Jonah only half listens to Lyssa's thoughts about himself and his companions. They'd played hide and kill with the Dimmer Sisters and come out mostly intact. They'd instigated utter destruction upon the Lamplighter's and foiled the Sashes attempts to pull in another line of income all while ducking that wild mound of raging ectoplasm called Wally. Not to mention the ancient gate or link or whatever the bloody hells that little item was that seemed to draw him into the unholy ritual of some ancient, demented goddess. The mere thought of that pyramid and the chopping sound of that blade still gave him shivers, not too mention nightmares. But still, they'd come out of it alive and with a few slugs in their pockets.
So he simply drew the sweet scented smoke of his cigarette into his lungs and then let it drift slowly, softly into the air where it surrounded his face like a gentle gray spirit before drifting upwards into the rafters. He sips the stale coffee, his sober substitute for the firewater Lyssa liked to intimidate the hired help with.
Seconds tick past as he takes another drag, waiting for one of the others to say something. After all, he wasn't much of a talker or negotiator. And his mind was more occupied trying to fit together the puzzle pieces of research he'd spent the last several days pouring over in the dim stacks of the library. Too much still to go through. Not simple and easy the rituals to keep a ghost from going feral. At least not according to all these know it all scholars who took twenty words to describe a five word task. In love with their own blasted voices every one of 'em.
His attention is drawn back to Lyssa as her eyebrow quirks upward when the silence grows just a bit too long. Not a bad looking eyebrow, he considers. Reminds him of Kassandra, a fellow saboteur. Same lean, hard features. Same dead look filled her eyes when her blood started to rise. Clearing his throat he glances at Lolo, Fin, and Casia, and finally leans forward offering a simple shrug.
"Seems like they'd already paid a fair bit for dipping their toes into our score." He says casually thinking of at least one or two dead that he can recall. His eyes lock with Lyssa's for a moment. "But if they're still feelin' a bit frisky we can knock 'em down off their high horse. I've still a score to settle for playing on past allegiances and sympathies." He adds, blowing smoke up into the air as he leans back.
"Any particular sentiment you'd like to pass along? Or just a generic, neighborly greeting."
"We could wish someone a happy nameday or a merry yule," Casia says with a smirk. "The possibilities are endless." Clearly the small woman has been partaking well before the Hour of Wine, but most of her wits remain.
She steps a little closer and leans a slender hip against the desk. "And if you want to know more about what I am, you could offer to share some of that wine."
Lolo nods in silent agreement with Jonah, waving off the wine with a terse flick of her wrist. They'd taken advantage of her and Jonah's ancestral ties, played them perfectly. They'd sent a message of course, in response, but that message probably needed reinforcement. If her daughter was any indication, no one learns anything without reinforcement.
Finraeth takes the mockery in good spirits, knowing that he's earned a lot of it. He tips the fiery liquor back in one, matching the way Lolo drinks it.
"My family was in trade, and had been for a while. Long enough that they had funds and status to get me into university, although I'm not one of nature's scholars. It was my - our - parents' plan to move up the social ladder, from plain respectability to upper-class status."
He looks rueful. "What they didn't tell us is that a lot of that trade was... less than legitimate." He looks her squarely in the eye. "I cannot honestly tell you for sure that they didn't traffic in your people. I do not know, and between the fire and the mess the Bluecoats left and the death of my father it's possible nobody will know." He does not mention his mother, still alive and living in the great state of denial about so many things. Whatever secrets she knows, she will take to her grave rather than admit to being anything less than respectable.
But that's a problem for another time. He grins at his companion.
Normally stoic, a glint - the slightest bit of mischief shining in the tavern's dim light. "I mean, your 'Kosi is perfect."
"Do I need to kiss you again to get you to stop that?"
===============================
On one of rare mornings where she's returned home alone, Fin wakes to find her sitting on the floor next to his bed, sobbing quietly.
"It still hurts, Fin," she says softly. "At night I can drink enough that I forget about it, but when I wake up in the morning it's still there. Why? Why did she do that?" She reaches up to wipe at her puffy eyes. "I know it's so stupid after everything she did and all the lies ... all the lies." She covers her face with her hands. "But I can still see her. I can still smell her skin. I can still taste her lips. I ... I still love her." Her hands drop. "Why can't I stop loving her after everything that's happened? What do I have to do to make it stop?"
Finraeth is powerless to do anything but hold her until she stops crying. "I don't know, sister dearest." He strokes her hair. "On balance I think I'm glad you don't hate her. It says something good about you. I wouldn't want you to be anyone other than who you are."
His eyes glint in the darkness. Of course, Cassie doesn't need to hate the woman herself. Not when he can hate her enough for the both of them. Finraeth is, he likes to think, charming and good company. But you don't coast through university on your winnings from boxing matches by being nice.
===============================
One sniff of the wine is enough to persuade Finraeth of its quality - or rather, its lack thereof. He graciously declines a refill, and is happy to empty his own goblet into Cassie's to stop her from complaining any further.
A single glance at both Lolo and Jonah is enough to convince him that this score is personal. Which is both good and bad. But it does mean that it might be up to him to be the voice of reason.
"We will certainly listen to your proposal; although as you say, violence for its own sake is not our forte." He wonders what she has in mind for them all.
She steps a little closer and leans a slender hip against the desk. "And if you want to know more about what I am, you could offer to share some of that wine."
Lyssa gesturs towards the bottle, with a grin at the drunken thief. "Be my guest, just remember to leave some for me, eh?" She refills Casia's glass and rests her hand on the other woman's wrist for just a bit too long to be entierly comfortable.
She smiles as the rest of you tell her what she wants to hear. "Glad we're all on the same team." From her belt she draws a wicked looking dagger, a gleaming needle blade with a black leather hilt. The pommel is silvler and cast in the shape of a crow's head, or possibly a raven. The eyes are black, onyx or obsidan or similar. "This is mine. Everyone knows it. The Grinders boss is called Hutton, you might know that already. I want you to take this dagger and put it somewhere he will find it, either when he wakes up and it's stuck in his mattress or when he goes to his HQ and it's jammed into his desk. It''l be like a message, I coulda killed you but not gonna, this time. Should make them back off." She grins.
"So, you up for that, a little bit of revers burlagry?"
"Letting 'em off easy if you ask me." Jonah grumbles, and starts to take the dagger from Lyssa only to find himself hesitating at the last moment. Last time you took an innocent item from one of these mob bosses, the bloody dingus was a whole viper's pit full o' trouble. His eyes latch onto Lyssa's for a moment. Finding little consolation in those cold orbs, he looks to the sheath where she'd just pulled the blade. He'd trust the leader of the Crows to not be wearing some trinket of doom or stolen bauble of calamity on her belt for all to see, so at last he takes the dagger and slips it into his own belt.
"You know where this Hutton bunks down at night? Or where the Grinders call home?" He asks their new patron. "Scuttlebutt is their dockers, but there's a passel of rat holes for them to be nesting in along the shore." He turns to Lolo and Fin. "That one you ran off, give you any hints?"
Tipping another shot back, she slams it down, buying a moment. "If yer gonna choose to be ammoral, better to go up than down. Only class that has morality is the middle. Workers can't afford them, uppers don't need them." Lolo shrugs, a realization dawning on her. I'm gonna f@#& this guy.
As to Finn's flirtations, Lolo simply raises another shot. "You can try."
---
"I'd prefer we put the dagger in his house. More personal that way."
Lolo pauses, considering Jonah's question. It all happened so fast, and even though it was a mere week back it seemed like it was in the distant past. Truthfully, Lolo wasn't sure she wanted this job. But the money from the last two was already getting thin, so...
"She was too busy running."
"Yeah, I like the idea of leaving it on the bugger's pillow," Casia says with a grin before draining the last of her glass. She gives Lyssa a wink. "More intimate that way." After giving the woman's hand a pat, she steps away from the desk and towards the door. Swaying towards the door would probably be more accurate, but whether from the wine or a not entirely unsuccessful attempt to be sexy, who could say.
Jonah might be uneasey, but the dagger has no speciail powers, apart from the ability to keill people quickly and easily. Lyssa claps her hands with a smile as you agree to take the job. "Wonderful! It's so nice to have friends. Shall we say, five Coin for the job? And another Coin if you do it without killing." Lyssa is the *opposite* of squeamish, but she really really can't afford a war right now.
"You know where this Hutton bunks down at night? Or where the Grinders call home?" He asks their new patron. "Scuttlebutt is their dockers, but there's a passel of rat holes for them to be nesting in along the shore."
This gets a shake of the head. "Nope. I know what goes on in this district." MY district, is the unspoken message. "The docks aren't my turf. Course, if you stikc with me, I might be able to give you some Grinder blood that you seem so thirgsty for." She gives Jonah and Lolo a look of genuine curiosity. "What'd they do, to piss you off so bad? I had half a mind you mighth turn the job down, Skov solidariyt or somelike."
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His eyes go flinty cold and his finger nervously taps the pommel of the silver dagger as he ponders a response to the Crow's question. Finally his loosens his clenched jaw and stills the twitching digit.
"Used that common heritage and all the pain and anguish that comes with it against us. Thought they could cut open old wounds to follow the blood into our hearts. Tried to use that link to let us take the heat only to jab a knife in our ribs for a few pounds of street candy."
The Whisper goes deadly still. Memories of another day fill his mind. The war was going bad. The main army had fallen back toward Lockport. He and a few other remnants of the Queen's 5th were bunked down in the outskirts of Arvaedh. The job was to disrupt supply lines, take out Imp officers, free prisoners and laborers and when we could run a bit of food to the civvie's. This day it all came crashing down. The day when he, Esse, Tilly, and the others from his squad found out then been betrayed by their Skov contact in the southern city. Only he and Tilly made it out alive. Tilly having lost an eye and her arm. She starved to death a few months later following the end of the war. Another victim of Imperial rationing and 'justice' for the rebellion.
He'd seen too many suffer because some Skov decided the war and the Imps were an easy way to settle scores or get rich quick rather than simply fighting for Queen and country.
He'd been willing to share the score with the Grinders. Willing to die to free a group of ragged slaves who'd likely end up dead in an alley somewhere anyway, but at least they wouldn't be in shackles. But it'd all been a lie. Another betrayal. So yeah, he'd pay 'em back in the same cold, hard currency they'd dealt him. With interest, if he got the chance.
"They got to answer for that kind of backstab. Just like they gotta answer for stepping on Crow turf."
Finraeth gives a slightly sardonic smile at her blunt reply. "Are you always that encouraging?" He doesn't make a move to kiss her, but - emboldened by the liquor he's been knocking back - he does reach out and put one hand over hers (not the hand she's drinking with. He's emboldened, not foolhardy).
"One thing I learned from my time among the uppers is not to be shy about saying what I want, but... would I be right in thinking it's been a while since anyone asked you what you want?"
Finraeth has no particular preference for where they end up placing the dagger, beyond it being somewhere they can get into - and more importantly, away from. Speaking of away... he watches as Casia tries to find her way out of the room, and makes a point of standing close enough that he can be there in time if she falls over.
Lyssa gives a slight shrug once Jondah has finished, almost like she's sorry she asked. "Oh well. Whatever keeps you going, I guess. Going being the word." She waits for you to leave and it's clear that yuour meeting is over.
"She's pretty," Casia says as they exit the woman's headquarters. After making her stumbling way back to the street, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. "So we case the guy's place tomorrow evening and deliver the message the following?" she asks. Waiting for the response, she leans slightly against her brother's arm.
Finraeth raises an eyebrow at his sister's optimism. "I think it might take a little longer than that, possibly." He uses the same sort of tone one might use for an elderly relative who's announced their intention to sail around the world in their bathtub. "After all, we don't just want to find the best way in - we need to know our best route out, as well as a couple of back-up ideas in case the original plan goes sideways."
He looks at the others for support. "I was thinking more along the lines of a week or so. Possibly more, if it takes a while to discover where this person lives. I'd quite like to get the address without the entire city finding out about what we're up to."
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Kurry was skov, had a strong nationalist bent, brother ran with the Grinders. Problem was, Kurry was dead in the Pegausus explosion. And his brother died a few years previous.
Maidrienne, she wasn't any help. Wanted to be, but just couldn't.
Velt, she just slammed the door in Lolo's face.
Lolo found Eel in a diner not far from their old worksite, just like his son said she would. His once lanky frame was filling out, he'd lost notably more hair since Lolo'd seen him last. His shirt - a simple, grey affair, was stained brown in various spots.
A whole pie sat next to him - or what was left of it - crumbs and some sauce in a pie plate. Eel was rolling a cigarette and nursing a tea. Lolo sat next to him, unnoticed, the man absorbed in thought. Not so different then - Lolo'd often find him staring off into space on the job, his mind elsewhere, even while he cut cladding. They'd liked each other well enough, Lolo thought, even if they were hardly friends.
Blowing into her hands - this was a popular place, and the door was opening constantly - Lolo waved down the counterserver. "Oi. A mushroom tea and a mushroom sake. Make it two, one for my old friend here. Eel, how are ya? Long time, eh?"
She'd make the chit-chat, get Eel a little lubricated if she could. He got his nickname, not just because his looks, but because he was slippery, always shimmying back and forth across that line from respectability, hard to pin down. But Lolo would pin him down today. When he was good and primed, she'd find out what he knew about Hutton...
3 FEB 847 IE
Eel was always a good cut-welder, and if you're good at taht you don't startle easily, at least if you still want to count to ten. So he doesn't jump out his skin at Lolo's voice, he just blijnks several times as his mind comes back to Dusvol from wherever it was orbiting. "Hey, boss." Pause, another few quick blinks. "Yup, long time." He never aproaches his goal in a straight line, either. It can be a while before you find out what hes' after. "How's that girl of yours, then? Grwing fast, I bet. My boy'll be taller n me another year or two, ready for work." Anothe paurse. "You looking for work then?"
"I saw him, actually, your boy. Went by your place, he let me know you'd be here."
Lolo holds up a couple fingers - two more sake - and tips hers back. "Slainte then, yeah"
"He's big, for sure. He'll make a fine worker. What does he have in mind? Following his old man?"
Lolo leaves unsaid in exactly what capacity. She was, after all, here to ask about the seamier side of Duskvol. "Mind?"
Not waiting for answer, Lolo pulls Eel's tobacco pouch from beside the man's empty place starts lining a paper with some smoke, her brow furrowing as she tried to find the right amount. "Me? No, I'm not looking for work. How about you? You been able to catch on with another crew since the Pegasus? Most of us haven't..."
"I'm looking for someone, hope you can help. Name's Hutton..."
Lolo pauses, letting the name hang in the air between them while she seals the cigarette. There was no need to expand, anyways. Eel would know who she spoke of. Whether or not he cared to help, that was another thing...
3 FEB 847 IE
Eel gives an easy, almost bonesless shurug as Lolo lifts his tobacco pouch and helps herself. "You know the docks. Awlays work if you have more skill than most. JJ tried to blacklist us of course, but them big ships dont' repair themselves. Every day thery're in port is costing someone money. Those of us who survived the Peg aren't out of work for long." He gives a quick nod to Lolo, remembering one who didn't. "JJ'll make a fuss, and we'll none of us rise as high, of course. Never lead my own crew, but taht wasn't my fancy anyhow."
His easy conversation stops when Lolo gets to the point, like his namesake that flicks a tail and dispaears into the weeds when the bigger fish arrive. "That's not a name to use carelessly round here. Grinders and dockers have a common cause, you know?" He circles round that sentcne a few times, looking for Lolos' angle. He can't see it right now, and that worries him.
9 FEB 847 IE
There's enough arcane items floating around the Dusk that yuou can find what you want, eveutally. Finding it fast is what costs. But in ths case there's no hurry so all Jonah had to do was put a quiet word or tow out there and things came his way. Of course, haiving what you need is one thing. Being able to channel the Ghost Fiedld to get what you want is another thing completely. Expecially when there's distractions.
"Jonah? Watcha doin?" Naty's voice comes from the ceiling, wehere she's walking as if it's the flloor, except her long hair is trailing down (gravity is gravity). She spirals around a few times, before getting closer. Her dead eyes brighten as she ssees the arcane forces her brother is working with - one arm stretches out (literally *stretches out*) greedily. "Oh, tasty stuff! Is it all for me?"
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His concentration is so intense he barely registers Naty's arrival until she starts drawing off the aetherial energy he'd so painstakingly spent the last day and a half infusing into the standard deck of Imperial playing cards.
"Is it all for me?" He hears her say watching the energy slough from the cards and gather like sticky toffee around his ghostly sister's outstretched hand.
"Wha? No...no...that wasn't supposed...don't..." His surprised and frustrated stammers trail off as he observes several days work being so easily turned into so much ghostly candy. It shouldn't have been that easy. Is the first thought that rattles his brain, as he watches Naty. She continues drawing the aether from the cards, swirling the energy around her finger before proceeding to lick it off like a a grand bit of fluffy fairy floss.
He sighs. "Don't eat too much you'll give yourself a stomach ache." He says drawing a giggle from his aetheral sibling.
"I'm a ghost silly. I don't get stomach aches." She chides.
"Yes, well, whatever the spiritual equivalent might be. I don't know rainbow colored gas or something." He adds with a snort.
"What were ya tryin' ta do anyway Jo? Could'a told ya it wasn't workin'." Naty says still nibbling aether fluff from her fingers even as she start to animate the cards so that the Knight of Swords holds up the Eight of Coins forcing it to hand over all its loot.
At first he hesitates to discuss the arcane and aetherial matters with Naty, but really who better to offer insights than one who lived among the aether all the time. Besides he needed a sounding board for ideas and the others were all out tracking down their own leads. So he tells her of the desire to create a deck of cards that would push people's attention away from those playing and also be connected enough so the cards could track any others should they go missing.
The Knight of Swords proceeds to accost the Mage of Wands, but this time the Mage gets off a blast of power at the wayward Knight and sends him scampering away. "Your problem is...mfff....you need a better anchor...mpphhh...for the power." Naty says around mouthfuls aether candy. "Each card on its own doesn't....mppphf...have enough....mppfh....ummm...I don't know...pull or something to keep the power stuck there. Easy to draw off." She adds punctuating her point by wrapping another string from the Seven of Cups, who is busy staggering around like a late night drunk.
Jonah stares at the cards and slowly nods. His sister was right. The cards alone weren't enough, but maybe with a little help. He rummages through his supplies and finally pulls forth a bottle of quicksilver. That just might be the trick...although it'll take more time and some careful brushwork.
He smiles at his little sister. "You really are the best Nat."
"Of course I am Jo."
"Pfft...go on, take your aether snack and let me get to work." He says with a grin.
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Finraeth feels oddly trepidatious (is that a word? If not, it ought to be) as he sets about revisiting his former haunts. The temptation to dress the part, to strut down these paved streets with that old cocksure walk, wars fiercely with his caution; and with his pride. If he dresses the way he used to, someone will inevitably recognise him and then he'll have to field all the questions he really does not want to answer. No. Better to stay in these shabby clothes, fading into the background. It rankles, but it's effective: the gilded youth (how young they look! How fresh-faced and carefree! Was it really only last June that he was like these?) don't even throw him a glance, their gazes sliding away from him. It's like a particularly effective spell of concealment. But by the old, dead gods, how it stings.
He stands for a brief moment in the dead centre of College Green (paved over many centuries back, of course) and breathes in deeply. Yes, there's the scent of Ramek's pickle van, selling Iruvian sweetmeats, and there's where it blends with the beery yeast strains that waft up from the Scholars Thirst (whose arguments over whether this should be apostrophised have themselves been codified into a lengthy set of volumes in the University Library), and in that direction is the Examination Hall which at all times seems to exude a subfusc miasma of perspiration, inspiration and desperation.
And everywhere the sound of chatter: students talking to one another, at one another and over one another, until it all simply blends into one long cacophony (or learned discourse, depending on the perspective).
A moment longer, and then he shakes his head and moves about his errand. He knows where Grace will likely be plying her trade, and so it proves: in a small unremarkable alley just off the Green, the fiercely-muscled woman holds up a thin and obviously terrified student, pushing him against the wall while his feet dangle off the ground. She lets his excuses splutter into silence before she sighs and drops him, letting him sprawl in the gutter. "This is me being nice, child. Next time I drop you, it'll be onto a broken leg. Now geddoudahere. And don't come back without the money you owe." The speechless young man nods, once, before he scrambles away as fast as he can.
Finraeth knows better than to interrupt her work, and besides there's always something to be gained by watching a virtuoso in action. He waits until business is concluded before approaching her with a bow. "We meet again, although my circumstances are, alas, somewhat changed from before. And how have you been keeping?"
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Setting the delicate brush down, Jonah leans back and rubs his fists in the center of his back as he lets out a huge sigh. Bleary eyes blink at the window but the ever present rain and darkness offer little clue as to the hour. Rubbing a cramp from his hand, he looks with satisfaction upon the carefully laid out deck of cards. Each one glittering with the gleam of quicksilver coating the suit and number. A chill rushes through the room and a crooked smile crosses his face.
"Aren't you finished with those yet?" The voice of his ghostly sister whispers through the room.
"Just did. Why don't you see what you can do with them this time, Oh mighty Sorceress of Scatterbrain Reef?"
A long tongue rolls out of Naty's mouth to squiggle only a few inches in front of Jonah's face. But soon enough she slides closer to the table and plucks at the cards like she did before. This time the aether stays put, at least for a time.
"Much better Jo." She says, concentration gleaming in her eyes and she finally draws a strand from the Ace of Cups. Jonah's brows furrow in consternation watching her wrap the thin strand around her finger. Still it held out much longer than before. It should work. Soon enough she pops it in her mouth only to immediately pull it back out again, a sour look on her face.
"Blech! Tastes like turnips boiled in a rusty pot. And it's a lot tougher to pull off." She says flicking the thread of ghost field energy from her finger. "I liked the way it was before."
"That's probably the quicksilver and while I would love to provide you with plenty of aether sweets all day long, that wasn't the reason for doing all this." He says pondering the deck and tools scattered about the bench. "That's the best I can do for now. Hopefully it'll help us find what we need."
"You know I'm good at finding things Jo. Why use a crusty old deck of cards when you can have the Delightful Sorceress of Securing Secrets do it?"
"Absolutely not." Jonah says, concern ringing loud and clear. "Best you steer clear. Quellyn's been seen sniffing around and we don't need him poking his nose into any of this. Or finding you."
At the mention of the spirit traffiker, a shiver runs through Naty's smokey form and her hands suddenly reshape into wicked looking claws. "Don't let him get me Jo." She says in a quiet tremor. "He'll want to chain me up. Stick me in'a bottle."
Jonah nods. He didn't like bringing up the traffiker, but it was the truth. The blasted man turned up all to often. Asking questions here and there. One of these days, Jonah might have to deal with him permanently, but right now he had to keep his head down and get the job done.
"I won't let him find you Nat, promise. Just stick close to home while I go meet the others and run this next job. Okay?" He says gathering up the cards and whatever else he thinks he'll need for the score.
"Okay Jo." Naty says quietly. "And Jo...be careful."
"I will Nat. I will."
Finraeth knows better than to interrupt her work, and besides there's always something to be gained by watching a virtuoso in action. He waits until business is concluded before approaching her with a bow. "We meet again, although my circumstances are, alas, somewhat changed from before. And how have you been keeping?"
It's a moment or two before she redognises Fin, and those few seconds are ucomfortable as she sizes him up, this stranger who seems to know who she is. Then the penny drops. "Hey, Glad-Rags! Long time no see - where's the glad rags? Seems a shame to see you dressed like normal people. How am I keeping? Good, good, business is good. Alwasy too many rich kids with no sense in how to spend." She smaks one fist into the palm of her other hand. "I'm just a labourere in the f&$#in harvest, it's always ripe pickings." She squitnts at him. "You're after information, right? I don't lend money and you're not my type, so I can't see any other reason for you to find me." She runs a hand over her shaved head. "Cmon, I'm in a goodd mood. Ask me anythign."
Finraeth does his best to give a nonchalant shrug as the extortionist expertly zeroes in on the weak spot of his vanity. "Oh, you know..." He waves a hand airily. "I'm in disguise. Wouldn't want any of my old friends to spot me." It's a lie that they both recognise, but it conveys the unspoken message: this isn't something I want to talk about right now.
Grace gets the point straight away. "Alright, alright, our kid. So if it's not to relive your good times, whatcha doing here?"
Finraeth sighs. "You always did get to the point without prevaricating. What can you tell me about the Grinders?"
That question gets him a long, slow whistle. "You really have fallen down the rungs, haven't you? You never would've known that name before. I haven't had much to do with them, they're dirt poor and not hardly connected with anyone I know. They're from Lockport, I heard. City got so poisoned from the processing plant that they come here, I know that much." There's a pause while she figures out what else to tell him. "Oh, what the hells, I like you - not like that, our kid, don't get dumb ideas - and you look like you could use a hand to get up a rung or two."
She puffs out her cheeks. "So. I'm always on the lookout for new work, when they first got here and made a name for themselves I made a point of stopping by their haunt to say hi. Came to nothing, like I said they're not in my game. But if you're looking for 'em, their top dogs hang out in the Pickled Pike. It's under Ink Lane in the Docks. Used to be an old canal there, but it fell in some time back and now it's a watering hole. Do me a favour though, yeah? If you go in there, don't say I sent you. Whatever business you got with them, I don't want any."
Finraeth gives one of his most courteous bows. "As ever, you are a trove of valuable insights. You have my gratitude."
This gets him a dismissive wave. "Yeah, yeah, our kid. Just try not to get maimed, OK? Now scram. I got work to do."
As Finraeth exits the alley a nondiscript figure peels away from a group of chatting students and matches his stride.
"So, the Pickled Pike, eh?" Casia questions as her eyes scan over the nearby figures, watching for any tails. "I must say, Fin," she continues with a smirk. "She doesn't really seem like your type. Red-heads seem more to your taste lately." Anyone listening would easily mistake her words as friendly ribbing, but as close as the siblings are, Finraeth can read the annoyance in the set of her lips and wrinkle of her nose.
Picking out the Grinders at the Pickled Pike was simplicity in itself as they weren't being circumspect in the least. Casia simply vanished into a shadowed corner and nursed the cheapest bottle the establishment offered. Catching snippets of conversation allowed her to identify which of the thugs would be heading back to where Hutton would be residing.
It was well into the early evening when her chosen mark finally said his farewells and, along with two companions, exited the bustling tavern. Not leaving the nearly empty bottle behind, the slender woman pulled her cloak tighter around herself and slipped through the crowd to follow. The men's chatter served only to act as a beacon as she paced behind them on the busy street. Slipping into a darkened storefront when they paused to catcall a working woman strolling by, she allowed herself another swallow. She was feeling the buzz of the alcohol, but she didn't consider it as a hindrance to the skills she'd learned. When they moved on, so did she.
Eventually the men slowed, but she wasn't sure if it was because they neared their destination or because they were suspicious of a tail. She'd done everything right, she told herself. They couldn't have noticed her among the others walking along the cobblestone road. She was better than that.
Slipping around the corner of an alley entrance between two nearby buildings, she steadied herself with deep breaths. She couldn't let them get away, though. After a minute, she risked a quick glance around the corner. Two of the men were still standing in front of the building where they'd slowed. The passersby had thinned. A merchant pushing his cart along the road. A well-dressed woman walking on the other side of the street. Where had the third man gone? Pulling her head back again she frowned. A few breaths. She glanced around the corner a second time. There he was! Coming out of the building. This must be the place.
With relief, Casia glanced around at the others on the street. Just as Casia's eyes fell upon her, the woman turned her head. Dark hair. Familiar blue eyes. Casia's insides turned to ice. Desmona? The face looked away again before she could be sure it was her and the woman walked on as if noticing nothing.
Competing desires raged within Casia. One part of her said 'Damn the job' and wanted nothing more than to race across the street and turn the woman around to see if was really her. The other part wanted to run until she couldn't run any more. Teetering on the needle of indecision, the choice was made for her as the bottle slipped from her numb fingers to shatter with a loud retort on the stone under her feet.
"Oy! Who's there?" one of the thugs called out with a start.
Hearing the shuffling of feet coming her way, Casia pulled her cloak tight about her and ran.
As Finraeth exits the alley a nondiscript figure peels away from a group of chatting students and matches his stride.
"So, the Pickled Pike, eh?" Casia questions as her eyes scan over the nearby figures, watching for any tails. "I must say, Fin," she continues with a smirk. "She doesn't really seem like your type. Red-heads seem more to your taste lately." Anyone listening would easily mistake her words as friendly ribbing, but as close as the siblings are, Finraeth can read the annoyance in the set of her lips and wrinkle of her nose.
Finraeth raises an eyebrow as Casia appears seemingly from nowhere. "You're getting good at that." He links one arm with hers as they walk away. "Hey, I don't question your lifestyle choices, sister dearest."
Finraeth raises an eyebrow as Casia appears seemingly from nowhere. "You're getting good at that." He links one arm with hers as they walk away. "Hey, I don't question your lifestyle choices, sister dearest."
Yes, you do.
Casia glances away and then at the colorful bottle in her hand she appropriated from one of the students she was standing with.
You do with every roll of your eyes. Every pitying gaze. Every sigh you think you hide. You question my choices. And maybe you're right. But we are the product of our choices and it might be too late for me to make different ones.
She leans in to his warmth, unable to resist. Intending to drop the bottle into the gutter, she's surprised to find herself taking another swallow.
"So maybe with my ability to remain out-of-sight-out-of-mind and Jonah's magical cards, we'll be able to track this guy down." She gives her brother a playful shove and then offers the bottle up to him. "Speaking of 'lifestyle choices', do you think Lyssa would be interested in dinner with a gutter-snipe like me?"
With the realization that she was the only still not working from her own crew, that Eel and the others can put food on their table without, you know, shotting folks and riling ghosts, its basically a punch to the gut. One maybe unintentional, and Eel does a good job saying the right things, softening the blow after the fact.
Still, its a bitter thing, a realization that you've been left behind. A frown slips across Lolo's face, and she raises two fingers, two more shots.
"Yeah, I know Dockers and Grinders gotta common cause, but so do you and I, chinney? I saw yer kid grow up, helped you get food on yer table for years, Eel. And here's the thing - you know I'm good for my word, yeah? Ever let you down all those years? Ever not advocate for yer with management? Only reason yer working and I'm not is because I did too much advocating..."
"So, I give you my word, you tell me what you know, and that's that. No one else will know you told. And you'll be helping out an old friend, one that helped you many times over the years. What the Grinders ever do for you, eh?"
Lolo tips the next shot back and stares at Eel, her face twisted, part shame, part defiance, but mostly pleading. Tell me you old fooker. Please...
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Jonah's felt like his nose was doing its best to yank him anywhere else but further into that desperate refuse pit of humanity called the Pickle Pike. Tucked along a rotting warf near the far end of the The Docks, the tilting wooden structure looked like a Levi Hunter crashed ashore and spewed the contents of its hold all over the place. Masses of rotting net, blackened glass floats, broken harpoons, and half a dozen name plates off of ships that long ago stopped sailing the dark seas hung haphazardly from the walls and ceiling of the bar. But the centerpiece of the entire display, was the thirty foot bleached leviathan skull strung up in the sagging rafters.
Smelling of stale mushroom mash, pickled eel (because pike had long ago gone quite extinct), pipe smoke, and of course the numerous chemical and biological agents carried in on several of the usual patrons who used those same highly toxic chemicals to safely store and distill leviathan blood down to its useful essence. Even the bloody trenches filled with dead didn't smell this bad. Jonah couldn't help thinking as he sat at a shadow shrouded corner table flipping cards in an attempt to be the Emperor in a game of solitaire.
So far he'd spent the last couple of nights sitting here drinking burnt, stale coffee and slowly killing his sense of smell waiting for this Hutton to show his face. So far he'd nothing to show for it.
More than a few loudmouthed Grinders currently held court on the far side of the bar. Skov accents filled the air with promises of rebellion and bringing down the Emperor. Promises not worth the rancid breath they drifted on to cross the smoke filled room. Promises, that judging from more than a few of the tattoos marking arms and wrists, belonged to members of Skovland's notorious Reginald's Fifth Hussars. The Frightened Fifth is what they'd called them during the war. Always the first to break and run as soon as the real shooting started. Cowards left a whole string of villages along the Iron Coast to the Imperials because they simply ran instead of fighting a rear guard action to give folk more time to flee.
It took all he had not to try and find Wally and lead the terrible ghost back here. Even if the ghost ended up getting the Whisper, at least he'd die knowing he took a few of those cowardly traitors with him. But the need for slugs and to help Naty kept him from doing any such thing. Crow Lady didn't want war, she wanted it all done on the sly. So he watched, waited, and slowly turned the cards. Either Casia and Fin, Lolo, or he himself would come up with a lead to Hutton's home turf. It was only a matter of time. As the Skov's guffawed at yet another pathetic show of bravado, Jonah hoped and prayed to whatever gods might remain that it wouldn't take much longer.
Eel sighs and puts his hands up. "Ok, ok you made your point. But you do't want to tangle with these guys. Hutton has an esplosive temper and his two seconds, Sercy and Derret, aren't much better. Sercy is bad news, he got caught in one of them toxic rainstroms in Lockport and it changed him. Derret is huge, she could carry a welding canister over her head in one hand, and she sees a hell of a lot more than she lets on."
He looks around nevrously. "I also heard, and I sware this is good intel that they made some sort of deal with Ulf Ironborn." He suhudders. "That guy is f*kin nuts, he stepped off the boat with just what he carried and two months later he's carved out his own turf."
He finishes his drink. "I don't know what you got into, i do't want to. But you always done good by me. So thanks. My regards to your kid. Anything happens to you, I'll do right by her." He stands up and for a moment looks like he might pat Lolo on the shoulder or something, but after a moment or two just standing there he gives her a nod and gets the hell away.
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Jonha's paticence does finally pay off, at about the same time his sinuses are about ready to disolve. It's tricky to spot someone when you do't knwo what they look like, but the info that Lolo managed to wriggle out of her Eel friend menas that you can easily idetnify Derret when she strides into the bar. She's got crazy big muscles, it's not hard to believe the stories bout Lockport's mutant problem. She towers over everyone else in the Pike, all of them stay out of her way.
Spotting Huttn is then jsut a question of seeing who can order Derret around. He doen'st look much, later middle age with iron grey hair, Jonah must have looked past him half a dozne times. The red in his cheeks makes it easy to dismiss him as jsut another drunk, until you realise that it's his temper that gives him that look, not the liquor. He never raises his voice, but anyone he speaks to flinches away as quick as they can.
Once Jonah's spotted him, dropping a card into his pocket and tracking the man home - from a safe distance - is chlid's play. He lives deep in the heart of what's clealry Grinder turf, but his house is problaly no different from its neighburs. At least on teh outside.
"So maybe with my ability to remain out-of-sight-out-of-mind and Jonah's magical cards, we'll be able to track this guy down." She gives her brother a playful shove and then offers the bottle up to him. "Speaking of 'lifestyle choices', do you think Lyssa would be interested in dinner with a gutter-snipe like me?"
Finraeth takes the bottle, but is careful as he sips from it - his refined palate hasn't yet caught up with his reduced circumstances. He is pleasantly surprised to find out how drinkable it is. She must have swiped it from one of the students nearby. He considers her question carefully, instead of saying what he would like to say ("Are you crazy? She's a stone-cold psycho who killed her boss!"). Every time he tries to be protective of her, she takes it as a judgement; he has to give her the space to make mistakes.
Which is easier said than done.
"I'm not sure, but there's an easy way to find out. Just ask her?" He puts his arm round her shoulder as they walk back down the street together. "Insight like that, is why they sent me to university."
She doesn't say this, or hint at it, of course. "Folks don't tend to ask working class women what they want, chinny? So yeah, its been awhile."
Lolo pauses for a beat, holds the clouded shot glass up to the tavern's lamplight. "I guess, I'd like to call the shots... the shots heyhey, for our shipbuilders. No management screwin' us over. No one putting us up for unsafe working conditions without us having a say in the pay and the way. I want to unionize."
Shrugging, Lolo tips the shot back, places the glass back on the bar, a little more forceful than she'd intended. "Stupid, I know. Anyways, same question. What do you want then?"
He grins at her. "All of those things are true, of course. But I'd say it even if I were stone-cold sober."
As she turns the question back on him, he blinks. "Ha. Turn-about is fair play, I suppose." He pauses in thought for a moment, trying to find the right words. "I enjoyed my old life, of course, but it was built on a lie. Our parents were criminals and I was a know-nothing innocent. My current life is more dangerous, but it feels more - honest, in a way. And the danger comes with its own... perks." He flashes her another grin.
17 FEBRFUARY
The travel this time is fine - if travel throhgh the sewers of a large city is ever really 'fine' - but in this case the joruney is definigly better than the arrival. Because your destination is slap in the haert of the Grinders turf, that's why. Pushing the grate aside with the least possible noise, you slowly pull yourselfves up onto the street. Acording to your maps, this was the closest you could get without coming up somewhere too brightly lit or too well-noticed. The downside? You're still two or three streets away from your goal. Streets that belong to the Grinders.
"Everything is built on lies. Lies we tell ourselves to make sure we feel safe, and loved, lies we tell others to secure our safety and love. There's no difference between the rich and poor in this, except that the lies are grander for the rich and their consequences dire, direer for the poor."
Her voice lowers, her eyelids droop, suggestive-like, Lolo thinks, a nagging voice in the back of her mind making the observation that she might just look tired.
"Anyways, enough about the rich and poor. You want a repeat, I'm agreeable, chinney?" Lolo casts a quick look around the tavern, filled with smoke and noise. "Just not here."
---
Lolo looks to the others, briefly catching eyes with Finn, and then looks away, thankful the dim light precludes anyone seeing her cheeks grow rosier. They hadn't spoken more than a few words since that night. Awkward...
Anyways, that was neither here nor there, right now. Malfeasance awaited. Just, first, they had to get to Hutton's...
"What d'ya all think, then? A few blocks... I - or maybe Casia - could go first, scout ahead for threats? The rest of us tail a block or two back..."
Finraeth doesn't redden when Lolo's gaze catches his, but he is likewise aware of the awkwardness. She doesn't seem like a "flowers and theatre" sort of woman, so a lot of his usual approaches rule themselves out. Sadly there's nothing in Deberte's about what to do after you've slept with someone you work alongside; presumably, he muses, because nobody who reads Deberte's would do anything so crass as work for a living.
He brings himself back to the present. "Scouting sounds good, but I don't like the idea of splitting up." He looks around. "Whatever we're going to do, we should do it. Hanging around is just going to get us noticed."
As was - obviously - part of youor plan, you came up from the underground itno a busy part of the docks where you could more easily blend in and move around. Jonah and Lolo don't look at all out of place, and Jonah effortlesly takes the lead, nobody giving your group a second glance as you push past crowds of workers. Some scurrying home after their shift, some bustling forward on their way to work. The Docks never really sleep.
You move forward and soon the disctinctive smell of the sea - brine mixed with dead fish and wahtever crap the tide has washed up that day - sratts to fade, although it never truly goes from this part of town. You move forward into the rows of tenement housing, built close together and built up as far as is safe - and beyond. Occasional collapses aren't that uncommon round here. In this parrt of the Docks, close-knit families rule every street, and it gets harder to move undetected and unwatched. This is Grinder turf - you don't belong.
You've still some way to go before you get there, but so far so good. What will you do next?
Jonah kept a steady pace as he deftly winds his way through the crowd. It was easy enough to blend in along the Docks where it seemed like every third person came from his homeland and looked as rough and ragged as he did. After the long hours spent in the Pickled Pike, the smell of the shoreline, although eye-watering at times, didn't much bother him. Either the long hours in the foul pub had sufficiently conditioned his senses or there'd been permanent damage. He truly wasn't sure which.
As the warehouses, piers, skeletal remains of broken ships, and wide roads built for wagons and cargo give way to tenements, alleys, and suspicious eyes he drifts more into the shadows with the others looking for a way to either blend in or avoid moving in the open all together.
Finraeth follows behind the lead, his cloaked wrapped around him as he tries to look as inconspicuous as possible in this environment. How do you do, fellow proles? Of course I belong here, in this neighbourhood, with my neighbours. He does his best not to let his eyes water too much, but the reek of the docks is occasionally overpowering. Still he plods on.
Don't let them notice us, don't let them notice us, don't let them notice us...
In spite of the buzz currently messing with her perceptions, Casia is immediately aware that the group stands out in more ways than one.
"We look just like what we are - a gang," she hisses to the others. "We need to spread out."
She glances at her brother and then at Lolo with narrowed eyes. Without any words she gives the other woman a slight push towards Jonah and then slips her arm through Finraeth's. "Keep moving," she whispers one last time before setting off away from the other two, pulling her brother along beside her.
As they attempt to play the part of a couple engaged in their own private conversation full of giggles and knowing smiles, the young woman's eyes subtly scan the locals, keeping an eye out for threats.
Caisa's maybe paying too mcuh attention to what other people are doing and not enough on where she's going. She loses her blalacne, and goes down with a crash of breaking glass. A bit of laugher goes up around the street - it's a crowded place, the people here do their drinking and talking outdoors, it looks like - but she's not the onely one around here who is the worse for drink.
"Ha! that's the spirit - drunk for a penny, dead drunk for tuppence!" A rosy-faced red-nosed old woman grins at you from where she sits on the steps of her house. The broken veins of the true alcholic line her cheeks, and her teeth when she grins at you are a ruin. But she semes friendlgy enough. You're definitly piking up attention thoguh.
"Oi, sounds good. More private the better. And I'm sorry, you're right then, chinny. I need some cheer."
Standing, Lolo wobbles a bit, and then holds out her arm like they do in the plays, when the lady allows the gentleman to take her arm. Or, so Lolo thought; she had never actually been to a play.
"Zeitgeist," she mumbles, and pulls Finn to the door.
---
Lolo shrugs as Casia pushes her, a slight frown crossing her face. Did he tell her? Lolo decides it doesn't really matter - the woman was obviously over-protective, and their drama was not something that Lolo should get in the middle of.
Instead, she turns her attention to the streets around them. They were close, Lolo new that. She looks to Jonah eyebrow raised, about to ask his opinion on next steps, when a crash and laughter pulls Lolo's attention back to Casia. Best not get involved right now, girl, Lolo thinks to herself, and makes eye contact briefly with Jonah. "A moment for the girl to collect herself, and we keep looking?"
"She's 'ad her moments." Jonah says to Lolo throwing his fellow Skovlander a quick wink as he reaches out to grab Casia none too gently by the back of the collar. "Best grab the boy to." He adds nodding Lolo toward Fin. "I'm sure he'll come along nice an' peaceable if you bless him with your winnin' smile."
To the old woman he tips his hat down in a greeting that hopefully covers his face a bit. "This Impy scum's 'ad more than a tuppence worth, Auntie." He says just like he used to address his elders back home. "Owes that an' a whole lot more to folk who 'spect to get paid on time. You're late an' the boss'd like a word, so let's go. An' don't you dare heave on me or into the bay you'll go, Impy birth or no." He adds, giving Casia a good push forward and hurrying away from the nosy old crone as quick as he can.
Finraeth gives Lolo a quick, apologetic, glance as his sister pushes her away with her usual subtlety. He didn't tell her anything, but he didn't need to - the two of them are close enough that they can usually work out what's going on with the other.
But this is not the time to intervene or say anything. There will be time to talk with the redhead later. He hopes. Although so far opportunities to spend time with her have been nonexistent.
Finraeth gives Casia a very slight frown as her conversation intrudes onto his private life. But then, it is her business insofar as they all work together and rely on each other for their livelihoods - and their lives, he reminds himself. He therefore gives her the courtesy of a reply.
"A good idea to mix business with pleasure? Almost certainly not," he sighs. "But..." he thinks back to that evening, of talking about wants and ambitions, and his realisation that Lolo wanted more for other people, for those around her, than she did for herself. "She has a good heart. And people like that are rare. And whatever clever remark you're about to make, sister dearest, I suggest you don't."
His eyes widen slightly in alarm as he hears the distinctive sound of breaking glass, but Jonah is there first and Finraeth leaves him to it. Instead, his eyes catch those of the drunken old woman, with a rueful smile. He holds out a few coppers. "Any chance you have one on you to replace what broke?"
The only reason Casia doesn't completely face-plant onto the foul street is her brother's supporting arm. Even so, she still ends up putting most of her weight on her knee in the wreckage of the broken bottle. "F%#+! F$*&! F@#*!," she hisses in pain as the shards sink deep.
She's about to declare her frustrations to the darkened heavens when Jonah steps in to save the charade. She gives him an exaggerated look of pain and fear before he pushes her along.
Once they've rounded a corner, she pauses. "Give me a moment, ok?" she says with a grimace as she attempts to delicately pull the pieces of glass she can grasp from her knee. Flinging each sliver into a nearby alley with vengeful purpose, she finally reaches a point where her fingers are as bloody as her knee, but she's unable to extract any more of them.
"Damn it! That was the good stuff, too," she says with a sigh. "Let's keep moving. We're almost there."
The ancient babushka gives Fin a sad smile, her eyes bright as she looks at him. She takes the coins he offers and produces from somewhere in her clothing another bottle. From the way the fumes have corroeded the cork, it's probably no beter than paint stripper but it will do the job.
She looks at Jonah.
Foollowing her directiongs gets you there. The narrow, stinking alley opens into a slightly wider street that you quicklyl realise is a dead end: there's one way in, one way out. The street is less busy than some of the others you've walked through, but even the resdential parts of the docks are never really asleep.
The alley you're in is deep in shadow, and deserted - at least for now. Your target house is barely metres away, but getting there means leaving the alley and breaking cover. What do you do?
Waving everyone close, Jonah slips the deck of cards that served so well at the Pike into his hand. He begins to shuffle them in his hands cutting and slotting them back together multiple times. He can't help but notice various eyebrows and looks that practically shout Now is not the time for a game of Dead Man's Hand.
"I think I've a way for us to get up to the roof without drawing anymore unwanted attention." He says quietly starting to deal the cards out to Lolo, Casia, and Fin. "The cards are attuned to discourage prying eyes and listening ears. I think there's still enough left in them that with a little concentration and focus, I can create a field that'll cover our ascent to the roof."
As he deals out the cards, he begins muttering a quiet incantation. By the fifth round, the surrounding air grows a bit heavier, tingling like before one of the big storms when the lightning riders prowl the sky over Dostvol. By the eight round, those still held in Jonah's hand begin to glow a soft green. A light that slowly spreads to those held by his companions, by the time the remaining cards have been divided among the four scoundrels.
Feeling the ritual magic flowing through his mind and body, Jonah spots a rat snuffling through a nearby pile of trash and waste. The Whisper practically steps on the brown scavenger before it notices his presence and darts away with a sharp squeak. Nodding in satisfaction he points to a drainpipe running down Hutton's building.
"All seems to be working. Let's go before the spell wears off or attracts unwanted attention."
Jonha's magic cards work like, well like magic. Nobody pays you any attention as you leave the alley and cross the street to Hutton's house - you are an unusualy uninteresting sight. Of course, unless you can fly you still need to climb the building. Or you can take the direct apporach through the front door and trust that your whisper's magic will hold out that long. What do you do?
Finraeth looks profoundly dubious at Jonah's intended method of stealth, but after the demonstration he gives a nod of approval. "You are a useful sort of person to have around."