With the alarm sounded, she grabs Jonah's arm and begins searching for the least painful way down to the surface streets.
That gives you some time in which to act, with the pursuit below clogged for a while - but that means leaving the other two to find their own way.
What do you do?
While the two of you discuss your options, it's clear that the two on the other roof are up to something although in the dark you can't see what. But the street below is suddenlty full of people, shouting, pankicking, convinced their houses are burning down.
The way you are going is still the way that Fin pointed out, you can move along it - but that means leaving the other two to find their own way.
what do you do?
Pulling her hood lower to conceal her features, she makes her way to the edge of the roof that's in the most shadow and smoke. Bind her rope quickly to a nearby pipe, she slips over the edge and down like a spider.
Lolo slips to the edge of the roof, looking for a way down, and to get a better idea of what is happening below. "A distraction. We should take advantage of it, but we're likely to lose the others in the commotion. Are you OK with that?"
Finraeth risks a quick glance down to the street below. "I've no idea what they did, but it worked." He looks across to where the other two are, now even more inaccessible than they were previously. "We can't regroup with them." He swears again, softly, both at the pain he's feeling and the anxiety over leaving Casia behind.
He gives a grimace. "It can't be helped. If we don't use this opening, we're unlikely to get another one." The wound in his side prevents him from offering a bow, but he makes a gallant gesture with one arm. "After you, my lady."
Flipping around, she grabs the side of the building and pushes herself over the side, dangling for a moment before dropping to the next roof, and then waits for Finn to join her. It was a circumspect way down, but safe - and with one of them already hurt pretty badly, it was better to be safe than sorry.
Teeth chattering like a couple of old grandmothers on holiday, Jonah follows Casia through the winding backwater alleys and roads of the Docks and eventually back to their mostly dry and somewhat warm refuge. Stifling a massive sneeze he hurries past Fin and Lolo shedding his completely soaked coat from his bare, blue tinted shoulders and chest.
The blue almost seems to highlight the crisscross of several scars marking the Skovlander's pale flesh. Not the work of the Imperial whip or sword like so many of his people. No, these traumatic wounds appear to have been caused by some clawed creature who clearly mauled the Whisper within inches of his life.
It isn't until he's put on the heaviest set of clothes he has in his meager wardrobe and a double layer of wool socks that he shows any sign of relief or celebration following the successful delivery of Lyssa's 'message.'
"I can go back, pass through Grindr territory without much chance of being noticed. You..." Lolo's eyes pass over Fin and she feels that hunger she had felt a couple of weeks back, after their last job. Was it the adrenaline?
"...can't so well. Wait here in case they show, and I'll go look for them. If I'm not back in a couple of hours... worry." Ducking back out the door, Lolo pulls her sodden coat tight and slips back into Duskvol's shadows.
If Finraeth were less injured, there is simply no way he would countenance Lolo's suggestion of going back on her own - at the very least, given the look he just caught in her eye, his counter-proposal would involve something considerably more... horizontal (and/or upright. According to taste).
As it is, he barely manages to follow what she's saying, before giving a weak protest - most of which is to the door she's already closed behind her. Wincing, but powerless to do much, he pops open the loose floorboard where Cassie keeps the stash she thinks he doesn't know about; he drinks down as much of the rotgut liquor as his palate and stomach will tolerate, before using the rest to clean his knife wound. It looks like a clean cut, he's (comparatively) fortunate - there'll be a scar but it should heal fine.
He hopes.
After that, he allows himself the luxury of passing out.
When you get back into the hideout, you find Fin slumped on one of the cots in the corner, passed out (he might be mistaken for dead, but Jonah's seen enogh corpses to know the difference) after 'sefl-medicating' with a bottle from teh stash that Casia thinks the rest of you don't know about.* Teh knife wound in his side looks nasty, but Jonah has seen worse - he'll live, but he won't be doing much for a while.
There's no sidgn of Lolo anywhere, other than the wet foogtprints on the floor in her size. Obvously she was here, but isnt now.
Teh rain is somehow worse after going *back* into it after being inside. You can't see a lot and there are too many ways the others could have gone, trying to retrace their steps only gets you lost. On your own. In Grinder turf. A pricling sensation between your shoulder blades tells you you've picked up attention. A quick galance behind picks out two - no, three - Grinders. Tehy might not know who you are but they sure as hell know you aren't local. Maybe it's got nothing to do with the heist you jsut pulled, maybe they're just out for some fun. Whatever. They're folowing you.
Waht do you do?
She checks the wound in his side to make sure that the bleeding is mostly stopped and presses the back of her hand against his forehead. "I think he'll be ok," she says to Jonah. She tosses a small bag onto the meager table and coins spill out onto the rough wood. "I picked that up along the way."
After hanging up her damp cloak, she pulls one of the other cots over and pushes it up against Finraeth's. Dropping on to the worn blanket she scoots over closer to her brother. "So how long do we give Lolo before we go looking for her?"
And there is one; groups of men - mostly men, gathered around gaming tables. Scores of gaming tables which run the long, narrow space, almost disappearing into the smoke hovering in the air, the shadows cast from the illicit casino's gasplamps.
An illicit casino - which was surely Grinder-affiliated - and Lolo inwardly groans, for a second rethinking her plan. But no, it was a good plan and this was the place for it. Lots of blokes, and with the right positioning, Lolo could herd everyone towards her stalkers, buying herself time and maybe even obscuring her from view.
Pulling both of her pistols from her coat, Lolo holds it aloft and yells while she empties the guns into the ceiling, the bangs echoing through the hall. Everything goes completely quiet for second, and then the panic sets in, most everyone going away from her towards the front exit as fast as they can carry themselves, leaving Lolo a nice buffer.
Now, just to hope there was a service exit out back...
Still suppressing the occasional shiver, Jonah does what he can to help Casia bandage Fin's wound and see the young man comfortable. He distinctly doesn't comment on the bottle or where it may have come from.
When Casia mentions Lolo, the Whisper frowns. "I assumed she had just went home to check on her daughter." He says, but worry starts to creep into his bones more so than the wet and cold from outside. After several long seconds staring between the warmth of the fire and his still sopping coat, he sighs, unleashes a long string of Skovlander curses, grabs a couple of items from the shelf, and stalks toward the door.
"I'll go check her place out." He says to Casia. "If the dead gods still have any power, she'll be there or just out getting something to eat. Given those same gods didn't fair so well the last time disaster struck, it's much more likely she went out lookin' for us." He jams his hat down on his head and pulls the brim low. Too bloody soon to be seen back on the streets after the job we just pulled, but I'll not see another Skov orphaned today.
With that he ducks back out into the rain and jogs off toward Lolo's squat.
Even as Lolo runs through the building to find the serveice exit she can hear the threats and curses as she closes in, a steady stream of Skovlandic. "***ing ***! Think you can fire guns on our turf? Gonna cut yer throat and push that pistol right down yer gullet!"
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Regardless, Lolo had almost forgot it was there, nestled into the small of her back - almost. A quick twist and the gun is free and pointed at the Grinder, Lolo's fine pistols tucked into her pants waistband.
"I wouldn't bother if I were you. You'll be dead before you get here." Lolo's voice shakes, as does her hand. Truthfully, she didn't want to kill this woman. A Skov blood feud was something that could last generations, and be revisited upon her daughter after all. And her hesitance shows as plain as the pistol's pearl handle, glinting in the gaslight.
It was a nice gun Casia had found, at least.
It doesn't take too long to reach Lolo's apartment. Keeping to the shadows, Jonah spots the window where his comrade's daughter kept a shroom planter. The splotchy white caps of several ready to harvest mushrooms were poking just above the edge of the loam rich window garden. A good harvest. The young girl could be proud of her success. But the smile on his lips quickly dies as it is immediately obvious no one is home. The dark window a lonely testament to the fact that Lolo didn't simply return home.
With his initial hopes for an early night dashed upon the wretched, rain soaked cobbles of the city, he turns and starts hurriedly retracing the path back to the Docks.
She is fast - there's a blur of movemnt while Lolo's still talking, and one of teh razors catches Lolo's gun hand, pinning teh sleeve of her coat to the wall that Lolo had backed hesrself up against. It did't cut her, but that's because her enemy wants to do that up close and personal. She pulls another razor from her belt adn moves forward slowly, with a grin. "You were saying?"
She's so intent on her prey taht she hasn't notice Jonah arrivve on the scene.
By the time the Whisper catcehs up with them, the waif has pinned the sleeve of Lolo's gun hand to the wall with a blade, and is clearly intent on moving in close to finish the job. Lucklu she hasn't noticed your arrival on the secene.
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So, perhaps it was the precarity of the situation giving her a case of the nerves, or one of those curious cases of self-sabotage, when one does exactly what they shouldn't, and knows they are doing it, a part of them watching helplessly, witnessing their own self doing something so destructive it would be hard to come back from. Or, perhaps it was just the training Lolo had spent most of the past year now drilling into her body; reactions to threats, the unwillingness to ever be a victim again made manifest in the destruction of another.
Lolo's eyes widened as the woman fell to the floor, obviously, irrevocably dead, blood pooling onto the cold stone floor, rushing from the wound out the back of the her head.
Hope she wasn't anyone important, someone with no family, Lolo thought, glancing up to see Jonah of all people standing nearby.
"Oh. I found you." Lolo's voice is flat, distant. She blinks again, focusing, and shivers as if shrugging off a shadow. "Got to get you back. Grinders everywhere. Where's Casia?"
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With a curse baited upon his lips, Jonah dashes into the building after Jonah and the Skov waif. Seeing he has the drop on the young woman, the Whisper starts to move in only to instinctively duck back when the flash and blast of a gunshot fills the room. The body slumps to the floor like a dropped sack of shrooms, blood spilling from her chest, her eyes already glassy with death. This. Is. Not. Good. His mind hollers as he frantically looks around for signs of other witnesses.
Lolo's voice barely registers over the ringing from the gunshot and the pounding of his own heartbeat.
"I found you is more like." He says a blend of fear, anger, and worry all clouding his face like a boiling storm. "Casia and Fin are both safe at home. Where I was as well until we realized you'd ducked back out. Now...this."
"We got to get the $#^& outta here. Not sure who you just shot, but I saw her hanging with Hutton and his lot. Gonna be a a bloody aetherstorm over this if we get spotted."
He grabs Lolo by the arm and hurries toward another exit. His hip catches one of the tables, knocking a lamp over. It rolls across the table. The flame gutters and sputters only to burst back to life as oil spills from the reservoir and onto the wooden tabletop. Unable to prevent what comes next, Jonah just does his best to hurry himself and Lolo out and into the nearest shadow filled alley. As the two duck out the back, the crash of shattering glass is quickly followed by a whoosh of flames echoing back from inside.
Another curse drifts across his throat. Fire was going to make it tough for the Wardens to reach the body. And even though, he couldn't see anything, that tingle between his shoulder blades was already rattling like a set of rusty chains on a prison wall. A new ghost was on the way.
17 February, 847 I.E. (Imperial Era)
If there is an upside to all of this, it's that the *whoosh* of flame bursting up into the sky is a really good disrtraction to cover your escape. You are jsut one of many people running through the streets to get away, and you get back to your hideout without any further trouble. Of cousre, some could say that you have caused more tahn enough trouble already. Maybe Lyssa will be one of them once you report back to her.
When Jonah and Lolo finally make their way back to the hideout they find Casia curled up next to her sleeping brother on a pair of cots roughly pushed together. Her eyes blink open and she carefully disengages Finraeth's arm from around and before sitting up.
"You found her. Good," she says, stretching her arms over her head. "No complications, right?"
Her eyes slowly close as the pair relate Lolo's encounter in the Grinder's bar. "Wait," she says, her eyes opening abruptly when Lolo recounts her description of the young woman. "Two razors? Small? Slender? ... Pretty?" She rolls her neck. "Please tell me she didn't have a scar right here?" One hand reaches up to trace a line from the right side of her lip to her chin. "Because I've heard rumors of a girl like that and she's connected, somehow, to one of the big muckity-mucks."
She shakes her head.
"Nah, I'm just being paranoid. I can't believe we'd be that unlucky."
After glancing back at her brother and his bloodstained clothes, she rises from the cot. "I gotta pee. Someone should keep him warm," she says, looking at Lolo with a raised eyebrow before heading out of the room.
Jonah couldn't really recall much about the young woman lying on the floor with blood spilling from her chest. His mind just reverted back to his training and blocked whatever vestiges of humanity might have still lingered in the victims glassy, empty eyes. It was the only way he kept what little of his sanity he could when he was in the trenches watching his fellow brothers and sisters die to enemy snipers and shells every single day.
So he just shrugs at Casia's inquiries. "Might have been a mark there." He says slumping with a heavy grown into the nearest soft chair. Musty, stained, and smelling of something none of them could actually identify, the thick, soft cushions felt as if they were made of heaven inspired clouds to Jonah's tired body. "Definitely slender, and definitely one of Hutton's crew. Not sure who though." He adds leaning his head back while trying to massage the growing headache from his temples.
He cracks an eye open to watch the minor exchange between Casia and Lolo as the former heads off to the watercloset. His own response to the suggestion is a simple snort before his eyes droop closed once again.
Finraeth wakes from a fever-dream of being stabbed by ghosts wielding white-hot blades to discover the reason he feels that way is that he has been stabbed. And is coming down with a fever, probably not a good idea to lose half your blood and then get soaked in a downpour in the freezing rain.
He looks around blearily, and gives a smile as he counts at least three people standing in the room. That means everyone made it back. "Nice work, there and back with no fuss, right? Didn't even kill the guy who stabbed me..." He goes from sitting to standing slightly too quickly and finds himself sitting heavily on the bed again. "OK. Might need some help getting home." He shivers again, although he feels hot rather than cold.
Casia frowns as her brother attempts to stand, sits back down, and attempts to stand again.
"I need to get you home," she says with a shake of her head. She vanishes back into the piled boxes and crates that fill the rear of the group's hideout and emerges with a thick, heavy-weather cloak. Throwing it over Finraeth's shoulders she takes him by the arm. "Come on," she mutters. "Let's go."
Half-way back to their flat, the rain lessens and Casia produces a brown bottle that Finraeth would have sworn she didn't have earlier. "Drink this," she says. "You lost a lot of blood." She gives him a glare that reminds him a lot of their mother until he finally downs a swallow or two.
Once they arrive at their home, she points towards the bed in the rear. "Get out of those wet clothes and into bed," she directs. After he's complied with her demands and she's fired up some coal in the tiny stove that heats the place, she adds the blanket that she uses on top of the one he's already under. Lowering herself to the top of the blankets she moves up against his shivering form. "Big Dummy," she whispers. "You're not supposed to get stabbed."
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A pot of gack simmered on the stove. The smell of the stimulant filling the old railcar Jonah called home with its robust, earthy and acidic smell. He'd acquired a taste for the stuff in the trenches. A blend of shrooms, peppers, and dried leviathan tentacle. It was a staple among the troops as it often numbed the nose and tongue to the stench of blood, filth and death in the trenches while keeping the mind alert enough to duck when the bullets and shells started flying. With all of the ex-soldiers in Dusk, there was ample supply to be found.
A sudden chill drifts through the room causing the lamp light to dance a jitterbug within its glass shrouded prison. The smell of aether overpowers the gack-scent.
"What is it Naty?" Jonah says as the pen continues to make nearly indecipherable marks upon the page. The eerie tresses of his sister's once long hair drift by his face as Naty leans over his shoulder to see what he's reading.
"Ugh! Boorring." Her ghostly voice exclaims. "You really need to get out more big brother. Me 'an Fionna were talking and we both think that you and her mum work way too much and too hard. You both need to relax a bit, lighten up. At least Lolo's cut loose with what's-his-name. You know the cut one with the tight..."
"Yes...yes...I know who Naty." Jonah says choking on the cigarette he'd nearly swallowed. "Wait...when did you start talking with Fionna? You know you're supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember."
"Pffftt" He wasn't exactly sure how Naty was able to make a sound like that but apparently being a ghost hadn't hindered her ability to do so. She'd always been an expert at the I can't believe you are so naive and dense as to think you actually know more about what's happening than I do attitude. "We've been keeping each other company ever since you and Lolo been running around shooting gangsters and blowing stuff up."
"I thought about visiting Casia, but she's usually a bottle or two gone and...well...that hits a bit close to home." There's a sadness in Naty's voice at the end that neither of them are ready or eager to address. And with his studies still ongoing, Jonah doesn't wish to do anything to push his sister down the Feral Road. So he does what he's done since they were both kids on the farm.
Setting the pen aside and closing up the half dozen books spread along the rough workbench, Jonah walks over to the spirit bottle sitting surrounded by several beakers, glass jars, pots filled with a variety of chemical substances, and a small aether battery.
"Let's see about putting some of this book learning into some practical use and purpose. Care to help?"
He spots the gleam in Naty's ghostly eye even as she shrugs and plays it off as almost, but not quite, the most boring idea in the world.
19 FEB, 847 IE
It's been 2 days since you tangled with teh Grinders, but only now has Lyssa finaly got around to seeing you. It's a lot less freindly than last time round, if last time could realy be described as friendly. Two of her crew stand behind her, their blades and pistols in plain sight and easy reach. Lyssa herself is not happy - although seh does pay you the agreed money. "OK, fair enough, you did the job and that got me waht I wanted. Had a visit from a go-between yesterday, Dead Larry." Dead Larry is not actually dead, but as one of teh best go-betweens in Duskvol he gets death threats a lot. So far, nobody has followed through with it - people on the losing end of a negotiation need to let of steam a bit, and he's a conveninent target. "Acording to Larry, the Grinders got the mssage, we're going to leave each other be. For now, anyway."
Lyssa frowns and examines her thumbnail (the left one, if it matters). "But. The same night you were running your score, sonme idiot burned down a game in their turf and - worse - shot Hutton's daughter dead. As part of the agreement, I had to give you up. So, jsut a heads-up, you're not operating on this turf under my prtection any more. If the Grinders want a piece of you, and I'm sure they will, it's nothing to me or mine."
She looks back up at you again. "Now scram. I don't want to end up as colatral damage."
20 FEB, 847 IE
If the Grinders are coming for you, they're biding your time. But this is Duskvol, and trouble has a way of coming at you all in a rush. Not as much of a hurry as Naty, though, who barrels into your hideout - right through the wall, there are advantages to being dead - as though the dead gods are after her. Whoever described death as "Resting In Peace" obviously didn't pass that memo onto Naty, though. The girl is sobbing and shaking like a leaf, it takes several minuts before she's able to get any words out that make sense.
"Quellyn! It's Quellyn, Jo, he saw me, I know i'm not supposed to go out but I was geting so *bored*, all you do is read and I went to visit Fionna and he *saw* me Jo! He chased me all the way back." She sobs a bit more. "He's put a Trace on me, I can't shake him off, he'll be here any minute!"
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A puff of sulfuric smoke bursts from the fourth beaker eliciting more curses from the other unfortunate Duskmites currently resting in their hideout. Jonah ignored the outbursts and finished adding the measure of wolfsbane and goat fat to the aether bottle holding the first position among the row of electroplasmic jars. Science would march on, delicate senses be damned.
"Ahhhh!" He exclaims as the tiny bits of ghostly electroplasm churning within the first beaker become less agitated and turn from a ghoulish blackened violet to a softer pale green color. The twisting of a nob, turning of a valve. Brief jolt of power from the battery array. And another slithering bit of the ghost formerly known as Rorick slides into the beaker. At first, the raw ghostly bit of electroplasm squirms and squishes away from the altered substance held within the jar. The blackish plasm sparking its feral fury at the seemingly placid and docile glob opposite.
The intensity of discovery burns in the Whispers eyes as they watch the two bits of Rorrick-that-Was interact within the tiny space of the aether jar.
A tiny screech emanates from the second beaker where a slap of dry ice coated in levithan oil and essence of God's Eye mushroom. Jonah's eyes switch their focus and he shakes his head, tsking under his breath. The slithering second sample slowly oozes to a stop. Blackens completely. Within moments any cohesion is lost and the sample is little more than a foul, highly toxic oily black sludge. Noting the utter lack of success with that sample, Jonah diverts his attention back to the first jar.
The feral, violet sample continues to thrash and even occasionally lunge at the pale green glob under the influence of the final herbal and psycho prohibitors. Suddenly in a blinding burst of speed the green mass of electroplasm forms a pseudopod that lashes out like a spear into the center of the feral mass. Another ghostly screech arises from the lab as the violet mass twists and turn violently upon its cellmates planted pod.
Bringing a looking glass up to his eyes, Johan leans in close and watches as spiderweb threads of green begin to weave themselves throughout the interior of the feral mass. Within moments all of the blackened violet in gone. Replaced and seemingly absorbed by the once again docile pale green.
He heart racing at the implication. Could it be that....
Naty's shouted words burst in on Jonah's potentially triumphant moment of discovery. "Wha...Who...What?" He blathers incomprehensibly as Naty's spills forth her tale and warning.
"Quellyn? Here?" He blurts, only now starting to catch up to the enormity of what his ghostly sister is saying. "Oh S$%@!." Was his highly articulate and intelligent response.
Water drops start to form on the ceiling throughout the hideout. Within moments Naty's tears start to plop down with resounding splatters and the slight hiss of electroplasm throughout the hideout. The aether water splatters his equipment, water's Casia's drink, and catches Fin right on the...well...no one was quite sure what Fin and Lolo were up to.
Snatching his battered spirit mask from where it was resting at the end of the table he slips it on and starts to search Naty's ghostly form for the bloody Trace.
"I'm going to need time. Keep that ugly spirit hunter out of here as long as you can." He shouts hoping Quellyn skimped on the coin for the tracking spell.
Casia - who is very obviously not watching whatever is is Finraeth and Lolo are doing or not doing, no sir - pales and stumbles out of her chair when Naty emerges through the wall, spilling the bottle she was drinking from.
"I'm going to need time. Keep that ugly spirit hunter out of here as long as you can." He shouts hoping Quellyn skimped on the coin for the tracking spell.
"And how the f$$$ are we supposed to do that?" Casia sputters as her hands reach for her weapons. Not waiting for an answer, she races to the door and peers out through a crack placed for just such a purpose.
19 FEB, 847 IE
It is a good thing that Duskvol is a generally dark place, and Lyssa's meeting place is no different; it is also a good thing that Lolo is pale, as most Skovs are, and it is likely no one sees the wan feeling that comes over her when it comes clear she shot Hutton's daughter. Swallowing, Lolo blinks twice to steady herself, and looks to Lyssa.
"Guess that idiot is tough as nails then, to shoot Hutton's daughter and burn a game down - and get away alive. Best the Grinders prolly leave it well alone then, eh? They're obviously outclassed. Next time you're giving us up, you can give 'em that message too, chinny?"
20 FEB, 847 IE
Lolo's kicked back in a chair, making some notations in a journal - possible people to approach to form a shipwright's union - and mildly annoyed at why Casia seems to be studiously avoiding her - when Naty floats through the wall all whoa is me and whatnot, and Lolo's on her feet headed to the chest under her cot.
"What's a Quellyn then?" While she gets an answer, the Hound is pulling her rifle from the chest, assembling it, and then she's up the spiral staircase boots clanging on metal to their hideout's roof, a makeshift sniper's nest atop the abandoned watch tower. The nest, like the rest of the tower, was hidden behind a wall of creepers and ivy; all things being equal she should be able to get the drop on any trackers.
Taking a deep breath, Lolo exhales slowly and surveys the area eyes squinting into the dark.
19 FEB
Finraeth has bitter memories of his last few days at university, after his father's criminality was exposed and the money ran out, and those he had thought were his friends turned away from him when they were needed most. Betrayal is, in his view, among the worst of all possible crimes.
Accordingly, when Lyssa makes it clear that she is cutting them loose, he makes a point of adding her name to his list of people who have outlived their usefulness. Not out loud, of course. As a well-bred Akorosi, he is far too civilised to make a scene. Only his extreme politeness reveals the full extent of his anger as he stands and bows to Lyssa.
"I appreciate your letting us know how matters stand. And now, with the greatest possible due respect, we shall take our leave."
20 FEB
Finraeth is almost grateful for the distraction that the wailing ghost provides. Being stitched up without much in the way of anaesthetic will do that to you. On the other hand, he is keenly aware that the gang is barely recovered from their previous escapades and he is not enticed by the prospect of confronting someone who makes a point of pursuing, rather than fleeing from, the restless dead.
He gives Jonah a slightly pained look. "I don't suppose you've considered the option of trying to talk with this chap to see what he wants? It should surely be possible to come to some sort of arrangement. I can't help but feel we've accumulated enough enemies for the time being."
"Talk? To Quellyn?! Sure, talk all you want. I didn't say stick a knife in him. Tell him your bloody life story. Discuss the Emperor's hemorrhoids for all I care. Just keep him out of here long enough for me to deal with the Trace." Jonah growls from his makeshift lab. "That scum has had it in for me and Naty since Naty...well since she first gained her more aethereal presence."
He turns back to Naty's glowing form while wiping ectoplasmic rain from his forehead. "Easy Nat. That old sod won't get us today, that I promise. But it sure would help if you could turn off the water works for a bit." Jonah says between clenched teeth as he struggles to find the Trace hidden upon his sister's ghostly form.
Finraeth nods, ignoring Jonah's sarcasm. Doubtless if it were his own sister being threatened, he would be similarly undiplomatic. "You've got it." He doesn't particularly want to talk to Quellyn in here anyway - after all, the whole point of a secret hideout is that it's, well, secret. Letting your enemy into your sanctum to parley with them is the stuff of bad novels. In real life it just results in them knowing where to find you.
Letting himself out the concealed door, he hastily shimmies down the outside of the tower and back to street level, where he leans nonchalantly with his back to a convenient pillar and waits for the ghost-hunter to come sniffing round.
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Quellyn doesn't look much like anyone's idea of a ghotst-hunter. With his slikced hair neatly arragned, almost painted, onto his head, his fussy round glasses (the sort that don't have frames) and the neat brushed clothes, he looks more like an accountant. Of course, most accountants don't ahve sigils and wards tucked into their waistcoat pocket. He gives a fussy sort of disdainful sniff as he walks through the street, as though he's not being paid enough to enter this part of town. He gives Fin a long-suffering stare as he catches sight of him.
"Sir, if you are - hnnf - lurking here to rob passersby, I am no easy pickings, I promise you. Perhaps you should be on your way?"
"Perhaps not easy pickings, but you're clearly out of your element ... Sir," Casia speaks up as she steps from a nearby dark alleyway. Moving to lean an elbow on the barrel next to her, she casually draws a slim dagger from a concealed sheath and makes a show of cleaning her nails with it.
"So why would a well-dressed gent such as yourself risk the coins in your pocket and the blood in your veins by wandering into a place such as this? A place filled with people such as us?"
Finraeth returns the long-suffering stare with an impeccably polite bow; he lets Cassie get the thinly-veiled threat out of the way before he speaks. "Why, Sir, if I strike you as no more than a common robber then I am fallen on hard times indeed! Although I shall admit that my attire has seen better days, alas." He brushes at the front of his shirt, to no appreciable effect: at this point, the dirt is pretty much ground in.
"I was hoping, rather, Sir, that you might be dissuaded from your current pursuit - or at the least, that we could perhaps discuss means by which you might be diverted to more profitable endeavours. To our mutual benefit, of course."
Finraeth lets the word profitable hang in the air. He is not generally in favour of buying his way out of trouble, but if there's some way to resolve this that doesn't involve bloodshed - or at least, his own blood being shed - then he is very much in favour of that.
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Naty stifles another sob and the rain dripping from the ceiling inside the already overly damp and somewhat mildew infested tower, starts to ease just a little. Hearing Fin and Casia talking with Quellyn, Jonah places a blue glass over the oil lamp sitting on his workbench. Turning the flame as high as it will go he brings the lamp up to where Naty hovers over a rickety stool.
The filtered light interacts with his sisters ectoplasmic form causing it to sparkle and glow with the pale white of a fresh mushroom. Naty giggles softly, causing some of the rain to suddenly turn into flitting fireflies gleaming lampshade-blue as the begin to flit around the laboratory.
"That tingles and tickles." Naty laughs, momentarily twisting unnaturally away from the light.
"Now hold still, otherwise I'll never be able to find the Trace." Jonah says, slipping his spirit mask over his eyes. Eerie blue shadows dance and duck about the walls of the lab as Jonah moves it here and there trying to catch every angle and every possible inch of his sisters aethereal form.
"Ah ha. There." He says holding the lamp just above the base of Naty's neck where her hair floats like seaweed upon the tide around her head. "I see it...blast and damnation!" He growls seeing Trace.
It is an ugly thing. A section of violet darkness partially burrowed beneath the outer aether layers of Naty's glowing ghostly form. A dozen insectoid segments each sporting a pair hook-tipped legs. At one end, a set of serrated jaws latch onto the ghost flesh while a wriggling proboscis sinking deeper in, feeding off the aetheric flow. At the back end, the 'tail' pokes out, tiny runes marking its own aetheric exterior. Runes put there by Quellyn or whoever created the Trace so it could broadcast its presence back to the owner.
"Now hold very still sister. It's a 12 segment Trace. I won't lie to you, this going to hurt. But it's critical you let me get it all out. Even one segment gets left behind and it'll have regrown in a week and we'll be right back here again."
He reaches over and grabs a set of long, quicksilver coated tweezers from the workbench. He counts to thirty while holding the instrument just at the top of the flame spouting from the still lit burner.
"Ready?" He says as gently and calmly as he can force himself to be.
"R-ready." Whispers Naty. The fireflies begin to buzz around the room in an agitated haphazard circles.
Releasing one last breath, Jonah slips the hot into Naty's aether flesh surrounding the embedded Trace. The heat, causes the thing to start squirming and using its hooked legs to claw and dig deeper into his sisters form.
Naty cries out in pain. The fireflies suddenly become a swarm of tiny screaming daemonic winged snakes. Each tiny reptilian face scrunched in a rictus of hurt and growing fury.
Driving the tweezers in deeper and deeper, Jonah finally gets past the first segment and head of the Trace. Clamping the tweezers closed, he can feel the thing struggling within the silvered grip, trying to pull itself free even as the heat sears and adheres the Traces flesh to the instrument.
Naty's manifestations takes her pain out on him. Dozens of swarming daemonic snakes bite and tear at the exposed flesh on his arms, neck and head. Doing his best to ignore the stinging attacks, Jonah continues to draw out the writhing Trace. It's high pitched squeals of anger and pain a counterpoint to Naty's own cries of pain.
Perched atop the hideout roof and - Lolo assumes - safely hidden from view, the hound keeps her rifle trained on the ghost hunter, content to let Finn and Casia do their good-brother, bad-sister thing. And so they rambled on, Lolo slowing her breathing, watching for the man to make a decision one way or the other, confident that he wouldn't be leaving alive if he chose trouble.
Quellyn pinches his nose and gives a sigh as Casia materalises out of the dark. With forefinger and thubm, he draws a thin silver chain from the pokcet of his waistcoat and holds it up. As you watch, the chain seems to grow and grow, as the Ghost Field is drawn into it until it finally becomes a leash of ectoplasm - and on the other end of the leash is the ghostly form of Wally “Cackles” Wrecker. He's not as big as last time you saw him, only 8 feet tall or so, and some of the wounds you inflicted on him clearly haven't yet healed fully. But still. He's a force to be reconed with.
The pinstripe suited ghost hunter raises an eyebrow at Casia. "If I should - hnn - happen to drop this chain, I assure you that bad things would most liekly happn."
Wally adds his own opinon.
Ingorning that, Quelln turns his attention back to Fin. "With all due respect, dear Sir, I doubt you are - hnn - in position to offer me a better arrangement." He gives the small shrug of a hapless clerk. "I have an agreement with the Dear Sisters, you see, and the spirits of yourng women who died by violence are in regrettably short supply right now. So unless you are in posisition to furnish me with such, our negotiations - such as they were - at alas at an end."
As Wally reappears into his life like a bad memory - although rather more tangible - Finraeth reaches for the ghostbane charm round his neck, as though remembering how it shattered at their last encounter. Although admittedly he was considerably larger then. He sincerely hopes that Lolo has some of that useful ghostbane ammunition loaded in her rifle.
He can't see the redhead anywhere, which is a good indication that she's watching.
"With all due respect, dear Sir,
Yeah, no. I don't have to put up with THAT kind of insolence.
He raises an insouciant eyebrow. "With the greatest possible due respect, dear Sir, you underestimate our resources. But if I get my hands on what you need, what would you be willing to pay for it?" He gives a wry smile at the look on Quellyn's face. "Oh come now, dear Sir. Nothing for nothing, even in this part of town."
Quellyn is not to be outdone. "With nothing but the *utmost* respect, Sir, I fear you are promising waht you cannot deliver. But I will let you prove yourself. The Sisters require their due for what used to be the Young Equinox, 22 March. If you can bring me that by March 20th, I shall pay you 4 Coin and my asurance that I will abandon my pursuit for the time being. If you fail, you agree to hand over the prize with no further delay."
This is Dusckvol. "For the time being" is the best thing to a promise that you will ever get.
He doesn't extend his hand, but he does give a quick nod of his head. "Well, Sir, do we have a deal?"
Finraeth thinks for a moment or two, before nodding in reply. "It seems that we do. You will understand, Sir, if I do not wish you well as you take your leave."
Once he is sure that the ghost-hunter has left, he carefully makes his way back to the concealed entrance to their lair once he is sure nobody is watching (the entire point of having a secret hideout is that it remains secret).
Once inside, he gives Naty a smile. "Hey there. Good to see you looking more cheerful." He is wary of ghosts, knowing that the lightning field is all that protects Doskvol from being devoured by hungry spirits, but Naty's sad story has humanised her to him somewhat.
He looks around to the others. "The good news is, we have a deal with Quellyn. The bad news is, we have a deal with Quellyn..."
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It is like operating on a bowl of pudding. If the pudding were the ecotoplasmic spirit form of a beloved sister who could manifest and pummel the surgeon with a variety of weird esoteric forms. And rather than picking out raisins, the task was removing a wriggling worm-tick Trace that fought every inch of its extraction. So perhaps the pudding analogy doesn't really work.
Jonah's thoughts wander slightly as he continues to carefully grip and pull the Trace free of Naty's substance. Finally, the final segment slides free. Despite her ghostly essence she actually slumps forward with relief and shivers for several seconds as the 'pain' slowly dissipates along with the swarm of daemonic bats that had filled the room. The Trace wriggles and screeches in the carefully gripped jaws of the silvered tweezers until Jonah jabs them into the heart of the burner's blue flame.
For a few seconds the screeching grows wild and intense, but then ceases as the flames consume the aetheral material of the Trace leaving nothing but a blackened film on the tweezers and a putrid stench drifting from Jonah's laboratory.
With the Trace removed, Jonah kneels down next to Naty. "Nat. The Trace is out. Best you make yourself scarce for a bit before Quellyn makes a move. Stay at the railcar. Rest."
Naty simply nods her head, the ordeal having drained...something from her. Still he admires her fortitude as she rallies and flashes Fin a smile when he comes back into the tower. "Jonah fixed me right up." She says to the Akorsi Cutter attempting to put on a brave face while a few lingering shudders ripple through her form. "But boy am I tired. Jonah says I should rest, so I'm gonna do that."
Jonah hopes that it is just dealing with the fright and pain and trauma of the Trace, but the worry in his heart and eyes as he looks upon his sister's ghost is that she also lost a bit of her humanity during the experience. His experiments to find someway to hold off the descent into dark madness that most ghosts suffer just grew a little more urgent.
Shaking off the grim thoughts, Jonah finally registers what Fin was saying. "We have a what with who?" He says eyes blinking in sudden confusion as he slips the spirit mask off and drops it on the workbench.
Quellybn nods. "Then i will be back here on March 20 to see if you can keep your word." He gives a little flick of the silver chain he's holdin and ti goes back to its original size, causing the ghost of Wally to vanish in the process.
Lolo slips, wraithlike, from her hidden perch and back into the hideout, clambering down a ladder and finding the others congregating, the former shipwright just in time to hear Jonah's confused question. "If he pokes around some more, its best if we just have him join Wally. Maybe they can share whatever trinket that was. What was that, anyways?"
Lolo frowns, for just a second, thinking that she should feel something - bad, guilt, something - rather than the lack of everything. Then, she offers herself the slightest shrug, her shoulders raising just a smidge. Quellyn was an obstacle, a dangerous one, and it would be best to remove him completely from the equation. She couldn't afford to feel bad about that.
At Wally's appearance, Casia goes pale and silent and remains that way throughout the remainder of the conversation her brother has with Quellyn.
When the negotiations have finished and the siblings return to the hideout, Casia pauses outside the doorway for a moment before emptying the contents of her stomach into the nearby alley. Following Finraeth inside, her eyes roam around fearfully, noting Naty continuing presence.
Still he admires her fortitude as she rallies and flashes Fin a smile when he comes back into the tower. "Jonah fixed me right up." She says to the Akorsi Cutter attempting to put on a brave face while a few lingering shudders ripple through her form. "But boy am I tired. Jonah says I should rest, so I'm gonna do that."
Finraeth does his best to look nonchalant at the conversation, but talking with a ghost is just weird, no two ways about it. Still, this is (was) the beloved sister of his friend, so he makes the effort to be polite. "I'm very glad to hear it, Naty. Sleep well." He has no idea whether or not ghosts do in fact sleep, but it seems like the right thing to say.
Shaking off the grim thoughts, Jonah finally registers what Fin was saying. "We have a what with who?" He says eyes blinking in sudden confusion as he slips the spirit mask off and drops it on the workbench.
Finraeth grimaces. "A deal. With Quellyn." No. Just as he suspected: it doesn't get better on second saying.
"Apparently he has a deal going with the, uh... Sisters. He has to supply them with the ghost of a young woman, but he's not picky. If we can provide him with one that isn't Naty, he'll pay us for it and agree to leave Naty alone for now."
He puts a hand to his injured side. "I have to say, it beats the alternative of fighting him. He has Wally dancing attendance on a chain, and probably a number of other spirits as well. I don't imagine that a direct confrontation with him would have gone very well for us."
Casia's just about to suggest that it would have been better to just slit the man's throat, but then the idea that they might be facing Wally and Quellyn's angry spirit as well causes her to reconsider that idea.
She does feel a little more confident now that Naty has left to sleep ... or whatever it is that restless spirits do. Confident enough to engage in her favorite pastime, contradicting her twin.
"And where in the black hole of the world's ass are we supposed to come up with another spirit?" she asks. "If you're expecting Lolo or me to dress up as some mummers version of a ghost, then you need to go back to bed and sleep off what you drank last night."
She turns to Jonah. "Since you removed whatever magical thingus that was allowing him to track her, doesn't that mean that he doesn't know exactly where she is? He doesn't know where our hideout is, so maybe he'll find a different dead girl and pass her along to the Sisters."