All that training with the pistols she'd scavenged a few weeks back, and when the chance comes to finally use them in a fight... Lolo charges the nearest Lampblack, butt-end of her pistol raised, the Hound worried that even with the screams of Wally's victims echoing around the building, a shot would be heard. What ensues would be almost comical, were the stakes not so high.
The goon's eyes widen, and for a second, he grapples with Lolo, easily intercepting her futile bludgeoning, and they wrestle for her pistol. The goon - probably none to bright, being a goon and all - finally opens his mouth to yell for help, but no sound comes. The Lampblack's face scrunches in confusion, and then pain, and then he slumps over, Casia's blade doing what Lolo could not.
Lolo nods, her hairline dripping shoe polish, posture hunched as she struggles to recover her breath. "Glad... I could create a diversion..."
Still struggling for breath, Lolo follows the others up the stairs...
In nearby Charterhall district, at the Bellweather Crematorium, one of the arcane spirit bells chimes once. A solitary Deathseeker Crow takes wing, in the direction of Crow's Foot, circiling ever closer to the corpse every minute, while the spirit wardens put on their masks and robes, ready to head out.
With the Lampblacks down, uncosncious or dead, you quickly make your way up the stairs to Bazo's office. It's locked, but Casia makes short work of that and the door quickly opens and closes behind you as you enter his office and look at the safe. In the dark gloom of the place, it somehow looks almosst sinister as it lurks in one corner of the room, a cabinet of steel large enough to hold entire bodies.
Finraeth's primary emotion is relief that both Cassie and Lolo are OK: any time you get into a fight, there's always a risk of serious injury/death. Nevertheless, when he sees the blood dripping from Casia's knife and realises that the bell has tolled for one of the unknown Lampblacks, he can't stop himself from raising one sardonic eyebrow in his sister's direction: Feeling better now?
As she vaults up the stairs past him, he does his best to remain expressionless, but he is disturbed by how seemingly easy it was for her to kill. He has no objections to violence, but he still has nightmares about the Bluecoat's death. She doesn't seem to have any such issues.
Do I even know you any more?
...
...do I even want to?
He does his best to eliminate that treacherous thought, but he can't dispel it completely.
Jonah releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding once the two Lampblacks drop to the floor. Fin's quick effeciency, Casia's deadly take down, Lolo's...unusual pistol tactics. This time it was his turn to offer the calming hand.
For a quick moment he offers Lolo a sip of water and a hand on the shoulder to let her catch her breath while brother and sister share their own question filled looks. There'll be some chatter back at the tower when all this is over." He muses internally taking off up the stairs and through the door once the way is clear.
Knowing there is a aetheric ward with his name on it Jonah slaps his mask back on and steps over to the safe.
"Don't want to dispel the ward, that'd be a sure fire way of letting old Bazso know someone was tampering with his secrets." He says to Casia while giving the ward a more complete inspection than he was able to earlier in the day. "Better to just short circuit it for a bit so we can crack the lock, dump the surprise, and get out. Eh?"
It's clear that Casia hadn't considered that when Jonah brings up not dispelling the ward.
"Uh, yeah, that would probably be the best way to do it," she says as the implications trickle down.
She lowers herself down to the floor and opens up the case with her 'Tools of the Trade'. Making herself comfortable, she examines the lock as the whisper examines the ward.
"Should we do this together?" she asks after a moment. "Or should I wait for you to finish first?"
"Best to give me a moment, I think." Jonah says. "This is a tricky little beast to deal with." The Whisper pulls out a small pouch filled with a few vials, some chalk, lead, coal, brushes, and several bones. The bones are covered in tiny, carefully crafted runes and are most certainly human in nature, leaving everyone to wonder just exactly how they ended up in Jonah's pouch. Then again, looking deeply into esoteric methods is never really a wise thing to do.
Taking out his knife, he scraps some coal dust into a small silver bowl. Pokes the tip of his finger to squeeze a bit of blood into the dust. Satisfied with the consistency, he selects a mid-sized set of finger bones lashed together with braided hair. Dipping the tip of the bone into the blood and coal mix it begins to glow with a soft crimson light. Carefully, being sure to breath as he goes, Jonah traces over the ward rune with the coal and blood ink. As he does, the aetheric energy racing through the ward slowly diminishes until it no longer glows with power.
Sitting back with a deep sigh, Jonah removes the mask and gathers his tools adding a nod to Casia. "It's all yours. We should have a good fifteen minutes before the block wears away. Hopefully plenty of time."
Casia looks over the safe and then back to Jonah. "I hope that'll be enough time," she says with not as much confidence as he would have preferred. "I mean this is a pretty big safe."
Not interested in wasting any more of her 'good fifteen minutes' chatting about it, Cas picks up and small hammer and begins tapping in various places on the door as she presses her ear to the cool metal.
Her tapping eventually circles in to a specific location near the dial. Pulling a small ear-cone from her set up tools, she presses it to the identified location and the puts her ear up to it. After sliding a flat piece of metal underneath the dial itself, she slowly turns it first clockwise and then counterclockwise. She does this multiple times with a deepening frown.
"Damn," she mutters under her breath. "Can you guys breath a little quieter, please?" She pushes her ear closer to the cone and continues turning the dial. After a few more moments her eyes light up.
She stashes her tools and puts her hand on the lever. "It hasn't been fifteen minutes yet, right?" she asks with a grin as she turns the lever and is rewarded with the door opening just a bit.
Jonah and Casia's work between then gets the safe open in a matter of minutes - there's an audible click as the mechanism gives way to Casia's expertise and the door slowly swings open. In the slilece that Casia has demanded, you hear the sounds of chaos on the floor below slowly come to an end as Jonah's coercion of the ghost wears off and the spirit of Wally "Cackles" Wrecker becomes free to make its own decisions.
It's a loud, rumbling, gutteral snarl, deep enough to send the walls trembling.
What do you do now?
Finraeth cocks his head to one side, as if trying to hear something from very far off. He looks at Jonah absolutely deadpan. "I don't mean to alarm you, old chap, but I think there's someone down there who's hoping for a quiet word with you. Perhaps this is our cue to make the deposit and leave, post-haste?"
With a sigh of relief and a smile for Casia, Jonah carefully takes the silver snuff box from him pocket, wipes it down one last time, and then tucks it carefully into the back of the safe. For the first time in days, his mind is quiet and free of the visions of that ancient god and her eternal harvesting of lost souls.
"Ahhhh....that feels much bett...." His words cut short by the rumbling call of a name. A name that few know him by, but that the...thing...out there most certainly did. For a moment he does absolutely nothing. Then slowly, methodically, he pulls a cigarette from his case. Taps the end against the battered metal box. Pulls a match from the little dispenser sitting on Bazso's desk and strikes it tipping his head to the side to avoid burning the brim of his wide hat. He takes a long, deep drag then slowly releases the tangy scented smoke in a cloud that whirls and drifts around his head and then toward whatever exit from the office it can find.
"I think you might be right Fin." He says. His voice has that quiet, contained calm of someone working really hard to keep it all together.
His eyes look about the office. I know I saw it here. Yes, there it is. Finally his gaze lands on a large, clear glass jug sitting on a shelf. Filled with a clear liquid, the big container holds one of the biggest hands anyone has seen. Those withered digits could have once easily gripped a man's head like a jar of pickles. The gnarled, hairy, preserved hand still shows the scars and bruises of its final fight as it clutches what was once one of the most feared blades in all of Doskvol.
Jonah grabs the big jug from the shelf, glances at his companions as he takes another drag off the cigarette. "If there's another way outta this dump, you might want to consider using it. Wally. Well, he can be a bit unpredictable, bein' the ghost of a notorious killer and all."
The air in the room seems to thicken and grow more and more stifling. The stairway outside the door groans and strains as the entire room seems to shift slightly under some gargantuan weight. Jonah takes another drag, the orange tip glowing bright in the dim lantern light, as he finally steps toward the door. One last deep breath, his eyes grow cold, hard, distant. He opens the door.
A few screams and moans still echo from other end of the cavern. Lampblacks who won't soon be forgetting this dark night. The distant noise, smell of coal dust, tar, aetheric sulfur, and, of course, blood, that is nothing compared to the sight of the bloated, gloating, feral, specter leering at the top of the stairs.
"Hey Cackles. Sounds like you want to have a chat." He holds the jar where the massive, gruesome, visage of the ghost can see it. "Found something you might be interested in."
The apparitions void dark eyes open wide with desire and need, while it's muzzle snarls and snaps as words form. "Mmmmiinnnne. Giiivvvveeee. Noooooowwww."
Jonah pulls the jar back against his chest, arcs of aetheric energy trickle from his hands and up the glass causing the hand inside to start to jump and tumble in it liquid prison. This does not look to please the apparition.
”Not so fast Wally. Seems we’ve a few more rounds o’ cards to deal out. You and I.”
The offices where managment used to work are up at the very top of the refinery, as far away from the noise and coal dust as the bosses could get. The way up is a single rusting stairwell, and once you're up here it's a mess of old gantries that hold the roof together, and a few rooms like the one you're all in. The way out is back down the stairs, or out the window.
of course, old Wally is a ghost. He doesn't really need the stairs. You can see the glow from the other side of the door as his huge, monstrous form rises up through the air, shing with an evil light. There's a low, rumbling laugh as Jonah tries to negotiate.
The hand that Jonah has bravely/foolishly taken hold of suddenly srpings to life, bursting throug the jar (which shatters as electropalsm lances across the glass), and clutching at the whisper's throat, doing its best to strangle him!
Finraeth looks a bit concerned at how relaxed Jonah seems to be taking all of this, especially when the whisper picks up the hand in the jar. "Are you quite certain that's a goo-" He doesn't get to finish before there's a strangled cry and the shattering of glass.
He has next to no expertise with this sort of thing, but he's moving towards the trouble just as he sees Lolo draw and load her pistols, the bullets glimmering with a magical dweomer; from the corner of his eye he catches the swish of her (mostly) red hair as she shakes her head, warning him away. Wisely - and gladly - taking the message, he steers clear and instead looks to finding their escape route, which is more likely to be the window than the door... especially given that Wally is on the other side of it. He examines the catch, but it is reluctant to give way even as he works at it. I'd hate to have to break the glass and draw attention. On the other hand, how much more trouble could we be in?
He is immediately sorry for asking himself that question.
Refocusing, he tries to catch his sister's attention. "Hey - that was good work with the safe. Do you have something in your bag of tricks to help me loosen this?" He gestures to the window latch. "And then I think it's time for us to leave." He lets the climbing gear fall from the rigging inside his coat where he has been carrying it this whole time. Looking out the window, he squints at the rooftop opposite, while he holds a grappling hook in his hand and tries to gauge the distance. "That's not an easy throw, but I think it's our best way out of here. Dropping straight to the ground would just attract attention."
Trying to ignore the imminent threat of a vengeful ghost and Jonah's struggle with its erstwhile hand, Casia shoulders Fin aside and attempts to work the latch on the window herself. "Stop playing games and just open the damn window!" she snaps before realizing that the latch really is stuck.
She quickly pulls oil from her kit and the crowbar from her back but only spends a moment attempting to finesse the mechanism before growling in frustration. Applying more leverage, she's rewarded with the entire top portion of the window frame breaking loose and plunging to shatter against the cobblestones below. The noise it makes is mostly lost in the chaos still churning in the building below.
"Now give me that," she says to Finraeth as she grabs the grapple from his hands. "You can't even throw a ball properly. I'm not betting on your throwing arm now."
With a minimal wind-up, the lurk flings the hook across the short distance to the other building and is satisfied when it seems to hook properly.
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The nightmares were constant, those first few weeks after the trouble on the Pegasus, dark, dragging things, that pulled Lolo into a deep, thrashing sleep. She was unable to escape them, and when she'd finally wake, it was if she'd never rested at all. She trudged through her waking and dreaming life, a prisoner to both, wracked with constant worry for Fi and herself, one nagging question keeping constantly pulling at her consciousness, like thread unravelling a rug. What if something from the Pegasus followed her from the ship?
The Eel's End was like any other dive spot her neighborhood, smoky, mediocre food, filled with blue collar folk eating before heading to or from their jobs at the factories and docks, but the diner was also the spot where Lolo got her sleep back. Jonah took a pull on his everpresent cigarette and slid a burlap sack across the table. Inside, a bandolier filled with bullets. The bullets seemed to shimmer and undulate ever so slightly within their constraints. "Put a couple in one of those guns you carry around," her friend said, taking another pull on his smoke. "Any spirit comes for you, these'll scare them off."
That night, Lolo had her first restful sleep since the Pegasus.
---
The irony was, of course, that nothing had come for her - yet - and the bullets were finally being used to help Jonah, not herself. Lolo steps forward, two pistols her her hand, the one in her right hand slightly shaking, a small glow emanating from the pistol's dual chamber. She shakes her head at Finn and raises the gun in her left hand towards Jonah - or more accurately, the severed hand around his throat, and fires, pulling the trigger through both fires in quick succession, two loud bangs. Acrid smoke fills the air, and the hand just splatters.
Turning her attention to Wally, the shimmering pistol goes off, again two quick bangs, and the ghost's claw-hand explodes into bits wisps of darkness. Jonah had told her they had pain points, just like we do. Hopefully it was enough to buy them some time...
There's a CRASH as the window gives way, followed by a CLATTER as Casia drops the grappling hook on the other side of a rooftop. The two siblings quickly tie off the rope, establishing a possible getaway route that doesnt invovel going past the angry ghost on the other side of the door.
Except that he's now on this side of the door. His glowing form slooooowly pushes through the wood and iron, into the room, almost as if he's doing it for maximum terror and dramatic effect. And then he's inside, towering up to the ceiling, his vast inhuman form hunched almost double as he leers at you all.
One vast, spectral arm reaches out and a telekeintic force picks Fin up and slams him into the nearest wall. He's less direct with Dareia and Casia, instead staring at them with huge, empty, soulless eyes.
And then Lolo's guns go off, tearing into his old hand, which drops to the floor and stops trying to kill Jonah. The spectral bullets have less effect: they tear very, very small holes in his essence, which starts to 'bleed' ectoplasm onto the floor. As you watch, the small holes slowly start to repari themselves, although you can tell it is taking Wally some effort to heal himself.
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Even as the ghost picks him up and hurls him into the wall, Finraeth is rolling, repositioning himself so that he lands with minimal damage. It still hurts like hell, though. He winces as he picks himself up, wondering what he can do, trying to think tactically...
...all rational thought ends as the ghost menaces his sister. He doesn't remember moving at all, he's suddenly just there, standing in front of Cassie, squaring up to the ghost. The much, much bigger ghost. Finraeth gives a guttural snarl, the sort that doesn't require conscious thought, the sort of noise that starts in one throat and ends in someone else's.
Mine. She's mine.
He fishes out the protective charm around his neck: a silver design, in the stylised form of an ancient - and now extinct - fish...
It's their nameday, and their parents have indulged them both: they're old enough to get their own ghostbane charms instead of the hand-me-downs they've both been using up til now. No expense has been spared; one of the local silversmiths (only an apprentice, not a master, but still) has sat with them while they have pored over designs and thought up the perfect gift for the other one, and now Cassie is handing him a parcel of tissue paper, which he unwraps and -
"It's a dolphin, with a large fin, see? For Fin." Cassie is grinning that smile of having come up with a joke that she likes and is hoping that he does too. Dolphins are now a thing of legend - the leviathans ate them, along with everything else in the sea, pretty much - but the legends are good: saving drowning sailors, helping lost ships get back to land, that sort of thing.
He smiles. "I love it."
He idly wonders what happened to the one he gave to her - probably long-since sold to get a drink or two...
He holds it up, brandishing it at the enormous form of Wally. "Bad Ghost! BAD!" It sounds ridiculous, but it's the only words he can think to say right now.
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It all happens so fast. Jonah knows the moment he’s lost control of the situation, realizes he really never had it to begin with. The jar shatters, the empty, dead hand hits him hard on the cheek. Not broken, or at least Jonah hopes it isn’t, but he’s going to have a shiner of epic proportions in the morning. Then a sensation he’s never experienced before and one the Whisper doesn’t wish to repeat. That of being choked to death by a dead man’s hand. Wally’s soggy, sticky, cold, dead fingers smelling of formaldehyde and grain alcohol wrap themselves around his throat and begin to slowly squeeze. Fueled by Wally’s madness and rage and its aetheric strength, that lone hand could’ve popped Jonah’s head from his shoulders like a child plucking a grape. Fortunately for the scoundrel, deep down Wally is a sadistic bastard. Even dead as he is, he likes to watch the life flee from his victims. Enjoys devouring their soul bit by aetheric bit. Savoring every drop for his own twisted pleasure. It’s this selfish need that gives the Whisper a fighting chance.
*cough*sputter*gag* Wait….*cough* Bazso….*gack* Here… *cough* Get…your…payback.*cough* Jonah tries to speak, but the ghost simply hears nothing. There is no reasoning with the feral monster. Face starting to turn a cold shade of blue, Jonah’s about done. Hope the others got away…
A pistol barks. Barks again. Powder smoke. The feel of hot lead grazing the skin of his neck. Wally roars with pain, the grip on Jonah’s throat gives way as the hand is blown free by Lolo’s ghost killers.
*cough* Closest…shave I’ve... *gasp* had in weeks. *cough* He manages to rasp out adding a thankful nod to Lolo.
Dareia has had far worse things said to her by men, spectral or otherwise, so she mostly brushes off the ghost fixating on her. Still, it is a ghost, and even with herself steeled, she can’t help but feel shaken by its gaze and what unknown evil it is capable of.
”Pardon my language: piss off, ghost.”
She checks in on Jonah, looking for any lingering signs of the ghost’s influence. ”Goodness gracious! How long were you carrying that beast around?”
Fin's aggression catches the ghost by surprise - Wally moves back quickly from teh ghostbane charm, and you see that some more of his ghostly essence is ripped away (the holes from Lolo's bullets have stopped reparing themselves, he continues to 'bleed' onto the carpet). His face twists and controrts in a way no human's ever could, his void-like eyes staring straight at the Cutter.
There's a flash of electroplasm as the silver charm sparks and crackles, before breaking apart! Fin's hands are left looking blistered and raw. Wally laughs evilly as the protection is destroeyed, but he is distracted and not paying attention to Jonah.
What can the Whisper do with the time that Lolo, Fin and Dary have bought him?
Casia feels those dead eyes look deep into her. Seeing her failures. Her weaknesses. Her inadequacy. The cold and the fear follow. Even the warmth running down her leg isn't enough to offset the cold that seeps into her soul. The yelling and shouting fade into vague murmurs as she's unable to look away from those eyes.
His throat hurt. His eye was swelling shut. Air was just returning to his lungs. And all the while a massive leviathan tentacle was pounding on Jonah's brain like a jackrabbit on a sugar high. But the Whisper does his best to pull it together when Fin provides a small opening to try and send Wally packing. Or at least run him off for long enough to let them get out.
He grabs one of the vials from his arcane kit. A blend of salt, lead, sulfur, and a few flecks of shaved silver. Not the strongest deterrent, but not the weakest. Just what a down on his luck Whisper could afford to scrounge up.
"Should have listened to a little *cough* reason Wally. Doubt you'll get another shot at Bazso for a good long time." He says as the ghost finishes off Fin's charm. "Instead you can spend the next few days feelin' like a million fleas are nibbling you aetherial carcass and running from the Wardens...again."
In a single motion he pours the contents into his hand and then throws. The mixture forms a dense, smelly cloud that coats Wally and immediately starts to hiss and pop and spark as it interacts with the spirit's ectoplasmic form.
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Wally was NOT expcting that. His form - already damaged by Lolo's bullets and Fin's defiancne - starts to almost melt, bits of it tearing away from him and disappearing back into the Ghost Field. He turns and gives Jonah a long, hate-filled stare, before his eyes allso start to melt and dissolve, running down what's lefvt of his face as he shimmers and slowly vanishes.
And then he's gone - banised back to the Ghost Field. It will take him some time to re-form and draw enough energy to be a nuisance to you, and there is a moment - just a moment - of stillness, when you can all catch your breath and start to believe that the worst is passed.
Then.
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It's gradual at first, so it takes you a moment or tow to realise it: the temperature is falling.
Rapidly. In another few seconds, it's as cold in the office as it is outside. Colder. Your breath forms steam, which hangs heavy in the air. Tracers of frost start to form on what's left of the window, ice condenses on the cold metal of the safe.
Then the whispers begin, just on the edge of hearing.
now now now what's all this this this, can't be having with thieves thieves thieves taking, taking taking what isn't theirs naughty naghty naughty
Finraeth gives a cry of dismay as the ghostbane charm falls apart in his hands, silver pieces scattering across the floor. Ignoring the pain in his burnt and blistered fingers (which look worse than they actually are), he quickly bends down, frantically scrabbling to pick the fragments back up.
It's not rational, much like his placing himself in harm's way for his sister wasn't rational. The dolphin is one of the few mementos that he still has of that past life, that happy family life that has disintegrated in much the same way as the ghostbane charm. On some level, below any conscious actual thought, there's the feeling that if only he can gather these pieces up, if only he can fit them back together, then somehow he can repair all the other pieces of his life.
It's not rational. But it is all-consuming. He barely even notices the plummeting temperature.
The cold and the whispers seem to stir Casia to action. She finally sees what Fin's struggling with and grabs him roughly by the shoulder. "It's just a stupid necklace," she says as she shoves him towards the window. "Forget it! We need to get out of here!"
Finraeth stubbornly resists his sister's attempts to move him, with a shake of his head. It's not just a stupid necklace. It's something precious that you gave me. Out loud, he simply says "Hang on, I think I've got them all..." The glint of silver, quickly frosting over in the cold air, catches his eye and he pounces. "There!" He drops all the pieces into a belt pouch, and stands up again.
His more usual manner asserts itself as he gives Jonah a quick nod of his head, acknowledging the vital role that the man has played. "You are a useful person to have around, I have to say." He looks around. "That said, I believe Cassie has the right of it. We should be on our way. Of course, leaving via the window is not done in the best of houses, but I shan't tell anyone if you don't."
Wally's words grate like nails on slate and Jonah knows the ghost may be gone for now, but not for good. At least he's gone. Is the only real thought that crosses the Whisper's mind as he watches Fin gather the pieces of the shattered charm. Taking a quick deep breath, Jonah checks the safe one last time to make sure its closed. Seeing all is well there, a brief pause. His still, slightly unfocused eyes take in the scene. Despite the pain and near exhaustion Jonah can't help but crack a bit of a grin thinking of the look on Bazso's face when the big gangster shows up.
Moments later the grin withers like grapes on a sun baked vine. His teeth start to chatter while a small cloud forms with every breath. Then the eerie whispering starts and shivers do a few laps up and down his spine.
"Aye, best to be gone." He says adding an emphatic nod of agreement to Finraeth's assessment of the need to make their escape. He hurries to the window and starts helping the others make their way out the makeshift exit. As he does he keeps one nervous eye and his aetheric senses focused on the door. Hoping it doesn't open before he has a chance to slip out the window and across the way with the others.
"Then why is everyone still standing here?" Casia demands, her voice growing shrill. "Out the window! Now, people!"
Not waiting to see if everyone else is following, she slips out the window and while hanging underneath the rope rapidly moves hand-over-hand across the empty space to the building on the other side. She clambers up onto the rooftop and verifies that the hook is secure before looking back at the window. "Who's next? Let's go!" she hisses across the darkness.
Finraeth isn't quite as deftly elegant as Casia is, but he manages to keep a hold of the rope and avoid falling to his death on the ground below - or worse, embarrassing himself.
He joins her on the other rooftop a few moments later, looking around their new vantage point to get his bearings as he works out the best escape route from here.
Her hands shake as she reloads her weapons, nodding as Casia clambers out the window. "Go! Go! I'll follow up."
Time slips by, much slower than Lolo would like, and she fumbles with her guns, head pounding, fingers fumbling, sweat dripping from her temples.
With all the commotion that Wally has caused, nobody notices five shadowy figures climb out of Bazo's office through the window. You cross the rope, some more easily than others, and land on the roof opposite the Lampblack HQ. From there, it is easy to slip into the constant darkness of Doskvol and make your escape.
Your score is halfway done.
Dareia is just happy there is a rope to make this easier, and especially glad that Casia knows what she is doing. As she climbs, she can’t help but glance back periodically to Lolo to make sure she’s still fine. After how close that call was with the ghost, it would be a shame to lose someone now. The downside of this checking is that she does not have her full focus on her own climb, and she stumbles a few times.
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The street outside the Lampblack HQ, 13 Jan
A short while later
The fog rolls in: bone-chilling, frozen mist. It rolls down the street towards the old refinery, moving with purpose as though it is tracking down its prey, like somethign that is alive.
And from out of the fog, two figures emerge. They are hard to describe, the eye slides over them as though it doesn't want to see them, won't admit their existence. It's safer that way (not really, but you have to believe in something). Tehre are robes - cowls - cloaks? And they have faces, probably. They seem to have expressions, and they exchange glances, and smiles, so they have mouths and teeth. Or maybe there's just an impression of smiles and mouths and teeth, the same way you might think a shark was grinning. If you didn't know better. They might have feet. They're on the ground, they're not flying, but thier movement is even, like they're gliding rather than walking. They slide out from the fog, down towards the Lambplack HQ. There's a glowing charcoal brazier by the entrance, where a handful of the gang guard the entrance. They stand as the two figures approach, but even as they shout an aalarm their voices freeze silent, hushed. The charchoal fire dies, the guards are wreathed in frost. Not dead, but silent and unmoving. Only the blinking of their eyes tells you that. The two of them reach the door, and one of them gestures politely to the other (they have arms, then, presumably): After you, Sister The other one spreads its hands out, wordlessly: How kind of you, Sister.
The door was probably locked. It doens't really matter. The Sisters glide through as it opens for them. Inside, they ignore the chaos on the floor below them, they move towards the stairs as soon as they spot them. The speed of their pace - slow, but determined - never changes as they slide up the stairway and into Bazso's office.
(That door was definitly locked, you closed it behind you. Details, details.)
The Sisters look at the safe for a moment, before exchanging a silent moment of humour between them: Look, Sister, how sweet! The other places one hand over a heart, or where a heart would be in someone else: Oh, Sister, bless... The safe door opens for them. The amulet floats out. There is some After you, Sister -- But I couldn't possibly, Sister pantomime between them before one of them closes a hand around the amulet and pockets it, they float back doswn the stairway.
Outsied, they pause by the frozen sentries. A hand on a face, musing, contmplative: I think we should send a message, Sister. A pointed finger in reply: Will that one do, sister? The luckless man is pulled into the air, turned upside down. No longer paralysed, he struggles, waving his limbs and trying to shout. No sound comes out, he is hushed. A blade, sharp, gleaming, in a hand. Offered: Be my guest Sister. Politely refused, with a wave. Why thank you, Sister. But I know how much you enjoy your work.
It takes a long, long time for him to die. When it's done, they look around at the other gang members, who were forced to watch, frozen in place. Tell that nice Mr Bazs not to take our toys, please dearies. It's not nice to steal.
The fog rolls away, and they are gone. Only the dead body, still hanging upside down in the air, suggest taht they were ever there. When the Spirit Wardens arrive, half an hour later, it takes them several enchamtments to drop the corpse to the street so they can take it away.
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The journey back to the hideout is little more than a blur in Jonah’s scrambled mind. It’s all he can do to keep Lolo’s red black hair in front of him and his feet moving. Visons of Wally, bone built ziggurat’s, laughing elder gods, the Dimmer Sisters, and floating bodies being carved up for fun. All of it spun around in his thoughts like a great whirlpool sucking any chance of sleep and real rest down into its dark, murky depths. So instead of bothering, he spends much of the next twilight smoking and staring out the old broken window near the top of their little tower. The narrow opening actually offered a reasonably decent view. One where he could watch the continual line of storm clouds unload their bladders upon this pit of a city.
The storm grumbles and flashes its power, but Jonah’s thoughts are elsewhere as the smoldering end of his cigarette hangs from his mouth, glowing softly in the chill, damp air. Although it is gone, the amulet still haunts him. What troubles his thoughts most about the thing isn’t the laughing goddess. It isn’t the slam of the sword upon those ready and willing necks. It isn’t coming so close to being caught by the Dimmer Sisters. It isn’t even the sight of Naty’s head rolling onto the bone built mound.
No, it is the sight of the sun. That great yellow orb hanging in a bright blue sky. Brilliant. Warm. Bringing color and so much more into the world. Greens, reds, blues, yellows, the rich spectrum of a long ago, mythic rainbow. What would Doskvol have looked like under that golden globe? He thinks, taking a deep drag and slowly releasing it into the wind blown night. What would Doskvol have been under that sun? It’s light searing away the rain and shadows and darkness? What would he be? What could his sister have been?” Meaningless questions really. He is what he is. What’s done is done, and the world is the world. Yet the Whisper’s mind is unable to unsee such light. It still burns in his minds eye. A mocking reminder of how low his world has truly fallen with its cycles measured by meager twilights and puny dawns. Never ending rain and diets of mushrooms and eels because little else could thrive in a world of perpetual night.
He sighs. Somewhere in the city a bell sounds Coal. The pathetic lightening of the sky that is Dawn was three hours away. No time to check on Naty. He could only hope she was staying out of trouble. Because soon he and his companions would be off to try and grab Mylera’s drugs. Head still aches and my eye is swollen, not exactly the best way to start a job. But that smirking Sash wench deserves a bit of payback for saddling them with that amulet and its visions of what the world has lost. He closes his eyes, finishes the smoke to try and suppress his jittery nerves and the sight and smells of cloudless sky over tall green trees and open fields. Some believe that anything lost, can be found again. Anything broken, replaced. Jonah’s mind ponders the darkness beyond the window, broken only by the pale blue specks of city lamps. What would it take to heal a broken sun? He pushes the question into the recesses of his mind. He needed focus, not fantasies, if he had any hope of being useful while pulling off this job.
With a stifled groan, he stabs the smoke out on the damp window sill and pulls himself upright. His eyes look up into the dark sky one last time before he turns away and walks off to check his gear and prepare for the next job.
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16 JANUARY, 847 IE
You've gone to a better place. Charterhall district is only a bridge away from Crow's Foot, omn the other side of the rive, but it might as well be in a different world compeltely. The streets are broad, clean and wll-lit, in the pools of light they create you see students and clerks gathered at tables, arguing politics or discussing work over a coffee or something a little stronger. Occasionally a heavy carriage rolls past the imposing stone buildings, some banker on the way to or from work, their private bodyguards earning a pretty penny for keeping their bosses safe. Teher's no snow anymore, it was washed away in the recent thunderstorm, but even if there were it wouldn't be permitted to loiter here. Everythingn is movement and bustle, hustle and business, although it does get quieter outside working hours.
Your desintation is the safe house on the other side of Jayan Park - the great alchemist whose work is now lost, although his achievements live on here: great trees which grow without sunlight or radiant energy - leafy and green and broad, their trunks are taller than all but the highest buildings and their limb-like branches extend across the park. They are of course horrificaly toxic and must not be touched under any circumstances, but they are beautiful - a final reminder of what the world might have looked like back when the sun still shone.
You aren't even in sight of the safe house when you run into your first obstacle: the Bluecoats of Charterhall actually do their jobs, patrolling to keep the streests safe from - well, from your sort, really. "Halt! State your busness." The sergeant, puffy-faced and red-cheeked, steps forward to look at you with suspicion. The rest of his patrol wathc you carefully. They haven't drawn weapons, but the'yre ready to act if there's trouble.
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=========
Flashback
=========
One of many trips following Jelsya James, owner of the Pegasus. Lolo knew the route by heart, every pool of lamplight, every missing cobblestone in the winding road down to the shipyards. Jelsya didn't need to take alternate routes to the docks after all - she had the type of security that it would be madness to attack without some serious numbers. And firepower. And so it was the same way, every day, Jelsya's sparkcraft carriage clattering over the cobbled streets, slowed by her massive security detail, walking all sides of the animated vehicle...
And Lolo, ducking from shadow to shadow, a circuitous and lambering tail to the armed processing a block ahead. She ticked off the landmarks as she went. There, the cobbler Tolgrith's shop. There, the sinkhole, so wide the sparkcraft carriage was forced to the left. There, the alleyway behind Coogin's Court, which Lolo could cut through to get back to the main throughfare, losing sight for a minute or two of Jelsya and her guards. Of course, their route would be unchanged, and Lolo would see them on the other side, the carriage and its hangers-on plodding along their inevitable march to Jelsya's dockside empire.
The alleyway was quiet this time of the day, only occasional sound of an early breakfast being made, or a colic child drifting down from the windows of the tenements towering overhead. Quiet, and dark, a place of settled shadows.
This morning, however, a small candlelight burned in the window of a ground floor tenement; a cart sat, sagging, chained and tucked into the blackened gangway beside the building. A woman, old and stooped, swept the doorway fronting her apartment. Her gaze met Lolo's for a brief second, the woman's face puffy and glistening in the candle light, slick with tears and worry.
Day after day and week after week Lolo had passed this tenement and never seen anyone, but the smell was unmistakable, blanketing the place even when the cart's owners were at work. This tidy demeanse was the home of gong farmers, and they should be long gone on their daily route. Lolo made note of the woman and the cart, cataloging both, now an additional wrinkle or consideration for the day when she sprang her revenge of Jelsya.
Stopping, Lolo pulled her cloak pulled tight around her to ward off the early morning chill. "Donya," she said, an old Skov title for elder, for Lolo could tell from the woman's greying red hair and red complexion that she was from Lolo's homeland. "Varför gråter du? Vilken olycka har besökt ditt snygga hem?"
Why do you cry? What misfortune has visited your tidy home?
Lolo's nose was correct; the woman and her husband, it turned out, were gong farmers. Last night, he had developed a deep, wracking cough. She had awoke with a tickle in her throat. The Wracking Sleep.
Sighing, Lolo dug into her pockets pulling a couple of farthings forth. "Donya, Du är tuffa människor från ett hårt land. Du kommer att slå den här veckan Akorosis sjukdom inom en vecka. Jag lovar. Ta det här myntet. Min dotter släpper en ålpaj vid din tröskel i kväll."
Lolo's voice wavered, betraying her lack of conviction. Truth was, they'd be at best deathly ill for a while, and given their age...
Looking down the darkened alley, Lolo nodded and left the woman's worry hanging between them.
---
The day before the score at Baszo's
---
Lolo lights the lamp at their tower hideout, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the light. Everyone was there, gathered around a door-turned-table they'd scavenged from a nearby factory. "May need a cart to transport the drugs, and I know one the owners aren't going to miss for a bit. It's... literally full of shite though."
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---
The day before the score at Baszo's
---
Wagons were not Casia's specialty. Too big. Too noisy. Too noticable. And in this particular case; Too smelly. However, they needed a wagon and this was the one most readily available.
Getting the wagon itself didn't prove too difficult - no one wanted a wagon filled with shit, after all. She'd just showed up in the middle of the dark hours and five minutes later was toodling down one of the side-streets with it. Wagon wheels on cobblestone were never a silent way to travel, but she did her best to avoid any excessive noise and moved along slowly to minimize attracting attention.
"Spit? Is 'at you?" a voice called out softly. Casia turned in the seat to see a rumpled figure huddled on a sheltered doorstep. Worried that this was a witness they might have to deal with, she relaxed when she saw who it was. "Wotcher, Sammy," she replied quietly as she slowed the vehicle to a stop.
The old man that worked half-hearted scams on whatever merchants would fall for them rose from the stone steps and slowly approached the cart. "This ain't your normal gig, s'it?" he asked looking over the waste-filled contraption. "Nah," she said with a wave of her hand. "Just need it for a short bit. Bringin' it back tomorrow night." She tossed him a tiny copper coin. "Don't say nothin' to no one, eh?"
The old man grinned showing stained and broken teeth. "You know me, Spit. I don' say nuthin' to no one." She nodded in thanks.
"And by the," he continued, rubbing a hand across his weak, stubbled-covered chin. "'s a couple o' bluecoats up 'round the corner. Pro'ly best to take Red Dog Alley."
She nodded again and passed along another small coin. "Thanks, Sammy. Get somewhere warm."
The man pulled his tattered coat up around his shoulders, turned and shuffled away.
~~~~~
Ten minutes later, Casia was cursing the man's name. The alley had let them bypass the bluecoats, sure, but it was dark enough that she never saw the huge hole until it was too late. She would have sworn it wasn't there three days ago. But it was certainly there now and the wagon had a busted axle to show for it. A slap-dash repair with a 'borrowed' broomstick and some rope got them moving again, but without some time with a qualified wainwright it was anyone's guess how long the repair would hold.
"Holy hells!" The smell of their transportation hit Jonah like a load of...bricks. Standing outside the tower, he waves his hat in front of his face. "It's like half the devil's of all the depths squatted over the thing." But his complaints are only really in jest as he boards the wagon and nods a compliment to Lolo and Casia with grin. "I guess you two really wanted folk to give us a wide berth. Ha. This might even keep Wally at bay if the dead bit of ectoplasmic scum decides to poke his ugly head into the job." He adds with a soft chuckle.
The chuckle turns to a curse as the wagon lurches forward and proceeds to jump and bumps about during every rotation of the makeshift axle. An attempt to brace himself to keep from being knocked end over teakettle ends with his hand and much of his person landing in something moist and squishy.
In the army he'd crawled through muddy trenches, hid out in stables, been forced to clean the mess kettles for a month, shot at, killed, conducted foul rituals against the enemy, but never had he been subjected to being bounced around in a wagon full of nightsoil. He'd managed to avoid that...until now. Where did it all go wrong? He can't help but wonder. But an answer doesn't come to mind before the voice of the Bluecoat breaks into his thoughts.
Dareia keeps her head down and her hood up, but she does smile, tilting her head towards the Bluecoats on the ground. She drops her voice and puts on a more street-level dialect. ”Well ‘allo ‘allo, coppers. Just got a dead one here I’m moving. Dreadful stuff I, hear. Job from one a’ them fancy types don’t like people asking too many questions. I say to them, ‘Nancy Brown’s good one, she is. Know’s how to keep quiet and just do her job. You can always rely on ol’ Nancy.’ Afraid I can’t offer you a look, which I normally would, as they’ve got this box tighter’n a nobleman’s bum.” She leans in and lowers her voice. ”Think there’s somethin’ a bit unquiet in there, you catch my meanin’. But you didn’t hear it from me.” She pulls back and smiles a crooked smile once more. ”It’s all a bit hush-hush. Best I can do is show you my papers, I’m afraid. Really wish I could offer you more, but you know how those high n’mighty types are, never a thought for how hard you an’ me are working out here on the streets, never a thought for the little details, eh?”
The papers that Dary produces, plus eht occasional scratches and faint moaning from the coffin, is enought to keep the Bluecoats from getting too close. The sergeatn takes a look at you, doubrfully. "We're supposed to be keeping this road clear of traffic, but you can be on your way. Just make good time and don't block the road, yeah?"
With that, you are past the patrol and into the heart of Charterhall district. You draw a few curious stares from the other people, but nogbody tries to stop you or get in your way. Once you're out of sidght of the Bluecoats, you turn off the main road - not towards the Crem, but twoards your destination. The safe house that Bazso told you about is on the edge of Jayan Park, a detached stone-built family house. From the outside, it looks perfectely respectable - whcih is probably the point. It's a perfect cover for gang activity. The hosue is dark, and silent. No light shines from the front door and there's no obvious sign of anyone living there.
Someone needs to roll Resist with Insight in order to spot the two figures lurking in the darkness of the park. They're perfectly placed to keep an eye on the house without being too obvious - in this district, guards right outside the door would just be asking for trouble.
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Finraeth is uncharacteristically silent on the way back from their score. He draws his cloak around him to keep out the freezing weather, and mutely gives the rest of the group a nod as they split up to go their own separate ways. He acknowledges - but doesn't speak to - his sister as they silently journey home together, to the small flat they both share. The fire is still smouldering in the grate as he takes off his cloak, shaking off the snow before hanging it over the back of a chair near the fireplace.
With that, he gives Casia a nod. "That was some quick work with your knife, you seemed to know what to do. I take it you've killed before?" He does his level best to keep his voice and expression neutral, but in truth he was disturbed by the ease with which she seemed to take another life - he still has nightmares about the Bluecoat he killed, although he's reasonably sure nobody else knows that. The fact that Casia has killed, and so apparently without trouble, chills him slightly.
And of course, it's all complicated by the fact that watching her movements, so lithe and swift and competent, was unsettlingly arousing; although it's not clear that he's even admitting that to himself.
"I've had to do a lot of things that I never thought I would," Casia replies as she turns away to remove her own cloak. Her tone makes it clear that she doesn't want to discuss it ... or elaborate on what other things. "That's what happens when we grow up. We put away the things of childhood and graduate to those of adults."
Finraeth - wisely - senses that this is not the time to make an over-clever remark about how few people probably have to stab someone in the kidneys in order to graduate to adulthood. He shrugs instead. He's not sure what he was expecting by way of reply, anyway. But at least it was a conversation - there've been few enough of those recently.
He gestures to the other room, and makes the same offer he does every night: "You can have the bed." He gives a weary smile. "Humour me this one time, dear sister. After what that gentleman did to my nose, I'd only get blood on the pillow anyway." The nasal voice he had immediately after the injury has disappeared, but the break itself is still fresh.
"I'm not taking your bed, Fin," she replies without looking back. "The price is too high." Without another word she moves to her spot on the floor. Grabbing the tattered blanket that she's managed to acquire, she rolls over to face the wall giving all indications that the conversation is over.
Finraeth looks blankly at her turned back: he has absolutely no idea what she means by 'the price is too high' - and, more to the point, he's starting not to care. He's done his best to make amends for things, and stood by while all his kindnesses were thrown back in his face, but the way she acted on their nameday, taking up with that prostitute just to spite him, was more hurtful than he is letting on. He gives her a silent glance: 'Have it your way, then sister. You always do.'
....
Later that night ...
A sharp crack of thunder wakes Finraeth from the troubled sleep that had settled over him. A moment later and there's another brilliant flash of lightning followed almost instantly by a rumble that shakes the tenement building. These are the nights when, as a youth, he would expect to hear the creaking of his door and the near-soundless pattering of his sister's feet as she would seek out his comfort to soothe her terror of the storm.
Another flash and another ear-piercing crack directly overhead. A different sound pricks his ears in the darkness. A strangled whimper? He shrugs.
'That's what happens when we grow up. We put away the things of childhood.'
He can't imagine that his sister would need him right now - or, even if she did, that she would welcome his help. He turns over on the mattress, putting his pillow over his head to try and muffle out the sounds. It's not the storm keeping Finraeth awake right now. It's his conscience. With a heavy sigh, he gets out of bed and walks softly into the other room.
"Cassie? Are you OK?"
Finraeth can see that Casia is curled into a tight ball that flinches and whimpers as another crack of thunder rattles what serves as a window. A soft sob escapes her. He gives a sigh and carefully lifts Cassie up into his arms. "Hey there. It's OK, it's just a storm, it will pass." His voice is surprisingly gentle.
At his touch, Casia stiffens momentarily, but then clings to him as a drowning man to a log. Her body starts to shake as sobs overtake her. "It's all my fault, Fin. Everything's my fault. Papa's gone. Mother will never speak to me again. You hate me," she manages to choke out between the wracking heaves. "I want it to be like it was before, but it'll never be like that again. And now it's just me and I don't know what to do."
Carrying her through into the other room, Fin lies her down on the bed and covers her with the blankets, tucking her up the way he used to when they were much younger. He sits for a while on the edge of the bed, softly whispering to her as his hand rubs her back. "Go back to sleep, Cassie. It's fine. You'll be fine." Once she's stopped sobbing, he returns to the other room to pick up the bedding, before coming back and lying on the floor next to the bed in case she wakes up again.
When he rests her on his bed, she resists releasing him. As he speaks soothingly to her, she slowly releases her grip, only to replace it with his tired, stained pillow, burying her face in it.
It's some time later when the sudden storm has moved on that she finally speaks again. Her voice whispers quietly in the dark as if not sure that he's awake to hear.
"I miss you, Fin. I miss Papa, but he never understood me. You were always the other part of me and when I lost that ... I didn't know who I was anymore ... who I am anymore." She shifts on the bed to bring her face to the edge. [b]"I know that I'll never have your forgiveness for what I've done, and I know that I don't deserve it, but there isn't a day that goes by that I don't wish we could be the way we used to be." There's silence for a while before she speaks again. "While I was out there, I killed two people. Two more people are dead because of me. One tried to ... he was going to ... I had a sharp piece of glass and I stabbed at him with it. I caught his throat just right and ... he was dead in less than a minute. I can still smell all the blood. The other tried to take the bread that I'd managed to buy. I'd gotten a knife by then and I stabbed him in the belly. He took a while to die and I ate the bread and watched him the whole time." A soft hiccup fills the room. "It gets easier each time you do it, but I still see their faces when I close my eyes."
More silence.
...
"I wish I could be the Casia that you remember, Fin. But I can't be her anymore. It hurts too much. I've had to shut her away. To be her again, to feel all that pain again ... I don't know if I could survive it."
Finraeth is so bewildered by some of what Cas is saying that it takes him a few moments to get the words together.
"Cassie ... I - I don't hate you. I never have. I thought you hated me, after how I treated you on our last night together, and you have every right to. I certainly loathe myself for it."
"But you're right, in a way. You don't have my forgiveness - because you don't need it. You did nothing wrong, Cassie, do you hear me? Nothing. You fell in love with someone, and she betrayed you and that's on her - and believe me, I intend to hunt her down and punish her for it."
"You did what you needed to survive. I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you. I'm sorry for - for everything. I'm the one who needs to be forgiven, Cassie. If you can find it in you to do that. But I haven't even forgiven myself, so I don't expect you to."
As Fin speaks, something inside Casia releases. Like a long held breath or a clinched fist around her heart that finally lets go. Her tears begin to flow anew, but these are tears of long-needed relief. Before he even finishes his final sentence she's off the bed and down on the floor with him, her arms wrapped tightly around him and her head pressed against his chest.
"Oh, Fin," she says, "I could never hate you. I love you." She spends a moment reveling in the sensation of being close to him again for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. "W-what you said ... it hurt. In ways I can't even explain. I spent such a long time trying to figure out why you would say ... why you'd call me a ... But I never stopped loving you. I never stopped missing you." She pulls back to look him in the eyes. "And I do forgive you."
Finraeth holds his sister close, his arms wrapped tightly around her, pressing her into him. "Oh gods, Cassie, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. You didn't do anything wrong, it was me - I was angry and frustrated and I took it out on you. Unforgivably so. All the time I was at university, I kept meaning to write to you, to apologise... and the longer I left it, the guiltier I felt until it was just easier to push it away from me and try to forget about it. You did nothing wrong, it was me, it was me, and I'm so sorry..."
He strokes her hair as she nestles against his chest. "I love you, Cassie. I've always loved you. i'm sorry if you thought there was a price attached to that."
The other part of her soul reclaimed, Casia does nothing but cuddle in closer. She tenses a little when a now-distant rumble of thunder rolls through, but she pulls Fin's blanket up over her shoulders and buries herself in his presence. In another breath she's sound asleep. The first really peaceful sleep she's had since he left.
Finraeth waits until the sound of his sister's breathing changes to a deep sleep, before gently lifting her up off the floor beside him and back into his bed. He gives her a soft kiss on the forehead before settling down on the floor and keeping a vigil as she slumbers. Every time an occasional crash of thunder disturbs her, he reaches up and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze: I'm still here. Everything's fine.
...
When the storm passes and (what passes for) morning arrives, Casia wakes to find herself in the bed; Finraeth has finally sunk into an exhausted sleep on the floor beside her.
~~~~~
When the wagon finally groans to a halt and there's a quick tap on the outside of the coffin, Casia slips out of the box like tea poured from a cup.
"How many people can say that they've escaped their coffin?" she asks with a grin. Since the Bazso job, the girl has appeared to be in much better spirits. Her normal moroseness has vanished and she's even cracked a joke or two.
She looks around to see where they're at and Fin points out the safehouse to her. "Any guards?" she asks.
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Lolo lets her cloak fall closed, the shimmering bullets once again hidden from view, and nods to the Bluecoats, her face placid.
Good boys. Walk away. Don't want a shootout in the middle of the street.
Of course, she needed to look in control. Inside, well that was a different story. A block away, Lolo finally exhales, and leans down towards the casket, her voice shaky. "Smart thinking, Dary. Nice touch, Casia."
Just have to avoid those Bluecoats on the way back.
---
Of course there were lurks. She spots them right off, Lolo herself being a person that surveils others on the top. They're both in the darker corners of the park, seemingly average Chatterhall folk - educated and wealthy. The man, middle-aged, a bit plump, the type of guy doesn't eat eel pie every night. He sits, just outside of the shimmering glow of an ancient oak tree, a newspaper propped on his knee. The other, a young woman, looks to be about Fin's age, and playing at being a student. She's propped up an easel and paintbrush and is busy at work, seemingly a plenair painter - Lolo thinks that's what they are called - hard at work trying to capture the inscrutable look on Jayan's statue.
They both have tells though. The painter's easel is just off, her line of sight directly to the drughouse and not the statue. And the man, he shifts a lot as if restless, but what he's really doing is casting frequent glances up and down the street.
"Two wotchers. The painter and the newspaper reader."
Casia marks the two figures without looking at them directly. "Do we distract them or remove them?" she asks.
Finraeth gives Lolo a nod of respect: "I'd not seen them. I'm glad you did." He considers things for a moment or so. "I think it's safe to say they've seen us, this cart isn't exactly inconspicuous..."
==========
Flashback
============
Lolo strolls through Chatterhall, a parasol spinning above her head, dressed in a white cotton blouse, buttoned up to her neck, that frills at the wrists, black leather breeches, and a woolen longcoat, under which lies her pistols and powder. The clothes were Lolo's nicest - but they were still second-hand and a season or two out of date. Current enough to fool a casual glance at any rate, and Lolo didn't plan on making herself noticed.
Strolling Jayan park, Lolo finds the lurkers - a different pair of berks than she would spy later in the day - a young couple, pretending to be on a picnic. Stashing her parasol (such a silly item for this shattered world, when one thinks on it, an ornamental nod to better times) Lolo creeps forward and hides behind a nearby bush in earshot of the wotchers. Thankfully, they're a chatty bunch. By the time their shift is over, Lolo has the information the Mites need.
Dismayed, Lolo looks down to find she's kneeling in mud, which has seeped through her longcoat, no doubt dampening her powder.
Ah, bulls. Well, probably won't need it. This job has to go smoother than Baszo's, right?
==========
Flashback
============
Lolo spends several hours watching the house, and discovers that it seems to be run by a gang from the Dagger Isles, judging by their clothing and speech: lots of "boyos" and that rolling swagger that comes from a life spent on ship as much as on land. Anyone with business at the house apprroaches the watchers first to identify themselfves; whether by luck or skill at placing herslef close enough to observe without being observed, Lolo overhears the password for the day: blade-leviathan.
Jonah simply keeps quiet following the run in with the Bluecoats. He'd done his bit to add to the theatrics of the deception by muttering gibberish and waving his hands with a sense of authority over the box as Casia's creepy vocals echoed from within the coffin.
The Whisper does his best to maintain a straight face when Lolo points out the guards. He could only hope that his friend had been able to discover during her earlier excursion whatever tricks the Sashes and their flunkies were using to keep the place secure.
Finraeth gives Lolo a nod of respect: "I'd not seen them. I'm glad you did." He considers things for a moment or so. "I think it's safe to say they've seen us, this cart isn't exactly inconspicuous..."
"Probably, but that's OK. The password for the day is blade-leviathan. Dary, you ready to talk us into the house?"
Dary nods at Lolo’s question. ”Absolutely, darling.”
She hops down from the cart and heads over to the guards, keeping her head low and her hood up as she heads over to where she was last told the watchers were. She does not see them herself, but she trusts Lolo’s eyes. She considers whether to try chatting them up some first, but reconsiders when she thinks they might read it as nervousness given how tense she is. No, better to just give the password up-front and wait to talk it out with them. Play it professional and canny. Crooks appreciate that. ”Blade-leviathan. Name’s Nancy Brown. Here to transport some goods. Figure you probably have questions, so I’m happy to oblige.”