jonah had seen it once or twice before. Sometimes a person just knows their time upon the world grows short. Jonah stares into those eyes as Skint grabs him by the shirt and pulls him close. ”Just promise me Jonah. You’re the best we’ve got for this mission. I won’t be forced to fight for them, see. Especially them Silver bast$%ds. You make sure and bottle me up. Make it so I can keep on fighting against ‘em. Fighting for what’s right.”
”Okay, okay.” Jonah says pulling the man’s clenching hands off his collar. He’s about to say something placating when the first shells start to fall. No one had expected the attack. Somehow, the Imperials had sniffed out our plans and decided to put a stop to it before we got started. As the chaos erupted around them, Skint forces Jonah to look him in the eye again, makes him promise. Jonah did.
The rain’s slow patter turns to a cacophony as a downpour unleashes itself on the roof of the old rail car. The slow plip-plop of water dripping into a pan turns to a constant stream. Jonah stares at the spirit bottle sitting on the table. If he sends Skint in to fire up the Grinders against the Silver Nails, he’d no doubt the blood would start flowing. The question was how much blood and for how long? Long enough to see both gangs, who needed to pay. Pay for Dary. Pay for Naty. He’d no doubt Skint could prime the Grinders pump against the Nails. In the end, it was a Silver Nail bullet that put him down. But would it stay confined to just the two gangs? Not if Skint got his way. No. Skint would set out to get the whole blasted city rising up in rebellion. Fire up every Skov and discontent he could find. Start another damned lost cause, Unity War.
What causes Jonah’s stomach to churn and his palms to sweat is that the blasted ghost might have an honest shot of doing just that. Jonah never did figure out exactly how Skint’s power worked. And certainly not how it might have changed when the man became a spirit himself. If he lets that genie out of the bottle, he could be unleashing something unstoppable. Even if he the Warden get Skint in the end. His ideas. His dreams. Set out among the desperate souls of the city. What would it take to put those burning fires of hope and possibility out in a place like Doskvol? Could they be put out? Or would they start a conflagration that consumes the whole damned city. How many would die to enact their revenge? His own revenge.
Jonah lets the cigarillo smolder to a final nub. Finally, he grabs the bottle from the table. Slips it into his coat along with the other tools of his trade. Stepping out in the dark, rain flooded path, he latches the door shut and sets off for the Duskmites hideout.
”Only one way to find out.”
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Wiping muck from his boots, Jonah sees nor hears any sign of the others until he walks into the small parlor. Parlor being the term Fin and Casia gave the one room outfitted with the only pieces of actual furniture they owned. A broken down sofa covered with a moth eaten blanket to cover a pair of rat holes bored into the center cushions, a deep, overstuffed sitting chair wrapped in one of the worst plaids that Jonah had ever seen, and the large table they often ate around as well as planned out their various less than legal endeavors. It was something of a dump, but it was their dump and it was home. A safe home. Or it would be safe again, once they’d dealt with the Grinders.
The sofa was snoring. Jonah walks around to spot Casia, an empty bottle on the floor beneath dangling fingers. A second, still a quarter full tucked up against her breast like a child’s teddy bear. The amber liquid sloshing softly with the sleeping woman’s every twitching movement. The usual blend of sweat, alcohol, and cheap perfume filled the air around the sofa. He assumed her mission went well enough.
Quietly grabbing the empty bottle with a kerchief covered hand, he leaves Casia be and slips into his makeshift laboratory. The door clicks closed behind him. Holding the empty liquor bottle up to the light studious eyes see the haze of lip paint around the mouth, fingerprints scattered about the glass. It smells of the harsh bottled tragedy that so infected his friend. In many ways a bottle like this was more attuned and symbolic of the woman than any other trinket or bit of clothing outside of her knives and sharp wit. It would do.
Setting the empty bottle down his attention turns to another. The spirit bottle weighs heavily on his belt, despite moving a scale less than the thick glass firewater bottle. The weight was in his heart and mind. Still, his decision had been made. Now it was time to act. Throw the dice and let whatever remnants of the gods or fates who still lingered in this ill-favored world decide.
Working his way around the room, he starts lighting candles. Eight in a circle on the floor. The four cardinal directions plus the bisecting points in between. Two others at the top and bottom of the circle to seal the upper and lower worlds. Then the long, slow task of pouring silvered salt linking the candles into an actual circle and a second one where he would sit. A third circle of charcoal and sulfur he laid out surrounding the other two. Inside the original circle, he places Casia’s discarded bottle.
Finally, he pulls out another package tucked down deep in his pack. His old uniform jacket. The Skovlander blue and crimson fabric smelled musty from its long years of storage, but aside from being a bit tighter in the shoulders and waist, the coat still fit. The woolen fabric still smells of black powder and blood. The medals glitter in the candlelight and Jonah tamps down a screaming horde of memories. So many memories. Too many memories. There were reasons he’d wished to never wear these clothes again. But Skint would respect the uniform much more than Jonah himself.
With all in readiness he sets the spirit bottle in the middle of the circle. Puts a few drops of acid on the waxy, seal and takes his position inside the secondary circle, careful not to disturb the outlines of either. This acid hisses like a warning snake. A thin curlicue of yellow smoke drifts upward from the spirit bottle. Jonah stands at attention, eyes closed, easing his breath into a slow, calm rhythm. With each intake and release of air the Whisper does his best to clear his mind and attune himself to the aetheric energies flowing through the city. Ever present currents drifting among the world’s lingering life.
Drawing from that aetheric power, Jonah infuses the circles with energy, creating a double layered barrier. All sound outside the circles is muted, distant. Moments later there is a loud *pop* and the slow hiss of old air slipping into the world. With the air comes something else. At first it is little more than a pale indigo and crimson trail of aetheric smoke. A heartbeat or two later it is something much more.
Captain Arden ‘Skint’ Cardella stands in the center of the ritual circle. A head taller than Jonah. Shoulders wider, thicker than Jonah. Jaw chiseled from some statue of the ancient northern warrior gods. Beard a fiery red, that matches the hair that flows in a wind, despite nary a breath of breeze moving in the tight confines of the laboratory. Sharp eyes take in the surroundings, even as a heavy hand reaches out to test the aetheric boundaries of the spirit cage. A slight snap and crackle, the cage holds. A semi-smile curls the Captain’s lip as his attention turns to the near opposite counterpart standing just across the aetheric boundaries of life and death.
Just being in Skint’s presence made Jonah, stand a bit taller, his heart beat a bit faster. When those ice blue eyes meet his own, pride and passion for his homeland surges through old bones thought incapable of such useless and base feelings.
”Ahh…Corporal Boneshaper, Jonah, how goes the war?” The voice is deep resonate. ”Have the glorious forces of Skovland finally thrown back the Imperialist’s to earn her people’s freedom?”
Once that voice was filled with the joy and fiery passion for life and friendship. A voice that made men laugh and sing and weather the constant storms that war and misery filled their lives with every day. It was a voice that send men charging the lines to die. Much of that is still there. But nothing escapes the traumatic transformation of death. Now that voice has something else. No longer tempered by mortal concerns. Mortal caring, love, or compassion. Freed of such trivial things, it is a twisting pulling psychic magnet pulling all into the grasping maw of a fanatic’s desires. Ware and woe to those not prepared for such aetheric intrusion. Jonah is ready.
”The war is over Skint.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said those words to the ghost. ”Skovland lost. The queen is dead.” It is a struggle. A struggle even for the cynical and rational Whisper to admit such a thing out loud to this dead creature.
The ghost shakes its head and laughs. It is a chilling, bone jarring sound that rattles the door and sends the candles flames dancing.
”Oh my dear corporal. When will you not learn?” The ghostly eyes dance with delight. ”The war is never lost. Not as long as one of us remains true to the cause. True to what is right and just. As long as one carries the banner in life…or death…we must ever fight on. For Skovland. For Glory! For Freedom!”
The words are an aether brewed torrent. The rapturous flood crashes into Jonah’s barriers, both mental and aethereal. Jonah’s breathing grows rapid, his eyes take on a momentarily wild look. For a split second he is back in the trenches. Ghost shells exploding everywhere along the front. Their howling, frenzied contents filling the night air as they unleashed their feral wrath upon friend and foe. Horns blare their murderous call. The Captain rouses them once again over the top and into death’s cold grip.
With a huge effort, Jonah drives back Skint’s power.
”In time.” Jonah growls, sweat beading upon his brow. ”When the Dread Emperor’s power wains and imperial power weakens. Perhaps then.” It is not a lie. Somewhere in his heart, he believes a new order will arise from the ashes of the world. Within that new order, Skovland may once again be free. He very much doubts it will be within his lifetime. But he does not wish to philosophize with the ghost. A deadly game, that Jonah was too likely to lose. Instead, it was time to throw out the bait.
”The war is over, but there is a chance to strike. Strike at those who brought pain and misery to our homes, our land.” Here is more truth. All the better to set the hook with Skint. ”It is a chance to put an end to some of those who pillaged and plundered the best, brightest, and most beautiful of our broken land. Stole our most beloved to use and degrade in for their own base desires.” Jonah pours his anger and hatred for the Silver Nails into his words. For the ghost, each syllable is an elixir of life and power. Each uttered phrase leaves the being before him more solid, more real, more living.
”Haha!” The ghost revels, glowing brightly in the dimly lit room. ”I knew there was fight in you Corporal. Indeed let us take the offensive. Enough with paltry delaying tactics and defensive holds. Let us strike hard and deep at the enemy. What is this chance? Which imperial dogs shall we bring to heel?”
”The Silver Nails” Three little words. Spoken clearly and dripping with every bit of misery and anger caused by Naty’s death at their hands. The ghostly laughter dissipates in an instant. The hook was well and truly set. Jonah nods to the ghostly fury facing him from across the trembling barrier. ”Aye. The Iruvian mercenary scum who we often faced on the field of battle. But who after the truce and peace had been granted continued to ravage and plunder towns, homes…farmsteads…across Skovland. Turned good, innocent people into slaves and worse. This is who I’ve called you forth to rally our people against.”
Silence drips from Skint. Silence was ever when Skint was at his most dangerous and deadly, for it meant he was angry. Raging enough for words to have fled the ever talkative captain.
”How is it you cannot rally our people yourself against such a foe?” The ghost eventually asks.
”The war is over. Many…most…nearly all…Skovlander’s have moved on. Those of us who fought are too tired, too broken, or too dead to continue. Those who take our place see profit and personal gain under the imperial order. There is a band here in the city. Led by a man called Hutton. He turned our Skov brothers and sisters into slavers, going so far as to even sell other Skovs to the imperial mines and work gangs.” Jonah carefully massages the facts, sticking to the truth where convenient, forgetting it or changing it when necessary. This time he injects his own desires against Hutton and Silver Nails into his words, boosting them with his own aetheric compulsion.
”If someone could rally Hutton’s followers. Make them remember who they are. Where they came from. Release them from Hutton’s weak and traitorous leadership. Then they’d be a force that could strike at the hated Silver Nails. Weaken the mercenaries, send their blood draining into the gutters and their spirits down to the icy cold hells of the Abyss.”
”Why not you?” The ghost questions.
”I’ve no gift for words.” An honest reply, especially when compared to one with Skint’s gift. ”They’ve no love for me, who already stopped some of their slave trading and who Hutton hates for showing his weakness once before. No, I cannot. But you…”
”Yes! I see. It is true, you were always more of an explosives and studious lad. Guess that’s why they transferred you eventually. For certain, I shall put the fire of life and honor and country back into this broken squad of lost souls.” He says, rallying already to the charge. ”Point me to them and let us unleash the hounds of war once again upon the tarnished darkness that is the Nails.”
And now the trickiest part. Jonah points to the liquor bottle. He really hoped Casia got the knife settled in the Grinder hideout.
”The one whose essence rides that bottle left a knife where the Grinders, that is what these Skovs are calling themselves now, are based. It is an Iruvian knife, wrapped in magic offering proof of the Silver Nail’s actions against their own. Find the holder of that knife and you will have found Hutton or his accomplices. I do not think Hutton can be swayed. He is much to personally enriched by his present course. But the others, they can be rallied. Show them the way. Enlighten them to the real enemy. Show them Skovlands road to glory and freedom.“
”Ah ha! You’ve some passion in you yet Boneshaper.” The ghost says. ”Free me from this little cage, and we’ll see the emperor’s downfall for certain.” It adds, eyes gleaming hungrily in the damp, candlelight room.
Jonah swallows. Last chance to turn back. You can stuff him back in the spirit bottle and just walk away. A bit of Jonah’s mind pleads. But whether it is Skint’s magic or Jonah’s own desire to pay pack Hutton for Dary and most importantly, pay back the Nails for Naty, that tiny voice goes unacknowledged.
With a snap of his mind, Jonah releases the aetheric ties that power the cage. The shimmering haze disappears in a blink of an eye. Skint’s eye grow brilliant as his head swirls around the liquor bottle like a hound scenting a foxes blanket.
”For Skovland! For Glory! For Freedom!” Skint shouts and then disappears up and through the roof, into the darkness and rain of Doskvol.
After a few silent moments, the ghostly words still echoing in his brain, Jonah pulls a thin cigarillo from his pocket and lights it with a shaking, pale hand. By the gods, my ribs ache.
The latch to the door behind Jonah clatters for a moment as if someone is fumbling with it. A moment later and the door opens revealing a dozy looking Casia.
"What the f%$$ are you shouting about?" she demands, her words are only slightly slurred, but her eyes seem to have trouble focusing on him. The partially full bottle is still clutched in her hand as she looks around the room, seeking the source of the disturbance. "If you're gonna argue with yourself then please do it quieter."
She turns to return to the couch.
"And if you're arguing with your spook of a sister then do it somewhere else, okay?" she adds over her shoulder.
Min frowns. The Weave... something seems /off/. Not quite right. He tries to reach out, but the knife is too far away now, in space and in time. Min is a skillful Weaver, but not a powerful one, and this sort of work calls for brute strength. Although... it's not the knife, exactly? Not that end of the thread. The other. Something about the woman?
Min would try to concentrate, to re-focus his attention on the near end of the Weave -- a very specific sort of mental effort, a bit like crossing one's eyes while deliberately not thinking about any sort of dog -- but just then Casia walks back into the room, grinning. "And that's a job well done!"
Is it? Min starts to think, but already the thought is fading. Working with the Weave is very like dreaming -- a sort of lucid dreaming, random and controlled at the same time. And like dreaming, if once you wake and lose the thread, all is forgotten. The momentary distraction is enough. The dream-strand of Weave-stuff slips through Min's mental grasp, drifts away, and is lost.
It was probably nothing, he thinks vaguely, and moves on.
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Finraeth's affinity/relationship with alcohol is markedly different from Casia's; most notably because for him it is principally about quality, rather than quantity. And there is no doubting the quality of the liquor in the bottle he is currently holding; it is the very worst: a rough Skovlandic peasant drink, distilled by (and possibly even from) rough Skovlandic peasants. The young man uncorks the bottle and his nose wrinkles from the acrid fumes; the smell is unmistakable.
Which is, of course, the point.
Another point of distinction between the two siblings is that he has absolutely no qualms in spilling alcohol where it serves his purposes. With a quick, sharp motion he upends the bottle over himself, letting the rough-smelling liquor seep into his cloak and form a vile miasma around him. With that done, he settles back once more against the wall that is his shelter against the wind and his shield against too many prying eyes. For tonight he is, intentionally, far from home: in a district populated largely by Severosi, and outside a tavern known to be frequented by the Silver Nails.
This is, as they say, a tough ask. He needs a small group of them: enough to furnish him and the others with disguises, but not so many or of such seniority that they will overpower him. He is all too aware (both from Jonah's stories and general folklore) of the Silver Nails' reputation and ability for extreme violence. He has no wish to be on the receiving end of what they can deliver. This is his third night of waiting for the right opportunity; and it would seem that third time is indeed the charm. The small group he identified earlier have now spent many hours in the tavern, and it is his hope, by the time they emerge, that firstly they will be sufficiently drunk that the advantage will be his; and that secondly the hour will be sufficiently late that nobody else will be around who might be inclined to intervene.
On both of these counts, he is rewarded. Fortune may favour the bold, but good things come to those who wait. As the small group of mercenaries exits the tavern, staggering together in the tight knot favoured by those who are seeking mutual support, he detaches himself from the wall that has been his cover and walks into the middle of the street; favours his soon-to-be-victims with a bow.
"Gentlemen. I require your cloaks, your tunics, and most of all your silver badges."
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Casia's words jar Jonah out of his thoughts following the departure of Skint's ghost. He'd hoped the workings wouldn't have woken the woman. She was often ill tempered when disturbed after an evening of particularly heavy drinking. Well, even more ill tempered.
"Just doing my bit for the war effort." He replies quietly stepping through the doorway and clicking it quietly closed behind him. "Sorry to bother you. T'was a bit more boisterous a working than I had expected, but then one never could keep that man quiet. But all is finished now. The die is cast..." He pauses. For a moment Casia thinks she might hear a bit of regret in the ex-soldiers voice. "Blood will most certainly be flowing soon."
Jonah winces as he shifts his weight on the damp bit of broken pallet he'd been sitting on for the last several turns of a glass. The collar of his heavy coat was flipped up and pulled tight around his neck while his large hat was pulled down tight and low. A frayed scarf wound around his neck adding an additional layer of cover to his face and Skov features. To most passersby he was just another bit of Doskvol Detritus discarded upon the cities dirty streets. Something to be ignored unless he moved or threatened to approach. Then he'd become a threat or nuisance depending on ones own power and authority. For now he was happy to remain nothing more than a filthy shadow.
More out of boredom rather than necessity, he checked the arcane marking scratched into the soot stained bricks and boards of the little bit of alley than he and Fin had called home over the last three nights. So far, each night they'd staked out the tavern across the way to little avail. Each night, Jonah re-scored the marks, re-anchored the tendrils of aetheric power to himself and this bit of back alley. Each night they'd walked away empty handed. That is, until now.
"Gentleman. I require your cloaks, your tunics, and most of all your silver badges." Fin's words rolled down the alley across the shadowed lump that was Jonah.
Within moments, the Whisper began to whisper. The soft, sibilant sounds creeping into the damp night air like a spider on the hunt.
"Blood and bone, for fallen throne.
Axes bray, warriors pray.
Vengeance earned, for a nation burned.
Spirits churn, ghostly forms you'll not discern."
As each word passes the whisper's chapped lips, he tugs upon the tendrils of ghost field that have lane like a resting net upon the alley slime. Pulling tight the threads of power he conjures a trio of images barely visible in the gloom light behind Fin. Three tall, burly Skov warriors. Armed with long knives and dock worker garb. Grinder garb.
The whispered phrase repeats and the shadow figures spread apart, making like any normal cutpurse cutting off the obvious routes of escape. All the while words of hatred and revenge pour forth from Jonah's heart and mind.
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Violence ensues.
Briefly. Finraeth is not in a mood to be trifled with, and hasn't been ever since the news of Dary's death reached him. These individuals aren't responsible for that murder, but they are the first suitable target he has had for his frustrations, and so they bear the brunt of his anger. Not entirely fair, but neither is life.
In the time it would take a person to read that paragraph, the first victim is down; they are still gaping at the audacity of being confronted in the street like this by a lone individual when the meaty sound of bruised flesh and the gristle-crack sound of breaking bone confirms to their drink-addled senses that yes, they are indeed under attack. By that time, Finraeth is in their midst, and the ghosts summoned by Jonah are surrounding them and lending a new terror to their uncertainty. It is nothing resembling a fair fight, although Finraeth restrains himself enough to ensure that he keeps it non-lethal. He has no personal animus against these individuals; it is simply that they have something he requires.
It is all over in a matter of seconds, the last of his victims grasping helplessly at the mist around him, his blind panic at the ghosts rendering him oblivious to the more physical threat of the Cutter who steps in neatly behind him and switches off the lights by means of a fist to the back of the skull. The fight now ended, he hastily drags them into a nearby alleyway and proceeds to remove their uniforms; thus equipped, he is about to make a hasty exit when a thought forms, or rather perhaps a memory.
He remembers, at a much more youthful age, taking quill and ink and applying his best artistic endeavours to sketching a mustache on the face of his and Casia's sleeping nanny. He was quite proud of the result, a looping curling affair that grandly covered her entire upper lip and spread across the cheeks. Their mother was considerably less impressed and did her best to tan his backside into leather by way of remonstration with her mischievous son (Casia, whose idea it was but who wisely left the execution thereof to another, went entirely unpunished; another litany in the book of sibling injustices).
The memory strikes him now, and he grins. Drawing a stiletto dagger from a sheath in the small of his back, he reaches down and hastily carves the Grinders' gang symbol into the buttock of the nearest victim. It's not his best work, but it will do. His victims may not remember much of their assailant, but between that carving and the reek of Skovlandic liquor they should have no difficulties in (albeit mistakenly) identifying who has wronged them.
He slips the knife ("borrowed" from his sister, but that's another story) back into its sheath, gathers up the pile of clothing, and fades back into the darkness from whence he came.
...but it never goes smoothly. Finraeth has long since stopped asking himself why it never goes smoothly; it simply is the way things are.
About half-way back to the Dusk Mites' hideout, as the adrenaline wears off, he feels the nick in his side from where one of their blades must have pierced him. Aside from annoyance at having had his flesh (and more distressingly, his fine linen shirt) take more damage, he shrugs it off as a minor wound; just as his leg gives way and he stumbles to the ground. Gritting his teeth, he gets up and resumes his journey, but by the time he arrives back at the old tower and stumbles through the concealed entrance, he is sweating profusely and his skin has taken on the grey-green pallor associated with some of the more unpleasant poisons.
He drops the assorted costumes that he has retrieved, smiles at the rest of the group faintly ("You know, a funny thing happened on my way back to this house.") and falls sideways onto the floor.
"FIN!" Casia screams and leaps to his side, pulling his head into her lap. Looking up at Jonah, fear is etched into her face. "Help him!" she demands as tears of frustration fill her eyes.
Hearing Casia's scream, Jonah comes running out of his little laboratory. He had only returned himself a few minutes earlier and was busy stashing his equipment. He'd seen the lad take on the Iruvian mercenaries, and the old soldier had to admit, he'd never seen anyone dance with knives with the deadly grace and focus Fin had that evening. It was a magnificent display, made all the more impressive since all three Nails still sucked air into their lungs.
The whisper's face is all surprise when he finds Casia stooped over her brother. Fin's face is covered in sweat and the color of a month old mushroom. Hurrying over he helps move the boy onto the rickety lump of a couch searching for what might be causing his friends condition. He'd done his fair share of field first aide in the trenches. Mostly just holding a guys hand and telling him it would be all right when he knew it wouldn't be. But occasionally he'd helped stitch up a blade wound or bullet hole. Then there were those suffering from ghost rot, spirit sickness, aether poisoning or the dozens of other maladies that crossed no mans land when the Imperial whisper's cast their malign spirits across the battlefield.
With deft hands he searches the cutter's body. His first pass results in nothing. It isn't until his third try that he discovers the thin puncture just above the kidney.
"Here!" He growls to Casia, pointing out the wound as he draws his knife and slices at the shirt to clear it away from the wound. The sound of shredding fabric backs his voice. "Get me some of that firewater you usually drown yourself in and pour it on the wound and into this bowl. We'll get the wound closed, although I don't think blood loss is what's causing his foul color. Could be they nicked something important inside. Could be something worse." He says dropping a small bowl on the table as he grabs thread and needle from the little kit they all shared to mend the near constant holes, rips, and missing buttons that occur in their line of work.