Blades in the Dark (GM Sarah)

Game Master Sarah 'queen' B.

Finraeth looks up, his gaze unfocused, at Casia as she cradles his head in her lap. "I don't feel well enough to go to school today, Mother."

(Jonah has seen this sort of thing before during the Unity War:* there's a type of mushroom that's native to the Severosi lands and which makes for a nasty contact poison when it's properly distilled. It's treatable with the right anti-toxins, but Finraeth isn't going to be doing much of anything for several days if not weeks while he recovers.)

*or the War of Akorosi Agression, depending on where you were standing at the time

It is the smell that first alerts Jonah to the poison's presence. Like rotting rose and pepper spice. The pungent aroma first assaults his senses as he slides the needle through flesh to start sewing the wound closed.

"Damnation!" The whisper curses, recognizing the stink as he works. Casia's wide eyes look up at him, her hands knuckle white as they hold her brother down. The sound of Fin's rapid breathing only slightly muffled by the leather belt clenched between his teeth. Another quick sniff of the wound. A grim nod. "Jesters-cap."

"What?" Casia hisses between her own worry clenched teeth. "It's just a simple cut. Now is not the time for your spirit crap. He isn't ghost sick. Just sew it up. If you can't do it, just let me."

"Poison" Jonah grumbles, continuing to deftly work the needle until finally tying it off it a quick series of knots. "More specifically a poison derived from the Severosi jester's cap mushroom. A native fungus common in that desolate land. It is so named because the mature mushroom cap often forms an array of brightly colored arms that look like the ridiculous hats that some ancient court bards and entertainers used to wear." He clicks his tongue. "Unfortunately, there's nothing funny about the mushroom's effects." Suddenly he jabs the needle into Fin's lower calf.

"What are you doing!?" Casia hollers, practically drawing her knife on Jonah. But then her eyes follow his and notice that her delirious brother doesn't so much as twitch at the jab. It isn't until Jonah pokes the needle into his lower thigh that Fin manages to register any response to the pain.

"We've not much time. The poison has already rendered him numb in his hands and feet. If we don't hurry, it'll permanently burn out all the nerves leaving him paralyzed, but only until the poison spreads and eventually destroys all the nerves in his heart and spine leaving him a lifeless husk."

He hurries back into his lab. Talking as he rummages through his various alchemical and arcane supplies. "We saw a bit of this during the war. The Imperials tried making a gas of the stuff. It acted much faster. Could eat a man's nerves in a few minutes." He gaze goes blank for a second. The visions of the poor wretches scattered in the mud. Bodies clenched and contorted in their final, pain-filled death spasms. A muttered shout of delirium from Fin breaks Jonah from the memory. "But it lingered too long in the air. Ended up killing as many of their own as it did us when they tried to take the trenches."

He returns with several bottles and vials labeled in his own archaic scrawl. Working quickly but with careful precision he begins to blend several foul smelling, bitter components into a mortar.

"While the gas never quite worked, the simpler contact version had been perfected for centuries by the Severosi." The sound of grinding as Jonah slowly pulverizes and grinds the mortar's contents into a fine powder. "A blade or bolt coated with the stuff pretty much insured a kill over time. Useful for assassins and removing officers. Fortunately, an antidote can be made from a fairly common blend of substances." He rummages in his pocket and pulls out an old candy Dary had given him. It was only fitting that poor Dary might contribute in some small way to saving Fin.

Jonah unwraps the candy and grinds the citrus sweet lemon drop into the rest of the alchemical blend. Finally he pours a nearly full glass of gin from Casia's bottle and then dumps the contents of the mortar into the alcohol. The effect is immediate. The brew hisses and smokes giving off a horrible smell as it bubbles. The clear liquid turns a swirling blend of sickly green, bile yellow, and putrid purple. The glass grows icy cold and at one point Casia is pretty certain she actually hears the swirling cloud of smoke pouring from the glass groan like an old man trying to claw his way from a too deep chair.

Swirling a silver rod around in the concoction, Jonah nods as he removes the pitted and tarnished swizzle stick from the glass. "Ready." He says grimly, nodding to Casia to hold her brother down for the second time. Even in his feeble and delusionary state, Fin struggles to avoid drinking the stuff. Jonah had hoped the lemon drop would help cut some of the sewer swill taste. It seems to have not been enough. Unfortunately he only had the one candy left. After much struggle, he and Casia manage to get most of the stuff down Fin's throat.

"Get ready to hold him." Jonah says to Casia as he clamps his own hands onto Fin's arm and shoulder. "Most who've gone through this said the cure was hellishly worse than death."

Casia has no time to respond before Fin's first screams burst into the little tower hideout.

It was time, Casia told herself.

Slipping out from under the tattered blanket that had covered both her and her sleeping brother on the collapsing couch, she availed herself of her weapons, cloak, and bag filled with the requirements for the evening. Leaning down, she gives Finraeth a kiss on the cheek.

"I'll be back soon," she tells him softly.

Too warm, she tells herself. He's still too warm.

When she was eleven, she was taken with a fever. It was bad enough that she remembered some of the servants muttering among themselves that she wasn't expected to pull through. Mother had, by then, banished the twins to separate bedrooms, considering it unseemly for them to share a living space as they grew. Finraeth, though, had refused to leave her side as the fever grew worse, even to the point of sharing her bed as they had once done. Mother was furious. Casia can still recall the fever-clouded memory of Mother shouting at Papa to do something about it because she was not about to lose her only son to some stupid fever that Casia had managed to catch.

Finraeth had declared that if the fever was going to take his sister, then it damn well better take him as well. Papa had simply taken Mother's arm and led her out of Casia's room. Finraeth's loyalty to his sister through everything that had happened, had, on more than one occasion, been the only thing keeping her going.

The fact that there was now a job to do didn't lessen the sensation that she was betraying her brother by leaving him to battle this alone - even if only for an evening.

"We have to make a quick stop," she says to the others. "After that we'll cross over to Lantern Street. The sewer access is on the other side."

~~~~~

Casia keeps her hood up as she surveys the smoky, noisy tavern. Her nerves are on edge with what's coming up and the claustrophobic interior of the Cracked Bone isn't doing her any good in that regard. She spies the dirty blonde curls of her target and slips through the crowd to find Cinna standing behind an apparently successful bone dice player, laughing and encouraging him on.

"Can we talk?" she whispers, coming up behind the woman.

"Hey, Luv. Sure, I've always got time for you," Cinna says with a genuine smile. Leaning down, she says something in the game player's ear and he nods and glances up before turning back to his game.

"What's up?" Cinna asks once they've retreated to a shadowed corner table. "How's your brother?"

Casia's face darkens at the mention of Finraeth, but rather than dwell on what can't be changed, she pushes forward. "He's ... surviving," she says, before glancing around. "I just wanted to give you a heads up that there are rumors that the friction between the Grinders and the Silver Nails is about to get worse. So keep yourself safe and out of trouble."

Cinna receives the warning with a wary look.

"Is there something you're not telling me, Cas? You know I can take care of m'self. What do you know?"

Casia shakes her head.

"That's all I can say right now. Just ... just keep your eyes open, okay?"

The blonde reaches out and wraps her hand around Casia's. "You know that's what I'm best at," she says with a grin. A moment later and that genuine smile that always seems to stir something long beaten down in Casia turns into what she recognizes as Cinna's professional face as a foul smell of rotten fish washes over the table.

"Hey, strumpets. If'n I hires you both does I get a discount?" a sandpapery voice questions and Casia turns to see a tall man in a heavy coat leering at them both. Her eyes narrow and her hand slides down to the razor sharp dagger strapped to her thigh.

"Oh, Bosco," Cinna says with a laugh, rising from the table to take the man's arm. "You can barely handle me. You definitely couldn't afford my friend," She pulls him away from the table, looking back over her should to give Casia a wink.

Casia sighs and closes her eyes.

~~~~~

Traffic on the street is sparse under the freezing rain as Casia watches from the narrow alley. Waiting until there's no one visible, she gestures at her companions before moving across the ironically dark Lantern Street to the heavy iron grate off the other side of the roadway. The group makes quick work of lifting the grate and dropping down into the cramped tunnel underneath.

Casia curses as the cold of the freezing water soaks through her heavy boots and the many layers underneath. She also notes various holes in her footwear as the water finds its way past her meager protections. "Damn it! This is going to be a hell all its own," she says, looking at the moving water.

Jonah didn't like leaving Fin on his own. The young cutter hadn't woken up yet following the ordeal with the poison and its dubious antidote. As far as the Whisper could tell, Fin was stable, breathing well. He recalled one of the army medics saying that some folk could sleep for a week or more after being treated for jester's cap poisoning. But in reality it wasn't the recovery that bothering Jonah. With Lolo's disappearance, Dary being ambushed and killed, Dust Mites left alone seemed to be coming to bad endings.

Still, Casia was right. It was time to act. To wait any longer would give the two sides too much time. Time to think. To prepare. God's forbid, time to talk. The Mites certainly didn't want either the Grinders or the Silver Nails talking with each other. That could lead to questions and them looking for answers.

If Fin's sister could leave him behind, well, so could Jonah. Still, he wasn't going to leave their friend completely unprotected.

"Naty." Jonah says. Nothing but silence greets him in response. Jonah sighs. "Naty. I know your here. You've been around the whole time."

Finally, slowly, the aethereal form of Jonah's ghostly sister coalesces in the center of the room. A mixture of worry and frustration crisscross her youthful features.

"You're going to make me stay behind aren't you Jo?" Her voice shivers across the sudden chill air filling the room. "You know I want to be part of this. Deserve to be part of this. Need to..." Jonah holds his hand up, stopping the flow of her words.

"Naty." His voice filled with its own blend of exhaustion, concern, and frustration over the days old argument. "You know that both sides'll have their ghost hunters out and the last things we need is you getting caught."

"Jo, I know, but I won't get..." Jonah holds firm.

"Not the point. The point is now..." His eyes flick to the slumbering Fin. "Now there is something more important for you to do. You're all we've got Naty. All we've got to watch over our friend. Make sure some Grinder scoundrel with too many smarts doesn't try pull a sneak on us and hit the place while we're out." He does his best to reach the caring, compassionate young woman that was...is...his sister. "Your job is the most important Naty. Cas needs to know her brother is safe. I need to know my friend is safe. Min needs to know he can count on his companions not being distracted. We're all depending on you."

The frustration and hardness on Naty's features slowly soften with her brother's words. Despite not breathing, the ghost lets out a long drawn out sigh that causes the curtains to wrinkle and wither. Her eldritch eyes peer at the sleeping Fin and thin smile creeps into being.

"He is kinda cute isn't he. I mean if I have to sit here staring at a mug all night long, well, at least it isn't some ugly pug who breaks a mirror every time he glances at himself." She swirls over to take up a sitting position in the rickety chair next to the bed. "Okay big brother, I'll keep watch." She says with fey cheerfulness only to suddenly turn a narrow eyed, feral gaze toward Jonah. Her voice growling and sharp like knives scraping bone. "But you be sure to take out a few of those Silver devils." The hatred and anguish fills the room, not with ice cold, but with sudden heat pulled from the hellish furnaces of the abyss. Sweat beads and rolls from Jonah's forehead.

The sudden change barely phases Jonah, because on this point, he'd no disagreement with his spirit sibling. If Mistress Luck blessed him with an opportunity, he absolutely planned to thin the ranks of the Nails.

"On that, if all goes well, you can count on little sister." He says, his own voice gone low and dark.

The assurance and certainty in Jonah's voice is enough for the ghost, for now. As quickly as it arrived, the menace and heat flees the room. Instead Naty begins to flip through another tattered deck of cards sitting on the little table. The ruffle and snap of shuffling is all that fills the air.

"Best get going big brother. Casia's going to have all the killin' done before you even step outside if you linger any longer." Naty says, starting to toss the cards in a random pattern up against the wall where they stick and hang, held in place by little leviathan suckers that pop up at just the right moment.

Jonah grabs his own deck of cards and a few other items likely to come in handy and then drops his hat onto his head and hurries after the others in time to meet them at the rendezvous.

******

"Glad you could join us."

Casia's words drift from the alley shadows at the end of Lantern Street as Jonah slips into the darkness.

"Just making sure home was locked up." He says. There isn't time to say much more as it is at that moment that things clear out and suddenly the way is clear. Casia leads the way. Jonah isn't far behind as she come up on the metal grate. The splash followed by Casia's curses give him just enough warning as his own boots hit the cold, foul water.

"For some strange reason, I thought that once the war was over, I'd be done crawling around in sewers." He says wrinkling his nose at the stench as much as at the cold washing across his feet. "Seems like I've practically taken up residence down here these days." He adds following Fin's sister and Min through the winding, dank tunnels of Doskvol.

Oh, sewers.

It's not that Min is squeamish. Emphatically not. Even though his caste is not formally martial, it /is/ a caste that sits inside the tent. Which means, among other things, being ready for every sort of unpleasantness, should it be necessary. Or to put it in terms an outlander might understand: Iruvian nobility, for all their pride, have no issues with getting their hands dirty.

So, not squeamish. But a certain fastidiousness is also part of the package. One may be ready for unpleasantness; nevertheless, unpleasant things are unpleasant. One may accept that the Negative Spirit has marred the world; one is not required to like it.

Nevertheless: needs must, when the Negative Spirit drives. And, really, is a stroll through a sewer the worst thing that could happen? Min hunches for a moment, very slightly, caught in an ugly memory: no. It is very far from the worst thing.

So... sewers it is.

If Finraeth is aware he's being watched over by a friendly ghost (or at least, a ghost that Jonah believes is still friendly; which may or may not be the same thing) he makes no sign of it, which is perhaps just as well. Jonah may be immune to the unnatural dread chill that Naty manifests around her, but the rest of the Dusk Mites are sadly not. But at least the rats, pigeons and ravens that might otherwise infest their tower are also susceptible: anything that could be inclined to make its nest or roost in the gutters or eaves seems to remember an urgent appointment on the other side of town whenever Naty manifests herself.

Underground in this district, all paths lead down to the Docks, where the Grinders mark their turf. The sewer water becomes increasingly brackish as you leave Crow's Foot and follow the downward slurry; the stench becomes laced with overtones of rotting fish and stale salt. At the edge of your vision, rats (and other things) scurry away, chittering their annoyance at your intrusion on their domain: you don't belong here...

There's a minor Weave that will open the pupils of the eyes wider, so as to see clearly in the dimmest possible light. It won't work here, because there's absolute pitch blackness.

There's another Weave, slightly more challenging, that opens the other senses. Unfortunately it opens /all/ the other senses. It might be nice to have enhanced hearing right now, to catch every echo, breath, and footfall. But the enhanced sense of smell would probably collapse Min to the ground, retching helplessly.

Still... Min's intuition is good. And it's prickling right now: danger.

*Squelch*Slosh*Squish*

Squeak!

Jonah suppresses a curse as a fat rat barely slides from under his boot in time to avoid being trampled by the whisper as he makes his way slowly through the dark, putrid sewer. The thought of ever eating fish again causes his stomach to lurch forcefully. A not so subtle warning to alter his train of thought.

And so instead he ponders whether or not Nyryx had any success easing the way into the Grinder's most recent hideout. The place was a veritable fortress above ground. An old blue coat station house, abandoned years ago for newer brighter quarters that those government sanctioned thugs could dole out justice to the good people of Doskvol. Now rather than incarcerating people like Jonah and his companions for crimes against their fellow citizens, the building was operated by Hutton who used it to run the gang's little Dockside empire, prosecute his war against the Dust Mites, and incarcerate people like Jonah and his companions for crimes against the Grinders.

But while the topside facility had bars on all the windows, the usual walled courtyard and a couple of sturdy stone guard towers. The cellars were a security man's nightmare. Maintenance tunnels, sewer outputs, and more storage cellars than a governors mansion were tucked hodgepodge beneath the formidable building.

Of course most of this maze was trapped or walled up with solid stone. But given their constant smuggling and other nefarious activities, the Grinders kept a couple of routes clear for those occasions when getting something, or someone, in or out of the building unseen was necessary. It was one of these routes the Mites hoped to bust through.

That's where Nyryx came into it. A Grinder by the name of Osseric had been sweet on the dark haired, trim figured woman for quite a while. And for quite a while, and a lot of Coin, he'd been sneaking her into the Grinder's quarters against Hutton's wartime orders of 'no one in or out without his say so.' Jonah had hoped that Osseric's lack of discipline would be the Mites boon.

He'd set about enchanting a half dozen buttons and then passed them on to Naty's friend prior to her most recent rendezvous with the Grinder. The buttons were set to self illuminate with a soft red gleam when Jonah approached with twenty or so paces. All Nyryx had to do was 'drop' a button at key intersections and the Mites could follow the bread crumbs right into the Grinder hideout.

Unfortunately, Jonah hadn't considered the rats and their ability to eat just about anything. The first sign that something may have gone wrong was when they came up to a three way intersection. The first two had been marked just perfect. A gleaming red that came to life guiding them in the right direction. But here, the red illuminated the ragged fur and skeleton of a fleeing rat as it scurried away only to turn dark once it was out of Jonah cursing range.

In addition to its myriad gangs, Duskvol boasts (if that is the correct term) an extraordinary number of sects, cults, mystery religions and seekers after Truth. Some of them are long-established and almost respectable (the Church of the Ecstasy of the Flesh); some are mysterious and aloof (the Circle of Flame, the Path of Echoes); some are sinister and best left well alone (the Dimmer Sisters, the Horde)... but almost any troubled personality with a little power who is looking for an easy ride and a few marks to impress can whip up a secret society of some kind; at least until the Spirit Wardens suppress them. They congregate - much like the ever-present rats - in the liminal spaces surrounding society, parallel but not connected to it. Abandoned buildings are a favourite place.

As, of course, are the sewers. You are not the only party here tonight with nefarious intent, and although your purposes are not crossed, your paths very much have. The passageway up ahead broadens into a chamber, where an electroplasmic glow illuminates the scrawny faces of a dozen or so ne'er-do-wells, circled around a dais that has been hastily chalked onto the floor. Their focus is not on you, watching from the shadows, but on a ghostly form that strains within the summoning circle, called to what end you know not.

It is likely that you wouldn't even care, but unfortunately there is no way through or past except this route. The passageway you need to travel down lies directly opposite, as indicated by the feeble red flicker of one of Nyryx's guiding stones.

The chants start to build to a shrieking crescendo, as the spirit thrashes against the binding circle, snarling with rage. Two of the would-be summoners go down and do not get up again, but the others redouble their meagre efforts. The stink of desperation mingles with the rank smell of ozone, almost (but not quite) blotting out the pervading smell of the surrounding sewers.

There is a bursting flare of electroplasmic light that stabs at your eyes, dispelling the shadows for a brief instant; and in that moment, you are spotted!

What do you do?

Given his olfactories had shut down nearly an hour ago, it took a minute or two for Jonah to note the sharp smell of ozone filling the tunnel. Red spots still danced in his vision following the burst of light. It was that very surge of power along with the smell and the obviously flailing efforts of the cultists that had Jonah concentrating on just what it was these folk were trying to tangle with in the dark, dank depths of Doskvol.

Jonah is not unfamiliar with rituals used to bind the dead and bring them (however temporarily) under control - there are many, many books, pamphlets, octavos, folios, scrolls, as well as the scorched and charred remains of innumerable diaries and journals; all giving testament to the fascination this practice has - the lure of power, of something for nothing. Of course, those who truly understand how to do it generally choose not to; except at dire need. There is always a price, and it's generally more than most people are willing to pay.

In this case, the would-be cultists appear to be using a basic Akorosi ritual (it's called the Heydon Seer-Circle, but most don't know that); they've got the chalk sigils on the floor correctly, and someone of reasonable power is clearly in charge, because they've managed to not merely attract a passing ghost (that's the easy bit) but actually confine it. Unfortunately, the ritual is ancient, from a time when the practice of magic was limited to a few elite. The more recent democratisation of the occult has put significant power in the hands of the masses, but unfortunately it is no longer limited to people who actually know what they are doing. Those in the know, know that Heydon wrote his treatises in a form of shorthand that focused on emphasising his own contributions to the practice; he didn't bother to write down every step, in the same way that when you ask for a cup of tea you assume that people understand what kettles, hot water, mugs, tea and milk actually are.

Those not in the know, tend to find out the hard way that Marquis Heydon found the discussion of the obvious basic precautions - silver powder, the double-fold seal of salt - simply too, too trivial to waste time and ink on.

There is a crackle and a tormented shriek as the chalk sigils on the floor erupt, blazing with a black flame that shoots up to the vaulted ceiling overhead. Three more of the unfortunate cultists perish horribly as their robes catch alight; wreathed in the black, clinging fire they run screaming, only to dissolve into a tar-like goo before they even get six paces away. The angry - and very hungry - ghost steps out of the remains of the circle. Long-dead, it is impossible to tell that it was once human, whether male or female. Its eyes burn like glowing coals as its mouth opens impossibly wide, seeking to devour the foolish mortals who brought it here... and anyone else who happens to be in the vicinity.

The Iruvians don't have gods, exactly. The Prevalence includes a hierarchy of supernatural entities, ranging from minor spirits that might watch over a single site, to the Cardinal Principles -- Chance, Fate, Freedom and Necessity. But there are things even more powerful than those. "Against Stupidity," say the proverbs of Iru, "even the Cardinal Principles contend in vain."

Min is not particularly afraid of death. But he does not want to die badly -- that's important. And, in particular, he does not want to die because of someone else's utter stupidity.

I find information, Min had said. I find people. And... I make plans. One cannot always make a plan for every eventuality. But one can make a contingency plan that covers many different eventualities. And "angry ghost" is an eventuality that Min has encountered more than once.

The thing about ghosts is, most of them are... damaged. Flawed, imperfect, pieces missing. They tend to be obsessive, and are usually motivated by some simple, powerful emotion: rage, grief, revenge. This can make them terribly powerful, but it also means that many ghosts are surprisingly easy to fool. (Many ghosts, not all. Some retain most or all of their intelligence. There's no easy way to tell which sort is which.)

Min pulls out something round and flat with a handle: a mirror. It is made of polished bronze and it is very old. He holds it in his left hand and gestures with his right. Now he is holding a small white flame in front of the mirror. Reflected light, soft but surprisingly bright, bathes the chamber.

"Friend Jonah," he says calmly, "here is maqbal al farseeieh, the handle of a lever. It will multiply your strength. I am nuq tat airtikaz, the fulcrum. Will you put your hand to it?"

It only took her a few heartbeats to realize what they'd stumbled upon and what those they'd stumbled upon were doing. But the few moments it caused her to freeze was enough to prevent anything they did from stopping it. Now all that was left was to try to get past the angry spirit without having their souls torn from their bodies.

That didn't mean that no one was suffering that very fate.

Managing to push down the icy cold that threatened to paralyze her completely, Casia snapped out with a kick to the back of the knee, sending one of the nameless fools stumbling right into the reach of the angry entity.

"That way!" she hisses, pointing along the wall around the circumference of chamber. "Stick to the wall and move!" She sees Jonah reaching into his pockets and Min pulling out, of all things, a mirror. "You can move your feet while you cast, right?!" she screeches, giving the Whisper a shove.

Jonah curses as the chalk sigils systematically succumb to the ghost's power. Useless fools who couldn't conjure their way out of a wet paper sack, better yet tackle a creature of that strength! The whisper reflects as the trio of cultists collapse to the ground, their essence already powering the ghost's growing vitality.

He starts to reach for his spirit mask and lightning stick only to have Min flash a mirror is his face. He knew Iruvian's could be vain at times, but the incredulous look on Jonah's face momentarily displays the whisper's growing uncertainty about their new friends sanity. Then he feels the power within the silver backed glass and hears Min's explanation. He didn't catch all of the words, but the general point was clear. Lever. Fulcrum. It takes a moment for Jonah to follow the different path to power from his own. But ultimately power is power. One merely had to grab it. So Jonah does...

"Ooof!" Casia desperately shoves Jonah forward causing him to stumble and nearly drop Min's mirror. As it is, the brilliant light and power reflecting off the mirror wobbles and reels across the darkened chamber like a drunk's lantern. The searing ray of temporarily unchecked radiance and power dances across the wall and ceiling. Its amplified aethereal radiance leaves a macabre set of shadows emblazoned on the wall capturing the ghost pulling the still frantically beating heart of one of the cultists free from the doomed man's body. The moment forever seared upon the wall. Then creature's clawed hand pitches the oblong organ against the stone where it bursts like a blood filled balloon.

Desperately, Jonah recovers his balance before the mirror can hit the ground, do any real harm to his companions, or spend its potency ineffectively against already dying cultists. With little more than a simple glare at Casia, Jonah refocuses his mind, power, and the mirror's blinding radiance directly onto the ghost. The flaring light is enough to stun the creature and keep it at bay while Casia, Min and finally the whisper, slip along the opposite wall and further up the corridor.

Hissing and snarling at the light's painful imprisonment, the ghost takes out its frustration on one of the fallen cultists. In a frenzied temper tantrum that showers the entire chamber in gruesome bits of bone, flesh and blood leaving Jonah to hope the poor, foolhardy man had already been dead.

Never run from the dead. It attracts their attention. The long-ago words of his teacher echo in Min's mind as he moves along the filthy corridor. Walk slowly, and pretend to be thinking of something else. Sing a song, say a poem, do your tricks, but walk slowly and they may not follow.

"Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green," Min murmurs softly, brushing the damp stone with one hand, "That host with their banners at sunset were seen.." He tucks the mirror away, neatly, carefully. "Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strown..." Step by step, slowly, calmly. Away.

Only after the second bend in the tunnel - and passing a couple of cross passages - does Casia allow herself a moment of pause. With a shaking hand she pulls from an inner pocket a familiar brown bottle and takes a long swallow.

"F&~+ me, I thought that at least once we wouldn't have to deal with s~&* like that," she mutters before taking a second drink. She then stows the container away without offering any to the others.

"So it should be a walk in the rain after that, right?"

She adjusts her coat and shifts the weight of the bag on her shoulders.

The blaze of light illuminates the chamber with a dazzling glow that seems to sear itself onto your retinas; but it holds the ghost at bay. It takes out its rage and fury and pain on the unfortunate surviving cultists, feeding as much off their visceral terror as it does on their viscera. It has been a long time since it was able to enjoy a feast like that, but all that it achieves is a reminder that in undeath, hunger is a permanent feature; bottomless, insatiable.

And it has let food get away from it. Food that had the temerity to blind it, to hurt it, to shine light upon it and make it very, very angry.

From the passageways behind you, you hear a low, bone-chilling growl. And then, worse if anything, the dry rasp of sniffing: it is on your trail.

What will you do?

Flashback.

Min has a memory palace, of course. That's basic.

Min is also a practitioner of the Art of Memory, which is quite a bit trickier. This turns the memory palace inside out, and uses it as a technique of divination. It is a deep Art, and Min is not an advanced practitioner, but he has more than once found useful omens and portents by observing subtle changes within the halls of his own memory.

But stealing Augus' plans didn't require that advanced Art. (Stealing is the correct word here. Min has no objections to stealing from criminals, and Augus was and is a great criminal.) All that was needed was a few minutes alone with the documents: Min could simply add the map of the tunnels beneath his already-existing Manse.

So it's just as easy to simply recite them back. "A hundred and eighty paces, and then a left at the intersection. Twenty paces on, there's a descent; one may have to wade a bit. Then left again, then right. The stone will change there, to an older design, and the ceiling will drop, but it will be dryer. Through the arch, then a bit of crawling, and one emerges, directly under our destination."

Yes, that part is easy. The trickier part is where this emerges within Min's own Manse of Memory, and whether that raises any omens or portents he should pause to consider...

As they hurried through the tunnels aided by Min's map, the hair on Jonah's next rises as a baying bloodhound howl echoes through the dark maze of the sewers. A howl that sounded all too close for the whisper's comfort...and continued existence in the mortal world. His mind whirls through several ideas, none of which seemed practical or achievable give his current lack of time and materials. As he struggled to think of something, the face of Master Sergeant and Chief Combat Arcanist Trainer Brogan flashes into his mind.

The lanky, dark haired Skov, known as Deadeye by the troops for the obvious reason, was a cold hearted eel sucker who Jonah'd wished would die a painful fiery death more times than he could count. The man had probably also saved his life more times than he could count, even though Jonah couldn't admit that fact for several years.

"What're you doing Torrson? Dreaming of your girl back home?!" Deadeye would shout whenever Jonah took too long to try and puzzle through a ritual or come up with the right solution to some aethereal situation or ghost ambush. "You're already growing cold boy! Nothing but meat. Damned ghosts don't give a rats a$$ about whether the situation is right for Radigan's Radiant Ripple or Connell's Captivating Kaleidoscope. Ghost's are out for one thing, your pathetic life. You want to live through this bloody gods forsaken war, you gotta ACT! Do something. Bloody anything! ACT and MOVE! Got it. Now go again and this time try and make it more than two bloody minutes!"

Before the last few words of the memory ceased echoing in his mind, Jonah had already started to move. He heard the rush of water up ahead. One of the main sewer channels leading out to the harbor. Dumping the acidic contents of a small flask from his usual arcane supplies he calls for a quick stop. A moment to catch his breath and then he opens a shallow cut on his hand with his knife.

"Going...to try...and lure the ghost away...for a bit..." He says huffing from the long run through the sewers. His ribs acting like hot knifes of their own in his side. "Need a bit...of blood...from you both." He adds holding flask and knife out to Min and Cas.

Once the samples are gathered he concentrates for a few seconds infusing the blood with energy from the ghost field. A moment or two later and three, blurry spectral images of Min, Cas and Jonah glimmer in the tunnel. It wasn't the best aethereal projection he'd ever created, but this was a case where waiting for perfection would likely get them killed. So...good enough. He tosses the flask into the rapidly moving water and watches it bob and weave and duck its way until sails out of the tiny sphere of lantern light. The three ghostly images follow along, shimmering and glittering in the darkness of the tunnel.

"Hopefully, that'll buy us a few more minutes." He says already moving in the opposite direction of their ghostly twins.

With her heart pounding in her chest, Casia listens as Min recites directions. Without even thinking about it, she's mentally breaking them down into small bits just like when she'd memorize poems on Mother's command.

'A young lady must be able to recite acceptable poetry upon being asked, Casia.'

'Yes, Mother,' Casia replied, turning the pages and scanning over the stanzas. Not a single reference to a body part or bodily function. Fin's poems were always so much more entertaining.

"'A hundred and eighty paces' the fair young maid declared," Casia repeats to herself. "'Then take a left and you'll find me a'waiting'"

With a nod at Min, she turns and attempts to move quickly but quietly through the wet passage. She continues to mutter the man's instructions interspersed with bawdy insinuations. The growling and groaning of the hungry spirit fades somewhat as they move along, giving testament to the effectiveness of Jonah's diversion magic.

She only pauses once. "'The stone changes like the feel of garters on soft skin ...'" she whispers, tracing her hand along the wall, as if comparing the workmanship from one section to another. "Is this the right turn or would it be more like, 'The stone changes like the feel of my ..." She shakes her head. "Focus, Cas, focus." She glances down the side tunnel and notices the lowered ceiling. Giving a nod, she directs the trio to follow her as she makes her decision.

Another ten minutes finds them looking at a rusted iron ladder that ascends to a closed trap door.

"This should be it," she says, wiping one hand across her forehead, seemingly ignoring the streak of filth that it leaves.

'Casia! You've got a stain of butter on your skirt! Young ladies that can't keep their dresses clean can afford to miss lunch entirely.'

Magic is strange; if it used to follow laws in the olden days (when the sun still shone brightly), it doesn't now. Or at least, not laws that can be repeatedly verified in rigorous experimentation.

But there is, of course, one law that still stands: the law of unexpected consequences.

Whatever craft it was that Min wove a few nights back when he ensorcelled matters at Casia's behest, some of it stuck to her; invisible, intangible but still very much there. The first that Jonah knows about it is when the threads of his own attunement gets entangled up in something. This isn't the first time his casting has gone sideways and it undoubtedly won't be the last - the Whisper feels the build-up of an external pressure that threatens to break through, but with a great effort of will he snuffs it, like a doctor in the heat of combat clamping down on a severed artery... if magic were blood. But sometimes, the patient is just too far gone and such intervention causes does as much harm as good.

There's a blinding flash of light, and you all run for safety, scurrying down the nearest passageway, as searing heat stabs at you and lends you wings to carry on running forward, slipping on whatever lies underfoot, putting as much distance as you can between whatever has gone wrong and your own, horrifyingly fragile, selves. Eventually, you stop, tears still streaming from your eyes from the stabbing flash of light as you blink in the familiar, almost welcoming darkness of the sewer around you.

Only then does it hit you. You had thought - hoped - assumed - that the others were right behind you; that you had all run fortuitously down the same passageway.

But no.

You are quite alone down here, in the dark.

Tangle. The threads of the Weave stretch, then snap back into knots and snarls. Min has seen it before. Jonah is a powerful caster, but... push too hard, and you'll get a rebound. And it's easy to panic at a tangle. It makes you want to panic, especially if you're sensitive.

But Min Al-Biruni is having none of that. Min doesn't panic -- or at least, he doesn't allow himself to panic in a way that others can see -- and he certainly doesn't get lost. This way. He rakes his will across the snarled Weave like a comb through snarled hair, pointing everything to line up in one direction. His colleagues may run, but they will run the way they need to run.

Unfortunately, just like running a comb through snarled hair, it hurts. A lot: Min is more or less raking out his own nervous system here. Agony lances through the Weave-points of his body: a punch in the solar plexus, a cramp in the neck, a sudden jack-hammer migraine in both temples. Min staggers, and struggles not to vomit.

But at least everyone is going where they need to go.

Chest heaving painfully, Jonah grabs at his eyes and tries to rub away the searing red spots still flashing and drifting across his vision like a dozen drunken lanterns. By the dead gods it shouldn't have blasted us like that! Jonah exclaims to himself as he crashes wildly around the next corner. Bloody stupid. Bloody sloppy! The recriminations are already running rampant in his mind. Faces of past mistakes grinning wildly behind the spotted vision. Their own ghastly eyes as mocking as their skeletal grins.

Shaking off the old demons of self doubt and self loathing, Jonah stumbles ahead finally coming to a painful stop in the middle of a quiet four way intersection. Turning to ask Casia what direction they should take his heart lurches and his gut drops to his boots.

"Casia? Min?" He calls quietly. "Ah...shhhh..." He starts to stumble back the way he came hoping to pick up some sign of the others. Only then he notices the green length of aether floating in the western passage. A woven set of hair thin threads beckoning to him.

This Way.

The call, the pull was unmistakable. Hoping it isn't a Grinder trap or some trick of the ghost, Jonah latches onto the thread and follows where it leads.

The magical backlash feeling worse than any hangover she's ever had, Casia clutches at her temples and doubles over, vomiting out the little she'd had to eat that morning. The refuse quickly vanishes in the foul, shallow water that flows slowly by.

"What the f%#% was ...?" she starts to question before realizing that the others are no longer there. Darkness that's not a product of the sewer tunnel around her threatens to overwhelm her and if it were not for the cold water she's standing in, she would simply sink to the ground and curl into a ball.

"What do I do, Fin?" she questions in a small voice. She stands defeated for a few moments, attempting to conjure up her twin's encouraging words.

You keep going, Cas. You're stronger than this.

She stifles a sob and looks around. That's when she notices the glimmering of a magical trail in the air. Hoping against hope that it's not her mind playing tricks on her, Casia steadies herself and moves off through the darkness towards where the fairie flame leads.

Time. Jonah cursed softly crawling through yet another squat sewer tunnel. That insatiable constant that never stopped and was even now slipping away like a mistress in the night.

*Rap!*

"Ow! Son of a..." His voice echoes into the darkness. He rubs the top of his head and resets his hat after the nearly invisible, low hanging rusty pipe did its best to knock him cold. Shaking the stars from his vision, Jonah continues to scuttle forward along Min's magical thread. The whisper hoped it was taking him along the most direct route back to his companions. It certainly wasn't the most physically convenient. A fact punctuated by yet another squishing beneath his hand as he pushed onward through the narrow drainage pipe.

Finally, he emerges at the end of the thread filthy a bit more bruised and ready for this entire endeavor to be good and finished. He nods to Min and Casia who looked as if she was of a similar mind about wishing to be free of these damnable sewers.

Somewhere in the distance, a ghastly howl echoes. Jonah shares a knowing glance with his two companions.

"Best we get moving. I'd rather that thing didn't catch up to us before we made it to Hutton's hideout." He says waving a hand for the two with the maps to lead the way.

"We're here."

"Here" doesn't look like much. The house had a cistern in the basement; the cistern had an overflow drain connected to the sewers. The cistern is long abandoned, but it can still be accessed via the old drain. It's a tight squirm, but at least it gets you out of the sewers.

So now you're in the old cistern, which is... well, it's about ten feet long, and six feet wide, and six feet deep. Or, well, it /was/ six feet deep. Now there's about a foot of accumulated silt, muck, and ancient garbage on the bottom. And on top, it's been boarded over. The boards look rotten and fragile, so it shouldn't be too hard to get out of here -- but in the meantime, there's less than five feet of clearance, so everyone has to stoop over.

Above and beyond should be Hutton's basement.

April 4th

"So what's the gig, Spit?" Mug asked.

It was hard to tell the child's age. Her head only came up to Casia's middle and Casia wasn't tall by any means. With her wandering eye, round cheeks, and ragged tangle of hair, any mark would easily place her in the simpleton category. Casia, however, was well experienced with the girl's sharp mind and knew her to be a reliable provider when called upon.

Casia handed Mug a small piece of parchment. "I need you to get into these two locations."

The girl glanced down at the addresses written on it and frowned. "These is Grinder turf, Spit. What you want from them?"

"I don't want anything from them," Casia replies before gesturing towards a small box sitting on a nearby crate. Sitting in a bed of straw in the box were two clay jars, sealed with waxed plugs and wrapped in cloth. Each had a twisted piece of twine extending through the wax and hanging down the side. "I need you to deliver one of those to each location. Find a hidden, out-of-the-way place and stick it there." She holds up a finger. "Very important - They need to be there before the first bell tomorrow morning."

"That's it?" the girl questioned, her eyes narrowing.

"Just make sure you're long gone before the second bell," Casia adds. Mug considered the offer and Casia held out a single small coin.

"Two more once you've done the job."

The girl hid her avarice well, but Casia could see her nostrils flare.

"Just remember to be far away from them before the second bell, okay?"

Mug's grimy hand reached out to snatch the coin before it could vanish. Returning the piece of parchment to Casia, the girl stepped over to the small box and lifted it carefully. She nodded.

Casia grinned. Reaching into the box, she grabbed one of the bottles and wrapped the twine around her fingers. Giving a quick tug, she pulled it from the wax. There was a quiet tinkle and tink of something inside breaking. She repeated the process with the second one.

"Before the second bell," she repeated one last time before stuffing the bit of parchment and twine into a pocket. The girl with the box nodded and turned to vanish down the stinking alley.

Currently

Only tipping her head down slightly to accommodate the cramped quarters, Casia attempts to peer up between the slates into the dimly lit basement above. The faint light draws lines on her pale face.

"We should get ready," she says, lowering her bag to her feet and kneeling down to rummage through it. Pulling out a tunic of the style commonly worn by the Silver Nails. Her cloak comes off and is stuffed into the bag and the tunic is pulled on over her light shirt.

"Come on, time to suit up," she says, gesturing to her companions. "It's got to be close to the second bell." Her internal clock tells her that they have minutes at best. And if she prepared her 'surprises' correctly, they would be going off any time now.

Pulling her hair back, she wraps it in a faded scarf displaying the colors of the rival group. She curses as she sticks her thumb with one of the pins meant to hold the scarf in place. "Any minute now the ..." As she speaks, there's the very soft retort as of a loud noise from a long distance. She smiles in the dim light. "F@~~ me, that's perfect timing." There's a repeat of the noise that's slightly closer and it's followed by muffled voices from the floors above. "That's the band playing the overture, gentlemen. The curtain's going up."

She shoves against a couple of the boards above her and scrambles up into the stuffy basement.

Jonah nods as Casia starts slipping on the tunic stolen from the trio of mercenaries. Grabbing a similar black and silver garment from his own pack, he can't help but pause for a moment and think of the sacrifice necessary to capture these three bits of fabric. Dary gone. Lolo and Fiona in hiding, or hopefully out of the city by now. And of course Fin nearly killed. The Whisper glances at Casia currently sucking the end of her finger. She was strong. Seemed to be holding up well under the circumstances. Better than him all truth be told. The gleam in her as the first rubble of a distant explosions causes a trail of dust to cascade from the boards above signaled her eagerness to shed some blood and slack a thirst for revenge.

His own face wasn't so eager. Certainly revenge was on his mind. And he'd every intention of seeing that slave trading piece of goat dung Hutton put down, but he couldn't say he was eager to do it. He slides the Silver Nails tunic and pins the cloak into place. To him, this was all too similar to the war. Kill or be killed. You do whatever it takes to survive and let the dead gods care about any consequences.

And so as he watches Casia shove against the boards and climb her way into the basement of the Grinders hideout. Jonah sighs and heaves himself up after, pausing only a moment to offer Min a helping hand. His senses strain to detect the tiniest hint of nearby trouble even as they still register the not-so distant agitation of a ghost still seeking its prey down in the sewers.

Whether the basement is normally empty or has simply been deserted as a result of Casia's distraction, you are in luck either way. The rank smell of the sewers slowly dissipates as you clamber out of the grating, replaced by the mushroom-smell of mould and - something else, you can't quite place it for now. But no matter. Time is still pressing on you.

From above you, somewhere in the building you can hear shouts and orders, hobnail boots pounding across the wooden floor as the Grinders race out to face whatever imaginary threat Casia has conjured up - a piece of magic every bit as effective as Jonah's channeling or Min's weave.

You look around at the other two, before nodding. It is time.

We're in. We're at war. And we don't have much time. The thoughts race through Jonah's mind with the clunking heaviness of the boots clattering above their heads. Casia's distraction had the eel's nest stirring, now it was time for Jonah to try and throw them into a panic.

The whisper hisses quickly at his companions, signalling them to hold up for just a few moments. Pulling a quartet of thick, squat, void black candles from his jacket, Jonah places one in each corner of the hideout's basement. With each of them in place he looks at the others his lips curled in grim resignation.

"These will fill the house with an aethereal fog filled with ghastly and ghostly sounds and images. They shouldn't cause any harm, but to the unwary and unsuspecting, they'll certainly strike a bit of fear." He pauses. Take a breath. "Unfortunately, they'll also be a beacon to the actual spirit realm. Likely calling that ghost in the sewers back to us like a moth to flame. So we'll need to move fast. Best we're among the Grinders or long gone by the time it gets here."

He sets the final candle on the damp dirt and muck covered floor. A match strikes adding its smokey sulfur scent to the stale air. Jonah muttering some of the arcane gibberish that makes Casia's skin crawl and Min just shake his head at the barbarity of the Skovlandic teachings and lights the first candle.

It hisses, pops, crackles like and angry hornet and starts pouring forth an eldritch indigo smoke that curls and swirls upward through the cracks and crevices riddling the dockside hideaway. By the time Jonah gets the other candles lit a dense haze fills the air along witheerie groans, creeks, and moans. Will-o-wisp lights flicker and fade just outside of ones vision all while everyone feels a chill, prickling sensation of something lurking just over a shoulder.

"Okay, let's go get Hutton." He says looking over his should wondering how long they had before the real spooks showed up.

The fog conjured by Jonah fills the house from top to bottom, a spectral chill that seeps into your bones and fills them with dread, even if it is nominally under the whisper's control. There is shouting, and blundering as gangers trip over the furniture and one another in their haste and alarm.

Cas slips through almost like a ghost herself, leading you confidently forward; and as the mist parts for a moment, the ethereal mutterings stilling for a moment or two, you spot the grizzled form of Hutton! He is temporarily alone, and looking round with a squint it takes a moment or two for him to realise that you aren't Grinders. You have bare seconds to act before he does, the difference in this city between life and death.

What do you do?

Jonah manages to wrap his coat about his body as the sparks really start to fly. A few of the electroplasmic motes slip past his waving hands and ducking form to spatter and burn against his exposed skin. Like a sparkling raindrop, one mote of aetherial power manages to slip directly down the back of his neck bypassing hat, coat, and collar. The chill *snap* of electricity giving the whisper another quick jolt to remind him of the limits of his power and control over the aether. As if he really needed the reminder.

Still his efforts achieved the goal for the moment. Clearing the way for them to search the house for their quarry. A search that seems to end almost as quickly as it gets underway when the lone form of the Grinder leader emerges from the fog shrouded chaos.

Casia has killed before.

There are times at night when the alcohol fails to numb everything and she's tangled in sweaty linens that she sees all their faces. There haven't been many, so she remembers all of them quite clearly. However, it's always been in a desperate situtation of kill or be killed (or worse). She's never made the conscious decision to end someone's life. That is, until now.

And now, faced with the tipping point of that decision directly in front of her, she hesitates for a moment. Can she really do this? This is different. This will change her. Maybe nothing visible, but her brother will know and it will change how he looks at her. Is that a cost she can carry?

She looks over Hutton's face. The stubble on his cheeks. The slight droop of one eyelid. His dialated pupils as adrenaline begins to flood his system as he realizes the threat in front of him. She can imagine the foul breath leaking from his lips. His chest expands as he draws a breath to yell out.

Without even a thought, Casia dashes forward, one of her long daggers in her hand. She can see the strike in her mind's eye, plunging the blade up under the man's ribs into his lung to silence his cry before it's made.

A brief interlude.

Magic weapons are, in Min's opinion, stupid. Yes, it is possible to place Weavings around a blade so that it strikes harder, cuts deeper, makes wounds that are worse -- agonizingly painful, slow to heal. It's not even particularly difficult.

But it is time consuming, and expensive, and at the end of the day you have... well, you have a great big target painted on whoever is wielding that blade. Who doesn't want a magic sword? And owning a magic sword won't protect you from poisoning, back-stabbing, a gunman taking aim from an alley, or simply cutting your throat in your sleep. Magic weapons tend to go through owners quickly. The smart money says, owning the BlackNight EdgeBlade of Midnight Doom may be briefly interesting, but it doesn't enhance your life expectancy at all: quite the opposite.

But putting a one-time Weave on a weapon is something else again. That has no down side! (Well, no more than the normal downside of inserting Weaving into something complicated and unpredictable and messy like trying to kill someone with an edged weapon.) Better still, you can craft the Weave to fit the particular wielder. Really, you're spinning a Weave around /both/ of them...

So: Casia will very probably need to use her blade at some point. What's Casia missing, thinks Min to himself. What might make her strike slower, weaker? And what might make it more likely to strike true?

Recall that Min's specialty is stuff that affects perception and the mind. So... if you want to take that Foresight die, then he ghosted up something to make Casia a better killer. At least while holding this blade; at least this once. If not, no worries -- we can save it for later.

Maybe it's Casia's hesitation, or maybe it's just that Hutton is a wily survivor - you don't live to be his age doing what he does without being lucky, or good, or some combination thereof. Either way, what in any other instance would be a killing stroke is somehow not - Hutton reels away, his blood spattering on the wall and dripping off Casia's blade, pooling on the floor; but Hutton stands.

Stands and shouts. "Get in here you BASTARDS!" From elsewhere in the building you hear the clump of feet running to the sound of their boss's voice...

What do you do?

"You're supposed to die, m&#%$+#+%*+~!" Casia snarls and stabs again, ignoring the churning in her stomach and the sensation of something guiding her hand.

"Get in here you bastards" The words echo and carry throughout the Grinders hideout. Echo again and again. Jonah's eyes roll into the back of his head as he pushes the limits of his aetheric connection to repeat Hutton's words so the emerge from every room, nook, and cubby in the place. The hurrying steps of his allies slow and shuts of further confusion fill the fog shrouded heart of Hutton's fiefdom.

One, two drive a nail through his shoe.
Three, four watch the blood pour.
Five, six traitors sail the river Styx.
Seven, eight we serve the Emperor's Hate.
Nine, ten grab the other foot and do it all again.

The rhyme begins to drift through the fog shrouded confines of the house. The sing-song child voice a memory of a group of young girls playing along the destitute boardwalks of Lockport right before he sailed for Doskvol. A testament to the Emperor's blood soaked retribution against the Skovlander nobility and leadership following the loss of the war. Along with the general pillaging of land and stealing of people like Jonah's young sister, hundreds of former nobles, their families, and anyone else picked as being crucial to the war efforts were crucified along the Queen's Road. Now known as Traitor's Road in the former Skov capital.

The Silver Nails were one of the groups most involved in the brutal executions. For seemingly endless months, screams and the sound of hammers pounding silver nails into flesh and wood greeted Skovland's people in the morning and shouted a warning tale before retiring in the evening. No one knows for sure who wrote or started the grim song among the children, but the Iruvian mercenary company took it up with relish. Many witnesses recount hammers pounding to the rhythm by the light of the blue lamps, victims shouting their professed loyalty or final curse upon the Emperor. Those were the darkest days of fear and defeat for any Skov.

Now the song so symbolic of that grim period dances into Jonah's thoughts. Why? Who can say. Perhaps it is the execution of a fellow Skovlander the whisper feels has betrayed his people. Maybe it is just the fact he wears the uniform of the hated Silver Nails. Or maybe he's just going slowly insane. Losing his mind among the memories and hungry powers of the ghost field. Why it emerges really isn't important for the moment. The fear it conjures in any Skov's mind and heart is.

The child voices dance and rhyme around the house and most of all around Hutton. Ghostly feet stamping like hammer blows in time with each delving thrust of cold hard steel made by Casia. Jonah can see the fear flickering to life in Hutton's eyes. No one wanted to die that way. Grabbed from their homes by hated mercenaries and then hung from a pair of ancient crossed timbers to slowly die in dark and cold. But none had a choice. The purge was a thorough and complete breaking of a people. The Emperor's will was the only rule and the he willed a blood price for the costs and pains of the Unity War. So terror reined in Skov as the blood flowed.

The Silver Nails had come for Hutton. At least that is what Jonah wanted Hutton and any among the Grinders to think. Wanted the man to know and feel that helplessness and fear that they'd all tried to escape by coming to Doskvol and starting again. But no matter how much coin sat in a man's safe, how many people groveled and scraped to his whim, Jonah knew that nothing could completely drive away the fear and hopeless feelings of those days in the war's aftermath.

He only hoped it would be enough to force a mistake from Hutton. Enough to give Cas or Min and opening to finally put the man down and allow them to get out of here. Out of here and back home where he could try and forget it all. The war, Hutton, his daughter, the Nails. Forget.

"Finish him." The whisper rasps to Casia and Min. His face a ghostly pale image of hellish retribution and disgust at the slave trading Grinder leader. A look made all the more real by Jonah's fading sanity and slipping control over...just about everything.

One, two.... The ghostly chorus echoes.

It's important to stay calm. (Honestly, that's how the lotus dust first got to Min. It was so /soothing/.)

It's important to stay calm, and move smoothly and without hurry, even when others are panicking, shouting, running to and fro. Even when the sharp electric scent of Weaving is heavy in the air, the ghost field flickering into terrifying reality. Even when there's blood. Blood everywhere. Astonishing quantities of blood.

Min shakes off a memory and pulls out a small metal hammer and some nails. *Silver* nails, of course. He had them made for just this. I assume this is plausible? Also, Min will eat one point of Load for this stuff. Calmly, smoothly, he goes to the nearby door and -- while Casia and Hutton struggle hand to hand -- he hammers in a nail, and then another. It won't stop a determined assailant, of course, but it will delay them.

And also... it's getting a bit confusing in here, with all this gesturing and calling on the Weave. So Min carefully pulls out a wheel of wire -- very fine, very sharp wire. Tap, tap, a wire at ankle height. Tap, tap, another at neck height. Not the most elegant of booby-traps, but if men are rushed and hurried -- crashing through a door, say, or stumbling through a roiling mass of ectoplasmic spirits -- it could do. It should do. And, after all, "Form follows function," Min murmurs to himself; it was something his old teacher used to say. It will do --

-- hm: now what?

Casia's blade cut deeper and more seriously than it first seemed - inquire of Hutton tomorrow, and you will find him a grave man. The burly, middle-aged fighter seems almost too grizzled to be killed; certainly within his own territory - indeed, within his own home. He staggers back, pushing the slim form of Casia roughly away from him, cursing and snarling as he stumbles into the nearest wall. One hand clutches at the mortal wound he has been dealt, while his other grabs for a pistol which he raises with shaking arm, still swearing through clenched teeth as the gun *BANG* fires, its report *BANG* shockingly loud in the confined room, your ears *BANG* under assault from the noise. The bullets themselves? Less of a threat - between the tremors from blood loss and the recoil as the pistol fires, his aim (even at what should be point-blank range) is off and although you dive left and right, he probably wouldn't hit you even if you were standing still.

Right now, however, the leader of the Grinders is not your main threat. Jonah's tugging at the Ghost Field has drawn the attention of the ghost that was hunting you earlier, brought it back on the trail of your scent. The first sign of its arrival is the plummeting temperature, Hutton's blood pooling and congealing on the floor before literally frosting over. Floorboards tear and shatter as the moisture within them expands, splinters flying through the air, causing you to flinch as the ragged form of the hungry ghost rises up from beneath, seeking life, breath, a warm body to possess, one with the spark of life still in it...

And Hutton (near death though he may be) still has the spark of life within him; but lacks the strength to hold onto it. He gives one startled shriek - "NOOOO!!!!" - as the glowing electroplasmic field condenses around him, flowing into his form through his nostrils, his mouth, his eyes melt and burst and his brain matter leaks out through his ears as the new host takes possession. There's a gristling sound as the jaw of what was once Hutton literally unhinges, opening wide as the creature looks at you through its burnt-out eye sockets, as if deciding which one of you to devour first.

What do you do?

And so Hutton is no more. The man's dying scream still drifts in the fog shrouded room as the thought crosses Jonah's mind. Swallowing hard at the sickening sound of the ghost gaining control of its new mortal plaything, Jonah draws his lightning hook. A flick of his wrist and the *click*click*click* of the crackling ghost wrangler practically duplicates the *snap*click*snap* of Ghost-Hutton's distending jaw.

"Best we high tail it out of here." The Whisper croaks, his eyes filled with a mix of dread and resolute determination. "I'll hold it for a few seconds." He adds letting the long hooked staff draw a bit more energy from the ghost field. The tip sparks and crackles hungrily as if it inherently sensed its natural target only a few feet away.

But Jonah isn't interested in capturing or killing the beast within the former beast. Delay, detain, and escape. That's the simple tactic he's interested in. And so rather than trying the usual brute force strike to hook the ghost and draw it from the mortal frame and into a spirit bottle, Jonah steps up feints and the drives the tip of the crackling hook low. It flairs and crackles with aetheric ferocity against Ghost-Hutton's hip. The smell of smoldering flesh is added to the blood and fear already permeating the space. An undying, otherworldly screech rattle the rafters.

"Aye, we'll not go down easy you filthy phantom. Best you look elsewhere to satisfy that thirst in your belly. There's plenty of weaker fools stumbling around in the place." He growls.

Not waiting to see the lasting effects of the shock or his words, Jonah turns and runs for the exit, sure to avoid Min's meticulous traps.

Only a fool blocks an exit he himself may need to use; and Min is no fool. One of the nails can be swiftly pulled back to step past the wires, and then re-inserted to block it again. The trick of course is remembering which nail, but Min (with the alacrity of impending dismemberment and/or devourment, and not necessarily in that order) takes advantage of the few precious seconds that Jonah's quick thinking has bought you to swiftly pull the wires aside to let you pass.

The Hutton-that-was lacks the intellect to understand the nature of the obstacle it hurtles into, and the wires delay it, cutting deeply into the dead flesh. With a growl, and a burst of inhuman strength, it pulls the obstacle apart, driving silver nails into its form - they spit and burn, causing an unearthly yowl of pain that pursues you out of the building and into the street.

The street outside Hutton's house, deep in Grinder territory and full of gang members rushing hither and yon both in response to Hutton's cry and responding to Casia's earlier distracting fireworks. The one bit of good news is that they aren't expecting anyone to run out of Hutton's house; you have a few precious seconds of time in which to take advantage of that confusion before they realise what is going on.

What do you do?

The mad dash through the Grinder's headquarters has left Casia both exhausted, and sweaty. At the same time, there's a cold that seems to be seeping into her bones. Seeing the activity in the streets, she pushes her companions into the shadows.

Glancing around, she pulls off her cloak and the Silver Nails tunic underneath and shoves both into her bag. Out comes a peasant skirt which she pulls up and over her trousers. Giving another look around, she pulls her tunic off over her head, revealing a low-cut top that's pressing her small breasts up into a semblance of visible cleavage. Once she's stowed the tunic in her bag as well, she shoves the tattered container into Jonah's hands. Pulling the cork from her everpresent bottle, she splashes some of the foul contents over her top and then proceeds to do the same to Jonah and Min.

"Now just act like we belong," she hisses, wrapping an arm around each of them and pulling them closer than would be acceptable for anyone other than two men and their hired doxy. With a stumbling step that could be the result of too much drink, she moves them out of the shadows and down the street followed by the strong smell of Casia's drink of choice.

"Wha....?" Jonah splutters as the ghost field chilled alcohol splashes across his shoulders and down his neck. He finishes stuffing the mercenary jacket into a nearby pile of rubbish before wiping at the pungent liquid. Already his eyes are tearing up from the fumes.

"By the dead gods..." He mutters that words trailing off like fumes drifting on the wind. No sense openly asking how Casia could possibly stomach that toxic blend of paint remover and intestinal purifier she preferred to numb herself with. Definitely not the time or the place for such questions. Nor was he looking to lose a finger or ear to one of those knives. So instead, the whisper smiles, throws his arm around her shoulders, and begins to sway and laugh like any fool eel catcher wasting a night on the town with a handful of slugs in his pockets and little sense about how to spend them.

"Ah ha! Come'long ye dire doxy. Where's that den yer siren calls fore...*hic*...t-to-told of s'many pleasures to be?" Jonah slurs drunkenly punctuating it with a laugh and a pat to Casia's backside. This rather bold, and most would say usually deadly move, generated relatively little attention from the scurrying passersby. Casia's fierce, fiery glare and snarl only partially turned into a half-hearted laugh at the last moment, captured captured one or two guffaws not too mention wagers on who would live through the night between the three staggering duskers.

The act was passable enough, but play acting and shoddy disguises can only carry so far. Jonah can't help wincing when Cas' retribution elbow lands not so gently in his still healing ribs. Nor are the various electroplasmic burns marking face and features quite so common place among the riffraff of the docks as to completely escape notice. A few suspicious looks start to cast in their direction.

Fortunately, Min already knew what to do.

"Don't bury yourself in the role," Casia hisses at Jonah under the guise of nuzzling at his neck. She then laughs again, louder than entirely necessary and with a touch of desperation.