Once Upon A Time In Old Korvosa (Inactive)

Game Master Fighting Chicken

Dark rises over Korvosa, and a brisk wind blows off of Conqueror's Bay. It is not unusual for this time of year, where the temperature can still plunge below freezing at night, and temperamental weather lashes the Varisian coastline. This evening, the wind brings in a wintery mix; rain and sleet slick Korvosa’s silent streets. The cobblestones grow dangerous in such weather, and the city’s denizens take refuge around warm hearths and tavern fireplaces. Even the running battles of pseudodragons and imps, high-altitude acrobatic acts of violence, take a pause. For the most part, Korvosa is as quiet on these nights as she ever is.

High atop the Grand Mastaba, a young queen sits at the bedside of her husband, she wrapped in a fine shawl of imported Ustalavec wool, he bundled in blankets, unable to shake off the chill. This night, as many before it, King Eodred Arabasti II is feared by all the right people. His rule is steady. He has navigated the rocks and shoals of Chelish diplomacy and earned Korvosa favorable trade agreements with the Old Empire. Rumors swirl of course, as they do of all royals, some of them as entrenched in Korvosa as those damnable imps:

Eodred’s insatiate appetites have drained the city’s coffers; the king is a womanizer and a spendthrift, hence the moniker The Stirge King given by the low classes, for Eodred has sucked their future dry.

Despite his fondness for the soft touch, the king has produced no heir to date, the latest in a long line of rulers afflicted by the Curse of the Crimson Throne, said to manifest in infertility and premature death.

Lately a new rumor has flourished in Korvosa’s gaming halls and tavern rooms: the King has not been seen in weeks. Why of course, is where the rumor gets vague. Foreign perfidy? Years of womanizing and drink come to collect their due? A young queen scorned one too many times?

The king coughs. A pinch of worry crosses the queen’s face, and she wraps her shawl tighter. It was no surprise that when Eodred finally wed, it was to a woman barely a third his age, and it was no surprise that she was hauntingly, classically beautiful, with fiery hair the color of a Vudrani sunset, and alabaster skin the envy of any Chelish noble. Which, surprisingly, Queen Ileosa was, having made the trip from sophisticated Westcrown four years previous. At first, Korvosa’s nobles worried about a Chel being a step or a heartbeat from the Crimson Throne, but as the years went on, Ileosa’s interest in the city seemed secondary to life a luxury, and with the more-than-competent Seneschal Neolandus Kalepopolis guarding Castle Korvosa’s interests, those worries were pushed aside as new schemes were borne.

But, enough has been written of nobles to fill a million skalds’ sagas, and this is not Eodred and Ileosa’s story, exactly. Over twenty thousand souls live in Korvosa; Chels, Empties and Gaters, Moths, and Horsers. And they all have their ways of coping with the blustery Gozren nights.

A young artist gathers her brushes and rinses them in the washbasin of her studio/apartment, smiling as she looks out the window of her small flat, twinkling lights from candle-lit windows stretching into the deeping night’s darkness. Even this part of town was beautiful, in its way, seen through the right eyes. And besides, once the artist's new patron became known, she could finally move up the hill, perhaps to Cliffside or maybe even Citadel Crest, the toniest neighborhood in the city.

Nearby, an old Shoanti shaman leans heavily on his walking stick, a reinforced length of wood and polished femur from some giant beast, crowned with an imposing skull. The shaman’s eyes are milky and his skin papery thin, and he preaches patience to his grandson as wind gusts through their clapboard shack high in the Shingles.

A fortune teller’s tidy residence on Lancet Street sits empty, its owner gone. The scent of perfume lingers in the home's air.

At the Chelish Ambassador’s mansion in Cliffgate, an argument ensues. His half-Moth daughter pulls her cloakhood over her curly black hair and slips into the rain, while across town her brother takes another hit of Crush and slips further down the wall he was propped against. The Ambassador sighs and nods, apologetically to his patient wife, a saint of a woman who barely tolerates visits from his bastard daughter when they aren’t fighting. The ambassador retreats to tome-laden study, for the Old Empire's demands are never sated.

At a well-kept manor, a single torch lights the practice room of a swordsman, who feints and twirls as the rain and sleet patter against the nearby windows, providing cadence as he steps, thrusts, steps.

A meeting commences in an shadowy, candlelit room, where water slicks the walls and drips from the ceiling. A group of men in red cloaks arrive with a corpse, much to the delight of a young man with hollow features. It is not the why of the corpse that brings the man delight, but the how.

In old Korvosa, an Empty, barely fourteen year-old girl curses as her chalk won’t take to the slick cobbles in the rain. Pocketing the chalk into a tattered satchel, the girl presses herself into a doorway and stairs into the alley’s darkness. It was too dangerous to sleep unaccompanied in Old Korvosa.

A few blocks distant, a family settles down to dinner. Red-soaked goblets are clinked, servants deposit steaming platters of lamb and saffron rice onto the long table. The conversation is at once syllabent and eubilent, in a tongue rarely heard on Korvosa’s streets. Schemes within schemes hatch and tumble, some near fruition, some yet to begin. All look beyond the city.

At Eel’s End, domain of Gaedran Lamm, King of Spiders, even the chilling spring nights can’t keep the crowd at bay. Lovers of vice - drugs, sex, gambling, even violence, for Eel’s End caters to all - converge on the five boats moored there. Fortunes will be lost, perhaps even a life or two tonight. Messengers are dispatched, for Lamm wants and audience, and that audience always comes, promptly, if the summoned value their lives and loved ones.

Many lives, all navigating this blustery eve. This is not their story either, though they will all play a part. And even in Korvosa’s darkest places, like Eel’s End, there can light a spark. A spark of hope, a spark of heroism. Korvosa, she'll need it.

13 GOZRAN 4715 A.R.

========
Cathyriel
========
CLACK!

Ugh. Morning already? Hazy memories of last night pull at your waking self: an art show, some hotshot new thing, so some folks whispered; an afterparty, Grease-Fingered Ruslo pressing more shiver into your pants pocket... and then things get really hazy. Dreams and waking dreams, a smoke-clogged room, colorful Varisian patterns, a crow cawing from a rooftop tower, silhouetted by the moon.

CLACK!

Anyways. Another day in Old Korvosa right? And ugh, Old Korvosa is the worst. Not at all quiet like your old place in Midlands, where people understood the value of a silent morning, where one could nurse a hangover on a hushed patio. No, here in Old Korvosa, everyone starts early.

CLACK!

Like this crazy old man, third morning in a row, right outside your window thundering on about Whore Queen this and Chelish puppet that and gods, man, no one gets whipped into a frenzy at daybreak, just get on with your day already. Anyways.

CLACK!

Something is scrabbling against the window. Rising from bed, you give yourself a quick sniff - ewww, time for a bathe - and shamble to the window, where sure enough, demagogue is right there, and hey, he's actually got almost a crowd this time, six or seven forlorn souls and...

CLACK!

Yarryn? Another pebble bounces off your window and Yarryn Leroung looks, well rather dishelved and sheepish, not at all as put together as he usually is. Ok, he isn't with the demagogue, just adjacent, close enough to hit your window with a seemingly endless barrage of pebbles, at any rate. He shrugs - sorry - and tips his shaggy mop of a head towards the crowd, before miming a key sliding into a lock. Let me in?

Yarryn Leroung, who you last saw running away after he hit you with a stunning spell, cape trailing behind him into a dark alley. After of course, you went at him with your knives. Gods, Yarryn wanted to talk? Well, today would be interesting at least.

13 GOZRAN 4715 A.R.

========
Darius
========

Jolus doesn't knock, you know this by now, so it is no surprise when he darkens the doorway to the Fishbowl, casually sliding the key to your prison back into his pocket. He always lets you see the key.

Beside you, Jakinda lets the slightest sigh go, just the hint of agitation. Jakinda, she spends her days microdosing shiver, and in general is as placid as a stirge after a meal, so... yeah, a sigh is a big deal.

"Oi! Doofeus!" A familiar smile crosses Jolus's face, the look he gets when he's tormenting you, even with silly, juvenile nicknames, a look that says he's going to string out whatever torment he's got in mind as long as he can.

"Boss sent me to look around..."

Jolus strolls in, smile gone, eyes darting around the room, the room you and Jakinda share as your domicile and which doubles as the Fishbowl's supply room. Brown eyes, Varisian eyes, eyes similar enough to your own, and for good reason. Jolus is, as he likes to remind you, a distant cousin. But don't mistake family for friendly, even when Jolus is jovial, and he always looks jovial with a capital "J" - he's got that somewhat round, youthful look that mothers instantly trust and no one takes too seriously, except when they end up on your cousin's bad side, jumped in an alley or worse. Of course, whether or not Darius and Jolus are actually related is an open question - Radulescu is a common Varisian surename after all.

For a moment, panic surges through you, the hairs on your neck tingle. Does Lamm know about the door? Your way out of the Fishbowl? No, Jolus's eyes pass right over it, a bookshelf lining the wall behind a counter topped with spare beakers and supplies. No, it was something else.

Jolus finishes his sweep of the room, one of three in the Fishbowl, a former bakery. The bakery, located on a forlorn road in West Dock, was popular enough with the few locals in this warehouse and fisheries district, until the owners, an elderly Tian couple, up and "left town" one day almost a year back. Jolus moved you in here shortly after, making sure the locks on the doors were the first thing he had installed.

"You been cooking any blue shiver lately, Doofeus?"

Beside you, Jakinda puts her fork down beside her breakfast, which would obviously have to wait. She blinks a couple of times, sleepy eyes catching up to the conversation, voice slurred as if she'd just woken. "Whhhat?"

13 GOZRAN 4715 A.R.

"A new nickname? How clever you are, cousin. A true master of language, indeed"Darius rolls his eyes. Svolach..., he adds, muttering under his breath.
Jolus' sudden appearance manages to make him annoyed and nervous at the same time. He watches in silence while Jolus takes his rounds, taking care to stay out of arm's reach from his cousin.

Darius is wiping his hands to a cloth (nasty stuff that pre-cooked dream spider venom), when Jolas voices out his question. His first reaction is to motion Jakinda to sit still and stay out of this. No point of getting her involved in whatever Jolas is planning.

"I can cook shiver in whatever color, red, green, blue. Why you so interested in blue, cousin? Did your little brain just discover a new color? Or is it a fashion in your circles? Want to impress your boyfriends?"

Strange thing is, Jolas never pays much attention to business. He's a blunt instrument, albeit an effective one in that. So why this question.

Two weeks previous (on the dot), in the Grey

========
Annalise
========

The light left you and it was maybe the worse thing you've ever felt, worse than when Varial disappeared, worse even then when your mum died that slow, wasting death; at least her death brought a sense of closure and if you delve deep enough into your feelings, relief. A terminal illness drains everyone, after all, not just the afflicted. Unless of of course you can afford a visit to the cleric, which you and your sister most assuredly could not. Not without selling the house, which your mum insisted never happen.

When the light left, it was like hope itself just withered on the vine, like it took what was the best of you with it. You dropped to your knees next to the undead thing you'd just slain, misted really, most that was left a stringy, black ichor, a mess tangled mess of corruption that was once a person, filled with hopes and dreams. You sobbed, one ragged breath from deep inside, and so caught up in your grief, you didn't notice the needle plunging into your neck.

Things were... blurry, like what it must be like for the addicts that swarm Lamm's flophouses, fragmented, a waking dream. You recall rough hands grabbing you, carrying you, bruising you, rough hands with pale blue skin and four-fingers. Piercing yellow eyes, a gaggle of them. A room so humid it was hard to breathe; water slicked the walls, fell from the ceiling, splattering across your face and soaked your hair.

And a man, a human man, you think, his face covered with a deep purple cloakhood, his voice like gravel skittering across a gravesite. Flashes of pale skin and deep, black hair - maybe a Chel?

A cold stone table, glass contraptions that dripped and blazed, and the smell of fungus and rot.

"Prepare the subject," the man says, his voice grating across your soul, and the rough hands rip the sleeve from your shirt, douse your arm in something stringent, go through your pockets.

There's not much there, of course, just a folded note from Marcy with the address and name of your last job, with a sentence at the end appended by Lamm himself, the crime lord's scrabbly handwriting betraying his lack of formal education.

"Leave everything as you found it, except for the porcelain pegasus adorning the mark's bedside table. Smash it."

A large hand, covered in black hair, raises the note to your tormentor's cloakhood, suggesting perhaps that your tormentor has poor sight. His other hand rises into the air, a wordless command to the rough hands. Stop.

You'll hear his voice just once more, that deep, grating rumbling etched into your mind. "Interesting. Cut her loose."

You'd get to the Pantheon of many, hours later, the time between those words and then a blur, and have a proper cry. Not that you're ready to tell anyone about that. Or really, well anything about this day.

13 GOZRAN 4715 A.R.

You've been walking since, mostly through the Grey, looking for your tormentor, but also, increasingly, in large looping treks through the city, looking for the light, which has remained elusive. But you're getting strange urges too. The desire to... do nice things?

Today you took a long morning walk through South Point, and it was a pretty good day. You helped a dog that was being attacked by a stirge, gave some coppers to a blind man that didn't have enough with him to buy the fish skewer he'd ordered from Mack's Fish Tent, and even intervened on a group of Hellknights hassling some Varisians about permits, convincing the Varisians to pay a minor fine and keeping the Hellknights from escalating the situation.

The sun climbs higher in the sky as you round the corner to your mum's cozy home in Pillar's Hill - your home, you have to remind yourself still - and you spy one of your sister's clients practically bouncing down the sidewalk. A woman, middle-aged, clothes ruffled but nice. A diplomat? Professor? Someone with some means, no doubt. Rhian was apparently good at was she does. Good enough that she was bringing in a lot of coin these days, enough to build an addition onto the back of mum's house to do her "entertaining" in.

You find your sister in the kitchen pulling grapes from a tangled stem. When she wasn't entertaining, she was eating, her elvish genes doing the work hours of exercise do for others. Popping a grape into her mouth, Rian pulls some cheese from the "Korvosa cooler," a cabinet that opened directly to the outside, to take advantage of the city's cool climate (covered with a thin wire screen to keep pests out, of course). She never looks directly at you, but starts talking in her sing-song voice as she cuts a sliver from the cheese wheel.

"You had a callllller, 'Lise! Short one, doesn't smile much. Called herself Mazie or Macie or somethinnnng. Seemed really curious to know where you were. I told her truth." A twinge of annoyance creeps into your sister's voice. "That I didn't know where you were, and I'm not your mum."

Rian glances up, her green eyes - the same brilliant green eyes that you have - boring into you. "I didn't tell Marti or whatever that you're, like, disappearing a lot these days." A pause, silence hanging in the air between you. "Are you Okayyyyy?"

Your sister is a lot of things: an escort, pretty, a bit of a ditz. But she's also an empath. Worry plays across her face, for just a second, before she covers it with a smile.

Annelise closes her eyes as her sister's cloud of wrods washes over her. It always amazies her how many words Rhian can use to say so little, and be so vauge. "Halfling? Marcy?" She opens her eyes to catch her sister's nod of confirmation. "Right." Interesting that Marcy was here in person - it normly takes a lto to get her to leave that coffee shop. She doesn't waste time wondering what it's about, Marcy will tell her when she goes to see her. Which is bsest done now, one of the leessons drilled into her by her father's example: his attituede of 'deal with it when I feel like it' is one of the reasons Variel's head - jsut his head - was fished out the Jeggare by the watch over a decade ago. Yup, Variel (not actuly her father but she doesn't remember her actual father) taught her a lot, usualy without meaning to. She learned by not following his example.

She deftly cuts about half the grapes from the bunch Rhi is eating from - ignoring the noise of protest - and is about to leave again when she does something very unusula.

She hesitates, and turns back to face her sister. "Am I OK? I'm - not sure." She wonders how mcuh to tell. For all that she ocasionaly wants to hold Rhi's head underwater to get the air out of her brain, she's done wlel for herself. Teh choices shes' made arent' the ones Annelise would have, but if she couldn't keep a secret then she woudnlt have any clients. She waits for Rhian's glance to meet hers again. "Am I - a bad person, Rhi?"

13 GOZRAN 4715 A.R.

======
Lorick
======

Jaw.

You hate that nickname. It says everything about how you are seen, fearful eyes that focus on your size. Even though, through learning from Miyoto, you've gained a lot grace. And focus. But that's all wasted in your bondage to Lamm.

Jaw!

Except when Sia calls you it, then it is OK. OK because it is a joke of sorts, a gentle teasing about your place in Lamm's enterprise, and about your place in Korvosa. Of course, she sees you different, she tells you that, without using words every day.

There's also a practical reason she calls you by your "street name." No one - especially Lamm - can know you're together. She calls you your nickname, one less thing people can suspect of you two, one less link they can make between you. And no one knows about your relationship, the safer you both are. 'Cause if there's one thing the King of Spiders loves, it is leverage over those in bondage to him.

"Jaw, wake up!" Sia shakes you, gentle, and you come fully from that place between sleep and wakefulness, that mostly pleasant place in-between, where you let your mind wander and muse once the morning light shines through the crack in the curtains at Sia's flat.

That's right, you're at Sia's. Been spending more time here. It is nicer than your place by a Varisian mile, you know? Airier, more room. Plus, she's here, except when she isn't.

Sia's sitting cross-legged on her bed, hand still resting on your arm where she'd pushed you awake. Still clothed, must just now be getting home. Wasn't a job last night, just putting in her time at Eel's End. She gives you a faint smile, but there's something hiding underneath.

"Lamm wants to see you. This afternoon, at mid-past. He sent that psychopath Jolus out to your place. Lamm's agitated. Manic."

Sia sighs, and twists, letting go of your arm and rolling off the bed in one smooth motion. Yawning, she stretches and gives you another smile, more genuine this time. "Anyways, I'm gonna make some eggs. You want some? Then, its bed for meeeeeeee."

She raises an eyebrow, playful. "You're welcome to stick around if you want. Put that famous jaw to work."

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (16) + 6 = 22

Waking quickly was an almost necessary survival trait as an orphan in Korvosa, and the disciple instilled in him by his mentor had only enhanced it and so it was that he didn't miss Sia's tells.

He sighed, they were getting careless, he really should be in his small room in the Old Docks. Keep Lamm from getting suspicious.

Lorick focused on Sia, habitually serious in contrast to her cheer. I'd never say no to that Sia, but you gotta tell me what you're worried about. Getting called up by Lamm isn't anything new.

12 GOZRAN 4715 A.R. (Yesterday Morning)

======
Kaio
======

Just like that, Emi's gone. Transferred out of Riverside House and into Scrapper's Hall, and good gods, good luck getting a visit to anyone in Scrapper's Hall, the place where kids just get swallowed up whole, spit out only when the city can't legally hold them any more. Scrapper's Hall, where everything that happens inside is just on the right side of being legal.

And legal it is, like all things in Korvosa, if you've got the right paperwork. Which Disella Sacer has; she slides it across her desk, a great oak beast of a desk, fitting for a personality as severe as old Disella, your sister's caseworker who, for whatever reason took an instant dislike to you, despite your charms, when you met all those weeks back.

Disella waits, silently, the smallest smile playing across her lips, until you stand and are almost out of her office. Raising a closed fist to her mouth, Disella coughs, a faux reflex that really is a means to command your attention.

"Ahem. Excuse me, Goodman Felix. There is something else. I am truly sorry for the inconvenience. As I said, there's the need to open up beds at Riverside. But, all our orphanages are merely supported by the King, not funded by them. A perhaps seemingly small detail, but trust me, it is an important one. Donations towards the upkeep and operations of our orphanages are appreciated. My understanding that 5000 golden crowns are sufficient to ensure that a new bed and living space for your sister could be secured back at Riverside. If you have access to such funds..."

The tone of Disella's voice makes it clear she doesn't believe that is possible, but she raises her arms in a slight shrug, as if to say miracles happen every day.

"Then I'm sure the powers that be would be so very accommodating. Good day, Goodman Felix."

Five thousand crowns? A near-impossible sum, even for an established card shark as yourself. Still, there's one place in town that you think you could turn that kind of coin with a little luck...

12 GOZRAN 4715 A.R. (Last Night)

Chips clink off of each other, cards tumble. Waitress shrugs, apologetic - supply issues, she says, dockworkers are refusing to offload the cargo ships in Korvosa's port. No Bloodcove rum in the house to make your lucky drink. Still, she says, here's a local rye whisky, from a distillery near Sandpoint. Distillery got burnt last year in their most recent troubles, so this is some of the last of this drink in existence, enjoy, on the house. That's gotta be lucky, right?

You're on a run, up a cool king's ransom, nearly got your five large, and your cards come in. Statistically, nearly impossible to lose. Your face placid, you take a drink, sway just the slightest. Time to go all in. Sliding your chips forward - all of them, you pause, a thought barreling through the alcohol-fuzz: take loan, yeah? With a loan, another say, two thousand crowns, you could not only get Emi her bed, but a nicer place for yourself, some new clothes, maybe even a Taldane-made carriage. Raising your glass, you ask for a pause and one of Eel's End's financiers to get things sorted. Only one set of cards can trump yours after all, something like less than 1% odds...

And that's what happens. The room spins, your stomach lurches. You've been in debt before, even now are a little in debt to a few folks around town, Lamm included, but nothing like two thousand crowns. Staggering to your feet, you make for the door, some fresh air, a few moments of time to think over your next steps. And then you just keep on walking out of Eel's End.

Almost out of Eel's End, that is. A meaty hand falls on your shoulder, spins you around, and you drop for a second to one knee, off-balance, blurry gaze focusing in on a pair of almost comically large black leather boots.

"Oi, Kaio, sorry mate. Can't let you leave. Boss wants to see you, talk about your debt."

Sammy the Ham. About the nicest leg-breaker you've ever met. He shrugs and offers you an awkward smile, waving towards a stairwell leading belowdecks, one you've never been down, one not for the gambling public.

How'd Sammy find you so fast? How'd he know about your debt? Why is your head so damn fuzzy? And it all hits you, nearly knocking you off your feet again. Emi getting pulled into Scrapper's Hall, Disella asking you for a bribe, you ending up here, on the one gambling boat in Korvosa not exclusive to high rollers that runs the tables for the coin that you need. The new drink, certainly spiked now, you realize. The near-certain win.

Set up. And now Gaedran Lamm, King of Spiders, owns you. Life is about to get very, very difficult.

Sammy the Ham pushes you towards the staircase. "Sorry again. Also, you dropped this. Fell out of your pocket just now. Not a good idea to bring a card - even a Harrow - to gambling den, Kaio."

In Sammy's giant maw of a hand, there is indeed a Harrow card. An old card, with an ornate script scrawled along the backside. Sammy the Ham holds the card out to you, gesturing with his other hand belowdecks...

========
Cathyriel
========

Yarryn may be less worldly than you, in terms of experiences at least, but he's easily enough able to pick up on cues. His eyes wander up the stairway towards your flat, curiosity playing on his face, but he doesn't push, or ask. Instead, he leans on the doorway, all forced nonchalance, and the effect is... humorous? Endearing? Ridiculous? Like all proper, upper-crust Chels, Yarryn couldn't slouch naturally if his life depended on it.

"Went by your flat, turns out a nice Varisian family lives there now. So I figured I'd try here next. The memories we made here, eh?"

Wait, Yarryn has been here? Well, how about that.

"Anyways, I hope you're doing OK and all that. Listen, I was going into work this morning-"

Ahhh, the point. Like most Chels, Yarryn doesn't do much beating around the bush. Good thing about Chels, they keep conversation short. Yarryn straightens up, clearing his throat, as if the mention of work put a rod back in his backside. A recent graduate from The Academy, you figured Yarryn would have rakked off back to the Old Empire, back to his life of privilege and sophisticated parties and whatever, but for some reason - probably definitely not you, you reassure yourself - he stuck around Korvosa, taking an entry-level job at the Chelish Embassy, a huge, gothic compound in The Heights.

"- Gods, work. It's been..." Noting the frown on your face, Yarryn gives a dismissive wave, his hand lifting in a clipped, dismissive motion, gesturing south towards his employer. "Well, never mind, it isn't the point. I'm walking up Brightside, which you know snakes along the compound, and there's this bloke leaning against the wrought-iron fence. I think nothing of it, other than it is a bit unusual to see someone lounging on it, given the speartips dripping blood and all, and give him a wide berth, stepping around him. But he whispers my name, Cath! My name! And then he asks where I can find you."

Ok, so that wouldn't be Grease-fingered Ruslo, given that he was here last night.

"Big guy, kind of harmless looking, dressed like his mum still clothed him when he woke up, a little chubby, a little slouchy?"

Ah, Jolus. That psychopath that runs Lamm's cooking operation. Did Ruslo not go into Eel's End this morning? Was Ruslo not in the know about... whatever this was that Jolus needed?

A shiver runs over you as you recall some of the stories you've heard about Jolus. Grease-fingered Ruslo was bad in every since of the word; a predator, a letch, utterly selfish, unhygenic. But you understood his motivations. But Jolus? Totally unpredictable, and utterly cruel.

"Said you needed to be at Eel's End by mid-past, today. Or else. I didn't tell him anything of course. Begged off from work and went looking for you. It was worrisome. He came off as... sinister."

For a moment, you thaw a bit. For a moment.

"Gods, Cath, what have you gotten me into? You know there's spies everywhere at my job! Inivisible imps, scrying sensors. Who was that man, and why was he at my work?"

It's hard to spot - Chelaxians are naturally pale-skinned, and Cathyriel is currently rocking that strung-out, addict look - but the fact that Jolus (and, ergo, Lamm) knows about her and Yarryn is enough to drain the blood from her face. S*** s*** s***! She hadn't really expected to keep secrets from the King of Spiders, but there's always that hope to keep something back, something that is just yours and yours alone.

Growing up on the streets, hope is the thing with the quills that will get you killed. Stupid. Stupid.

Even as Yarryn continues talking, her mind is racing along, trying to work the angles. Cathy lacks a formal education and she is not as smart as Yarryn, but she's a long way from stupid. It's clear that Jolus didn't know where she is, even though Ruslo - ew ew ew what was she thinking - did. Which means, probably, that Ruslo didn't know Jolus was after her, and/or that Jolus didn't know Ruslo knew where she was. They don't talk to each other. Lamm's goons, they don't talk to each other. The King of Spiders might like to present himself as an ever-reaching web stretching across the city, but it would seem that some of those strands don't always connect the way they should.

That's not much comfort, but it's a crumb. And growing up on the streets, you learn to cherish every crumb that comes your way.

Yarryn stops speaking and she gives him a wan smile. "Look, I 'preciate you droppin everyfing to come find me, eh? Good fing I brung you here before." She doesn't even remember doing that, but she has long since reconciled herself to the fact that the drugs leave her memory with more holes than a Molthuni cheese. "But I ain't gonna sob sorry that my life's got in your way, yeah? You knew I weren't one of them posh girls when you got with me, and I dint hear you complainin' then." She stares up at him defiantly, and then sighs.

"OK, so maybe it is my fault, a bit. But I dint know they was gonna come by your work. Take the rest of the day off, chill a bit if you can and I'll come find you later, yeah? You can buy me dinner." If I live that long. Having Jolus on her case is a sharp reminder of her own vulnerability. But it will work itself out. Leastways, it always has so far.

"Right. We need to get you outta here before someone sees you dunt belong. C'mon. This way." Her hand creeps into his, her fingers lock with his. Just so's he dunt get lost, of course. Some of these alleyways, you need to watch your step.

Kaio glares at the harrow cards, though he can't make out which it is. Certainly not this night. He sees right through it, in a moment of clarity, and all he can see is a damned fool. Really made a mess now... Trying to force his thoughts into a row he searches for a line of play, any long shot or trick, to weasel himself out of this. But as his stomach raced down into the depths - or debts - of hell he knew there were none. None that'd work now. Even if an angel added descended with a chest of gold, he doubted he'd get out of it that way. No, Lamm wanted *something* from him. Enough to pull string. Good. That meant he'd probably see daylight again, with most limbs intact to intact-ish. With a minor sigh of relief Kaio steadied himself. Let's just hope it wasn't all for a laugh.

He takes the card, though clearly not his. Just hope it'd land with the good side up - that was how these worked right? "T-thanks. Mmusthav dropfd it. *urk*" Still holding onto the big man he leans over the end of the ship and empties his stomach into the sea. Better now then under deck. That'd earn a man a beating just on principle. Blerg. A bit better. Not nearly anywhere near good, but better. "Let's talk then..."

With his head clearing up a bit his thoughts raced again, a bit less self centered this time. Emi. F!*!. The whole point was that you *weren't* gonna get caught up in my mess. How do I even start to fix this? For the first time in a long while, he missed his old man. W-was this how you felt when you left ..? Argh. Shock and terror were slowly being replaced by frustration and helplessness. With an almost painful effort of concentration her forced himself to stop thinking about anything other then here and now. Not that it'd do much good before he knew what Lamm wanted. And he'd need as much of his wits about him as possible for that encounter.

========
Darius
========

Jolus meanders over to the once-bakery's counter, casting a long glance at the supplies stacked there, and the gives the bookshelf/door behind it another once-over, before pulling a tome, Dreamspiders: An Ecology from the shelf. It is dangerously close to the book/lever that opens the bookcase door to the other side of the fishbowl, and your heart skips for a moment.

Flipping through the pages, Jolus's eyes narrow and annoyance flashes across his face, but then, like a wisp of smoke rising into your lab, the emotion is gone. Your nemesis tosses the book onto the countertop, sending a glass beaker sliding off the side, where it hits the pine floor of the Fishbowl with a soft clink and rolls, unbroken, across the floor.

Beside you, Jakinda lets loose a heavy sigh but otherwise remains silent. The girl always liked her lab equipment.

"My boyfriends are not addicts, Doofeus," Jolus says, either missing your jibe or not caring to address it. "And I wasn't asking if you could cook blue shiver. I was asking if you have cooked blue shiver. Iridescent, really, like the scale of psuedodragon."

Nodding towards the back of the bakery, Jolus sweeps his hand in an overwrought gesture, an exaggerated after you. "Shall we see the kitchen then?"

You lead him into your lab, everything as it should be. Or almost. Jolus's eyes wander over the burners and in production shiver (not blue), and he idly slides a finger along one of the former bakery's countertops, frowning as he peers at the edge of his finger. So distracted, he misses the one thing out of place - a Harrow card sits atop the stool you work from, an old card, with an ornate script scrawled along the backside. The card, of course, should not be there. It couldn't be from Jakinda - she was almost annoyingly skeptical of fortune tellers. And no one else, to your knowledge, had been in the Fishbowl since Jolus's previous visit. Worrying. Extremely worrying.

"So, I'll ask again," Jolus says, impatience creeping into his voice. "Have you been cooking any blue shiver?"

========
Annalise
========

Rhian takes your hand in both of hers, the grapes forgotten, her voice at once squeaky with emotion and soothing. "Ohhhhhhh, 'Lise. You're a person, in all her messy, person-y, glory. There's no such thing as good people, or bad people, despite what the priests say. Just people doing good or bad things. Maybe the question is, are you doing good things?"

Letting go of your hands, Rhi rummages in a drawer, and with a flourish pulls a dull knife from it, using it to slice two hunks from the cheese - sheepshead cheese from a farm nearby Harse. Korvosa's holdings had suffered this winter; giant attacks especially, seemingly spurred into a frenzy from a band of heroes' actions to the far east of Varisa, near the town of Sandpoint. Many nearby farmsteads had been burned, it was expected this year's local crops would be fewer and more expensive. Thankfully, the folks at Sheepshead farms and around Harse had been spared to date. Your sister loved that cheese.

"Marcy, yeah that's her," Rhian says, her affectation coming back as she talks. "Said you're wanted at Eel's End, by mid-past. Said not to be laaaaaate." Your sister shrugs. "Short woman's complex, I'm sure." Putting the knife down, a look of surprise crosses Rian's face, and she bends down below the kitchen table, remerging with a Harrow card in her hand. An old card, with an ornate script scrawled along the backside. "Oh, she must have dropped this! Well, I guess it is up to you to give back to herrrrr!"

Rhi holds the card out, hovering over your hunk of cheese and half of the grapes, and for a second, a wisp of perfume and incense hangs in the air.

========
Lorick
========

Sia fidgets for a moment, practically bounces in place, before she sighs. "Something's going on, rumors of someone moving in our turf. You know Varnasi? The West Docks underboss? He displeased Lamm, somehow."

Sia's eyes grow vacant, fixed somewhere not in the present, reliving a memory. "He went into the pit last night..."

Focusing again, on you this time, you see Sia's eyes watering. She takes in one ragged breath, lets it out.

"He made me operate the winch, lower Varn. Varn screamed the whole time, high-pitched, panicked... until he was done. Lamm made me stop every so often, too, make it last longer. I just had to stand there, everyone watching me, everyone hating me for doing it."

Another ragged breath, and Sia turns away, her playful mood gone, swept from the air like ash floating on the wind. "So yeah, eggs. I'll make some for you. Don't be late. As I said, he's in a mood."

You lay back, one hand reaching under your pillow brushing something more firm - a harrow card, an old card, with an ornate script scrawled along the backside.

Lorick sighs as Sia's mood flips,and for good reason. The only way to survive under Lamms's thumb was to become like him and it hurt him to see Sia on the road to becoming one of his feared lieutenants. He had to find a way to take the bastard down.

Let's put a hold on the eggs and everything else. I'll head out to be in a place I should be sos they don't get suspicious. Lots of weird stuff going on.

Lorick crumbles the card into his pocket, maybe he'd be able to save Sia, Miyoto, everyone sooner rather than later...

Saying his goodbyes Lorick heads to a spot on the Old Docks where he'd become a familiar sight, smacking his fist into an old pier post over and over. If Jolus didn't find him in his room then this should be the next place he'd look.

"Ce pana mea!!? Look what you're doing! It's glass, svolach! It breaks!!" Darius cries, and sprints to catch the falling beaker, but is too late. He sighs in relief as the glass beaker hits the floor with a mere thud, instead of splintering all around. The Varisian drug-maker picks the beaker up, inspects it for damage, and places it back on the counter.

"Is this why you here, idiot!? Break things, and make my work harder. Make boss Lamm lose money?" Darius is fuming, but keeps his tongue under control and his insults mild. He knows far too well where Jolus' limit is, and he doesn't feel like receiving a beating today.

"You want to break things, mudak? Come to kitchen then, make best damage there..." he says and starts ushering the brute towards the lab. At least he'll be further away from the secret door there...

"...scale of a pseudodragon... How the hell you would know what one looks like. You haven't ever seen a pseudodragon! You couldn't even tell the difference between one and a mudliz..." there's a small pause. Darius just spotted the Harrow card on the chair. What the hell is that? Why is it here? His eyes dart towards Jakinda. But no, it isn't hers. More importantly, whose is it? "...ard..." he finishes the sentence, not-so-very-smoothly. Jolus doesn't seems to have noticed card, so Darius takes great care to look at anything but the chair - the gently bubbling alembic, the pile of discarded spider husks, the drying vat at the other side of the room. Anything but the chair and the card...

"Have I cooked blue shiver?" Darius finally returns to the topic.
"No." Bluff: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (4) + 0 = 4

"Am I doing good thinsgs? Working on it." Annelise is new to teh whole idea of thinking about good and evil, but she's prety sure that her sister is wrong - there *is* such a thing as a bad person, if you keep doing bad stuff and enjoyuing it. She thinks of Lamm himsefl, and some of the worst of those who work for him. For her, what she does - did? - is jsut a job, something that pays better than fishing. She's neever takine pleasure in hurting people, it's just something that she's good at. Does that make her a bad person, then? Maybe. Is it too late to change? She hopes not. Still, she's relieived in a way that Rhian gave her that answer. It means that the half-elf hasn't seen teh worst of what the city can offer, and that her clienents are treating her ok.

She turns her atention to cheese and grapes, wolfing them down quickly. Annelise never went hungry as a chiled, but there was always jsut enough poverty aroudn her that measns she never wastes a chance to eat. As she eats, she thinks about the message left by Marcy - and the unspoken one left by Lamm. She's not sure who that one is meant for, whether it's a message to her - I'm so powerful i can use Marcy to run errands for me - or a reminder to Marcy herself - you may be someone but remember I'm more powerful than you. Either way, she dounbts that the halfling was pleased to be used like this. "Eels End, mid past. Righgt. Thanks."

Annelise can see the invitation in Rhian's eyes, to open up a bit more ant tell her what's going on. And she's temtpted, for sure. Not many people in the city she can talk to honestly. Buyt she's immune to the charms Rhian possesses, one of the few in Korvosa who is unaffected by the way those half-elf eyes can melt your heart faster than any puppy ever could. And bseides, now is not the time for a heart to heart. Time's not waiting. She's about to head off when Rhi points out the card. "Thanks." Seems odd for Marcy to be into the Harrow, but stranger things have happened. She pockedts the card, making a mental note to hand it back next time she sees Marcy.

Again with the hestiation. "And - thanks." She surprises them both by giving Rhian a quick peck on the cheek. "Stay safe, Rhi."

======
Kaio
======

You double over, your dinner - thankfully mostly liquid - emptying into the sea, and your head spins, vision blurs, sick racing through your nose...

And yet, there's something else... perfume? It lingers in the air, feminine, definitely not Sammy the Ham's.

Sammy the Ham sniffs, as if he smelled the perfume as well, a brief look of confusion crossing his face, and then he shrugs. "Well, boss doesn't want to see you now. He's got other chum in the water, yeah? And trust me, mate, you don't want to see him tonight. Best you cool your heels belowdecks." Sam's meaty hand lands on your shoulder, and he steers you towards the staircase, not so much a request any more.

The Twin Tigers - the gambling boat moored at Eel's End - was originally an Alkenstarri paddlewheeler. How it got over the Alken Falls and to Korvosa is a matter of great speculation, to Lamm's great bemusement. It is a curious vessel for sure, with an oblong, oval-like main deck, topped with three subsequently shorter layers, each a squat great hall featuring many games of chance, with the highest rollers sitting around a small table in what was once the ship's fourth deck - the pilot house. The "twin tigers" - the ship's two smoke stacks, powered by peat, coal, wood, anything that can be burned really - tower black and dormant above the rest of the vessel. The only other feature of note on the vessel is its great sternwheel, painted bright red. Neither the smokestacks, nor the sternwheel have seen use since the Twin Tigers were mored here two decades previously.

Despite its shallow draft and lack of a keel, giving the boat more a an appearance of a fancy barge than a proper sea-going vessel, the Twin Tigers - as you discover - does actually contain a belowdecks. The space is cramped, with low, five-foot ceilings, necessitating you to stoop, though not as much as Sammy the Ham, who looks practically bent over as he steers you towards a barred door cut into the front of what must have once been the ship's firebox, which the thought occurs to you as you're ushered into it, is hopefully not still used.

"Welcome to your hotel for the night," Sammy says, shutting the makeshift prison door with a clang. Two everburning torches light the fuel room/prison, but inside the firebox cell, shadows stretch into the corners. Movement flutters in one such corner, and a man crawls forwards on his hands and knees, murmuring, "Let me out! Let me out!"

He's stunted and sweating, the kind of lack of hygiene and vacant eyes that denotes a long-time addict. He watches sullen as Sammy disappears abovedecks and turns to you, torchlight glinting off of rotten teeth as he looks at you, wild-eyed.

"Oh, woah is us! WOAH IS US! What brings you here, fellow dreg! Lost one! FORGOTTEN! Did they pull you from the alchemist's den too?"

========
Cathyriel
========

Yarryn's hand tenses - you can feel it, just so slightly - but then he relaxes and lets you lead him out of Old Korvosa. You get the feeling that he must have wandered quite a bit in the general area, perhaps even knocked on some doors of similarly looking decrepit flats before finding yours, and he certainly knows when to surrender to someone better in their... element. There's little in the way of protestation, even when you duck off of main roads and through back alleys, your boots sloshing through chilly puddles, and the small respite of sunshine from the morning gives way to a cold drizzling rain.

Arriving at the Narrows, the network of bridges that twist, like centipede's legs, from Old Korvosa to North Point, Yarryn lingers for a moment, his hand still clasped in yours. "Do I need to worry? About this visit from this fellow? Oh, and he was asking about blue shiver too. Wanted to know if I'd seen any about."

Sighing, Yarryn looks away, across the Narrows, back towards his more respectable life. "Anyways, yeah, dinner. I'd like that. Be safe, Cath."

Your hand lingers in his, while your other hand reaches into your pocket, as if searching for the packet of shiver was there last night. It's gone of course, well and truly through your system at this point, but your hand brushes against something harder than a packet of powder.

Yarryn lets go, and nodding, walks into the drizzle, turning for one last look at you. "Seriously, be safe."

Hallucinations were never a good sign ... A communal one though might be less bad. Or he was about to dance like a witches puppet. Better hope he doesn't get caught in the tangle of strings. "Urk."

"Blerg." he agrees weakly with his captor. It was probably best to just sleep the worst of this off. At least the physical effects ... But who knew? Maybe he'd wake up tomorrow and this would all have been some strange dream. A fool can hope.

Kaio navigates the murky insides of the strange ship as best he can. Never quite gotten why this and not just a warehouse somewhere. Probably some city ordinance or the other? Whatever unstable legal ground this place had he'd trade it for some actual ground right about now. Luckily there weren't much room to stumble anywhere, not in this cramped space nor with this guide.

Any fleeting hope of somewhat good rest is quickly dashed as he is stowed inside the small box of a room. "N-not even a *hurk* single room? I'm complaining to the receptionist first thing tomorrow!" he mutters under his breath, trying to find some relief in humor. That didn't help nearly as much as he hoped. Dejected he slams down at the cleanest spot he can perceive. Hopefully it was just a bit of soot.

"Woe woe. Lost one..." Ooof. That stung. On several levels. With a pained grimace Kaio tried to meet the mans gaze. Easier said then done. Brr. If there ever was a reminder to stay away from shiver. And strange drugs in general, if it could be helped. "Not quite like that..." He forced a smile, only subtly different from the earlier face, and coughs a laugh. "Would you believe me; it's a setup and I'm innocent. H-huh. Life's unfair isn't it..."

========
Darius
========

"Mudak?" Jolus murmurs, giving the kitchen another sweep and then absently tapping an alembic. "You know, I like you, Doof. Since we're family and all. Probably."

"But there's limits to my patience. Even for family."

Jakinda, meanwhile, skirts the corners of the room, her hands tucked in her pockets, and then sits in your chair, palming the card as she sits, and tucking it under her. "We cooked some a few months back, for King's Day," she says, voice monotone, almost bored in inflection.

Grabbing a dreamspider husk, Jolus lifts it to the light, turning it, and then drops it on the ground, grinding it to dust under the heel of his boot. Jolus's demeanor shifts, as if he's done playing with you. "Looking for something more recent. Wouldn't make sense it was you guys anyways, since you can't leave and all. But I gotta check all the boxes and all that. For the boss. And speaking of which, it is your lucky day, cousin. You get to take a walk today. Boss wants to see you at mid-past. Not a second later. So I'll leave your door open and lock you and your assistant back in tomorrow. Anyways, I gotta go - gotta round up someone wasn't at their flat this morning." Annoyance creeps into Jolus's voice.

Turning, your tormenter leaves the kitchen, words trailing behind him. "Enjoy your freedom. May be the last time for a while, yeah?"

Sighing, Jakinda pulls the card from under her bum and hands it to you. "Just leaving stuff from your walkabouts around now? Stupid, Darius, stupid..."

Just beyond the kitchen, the once-bakery's main room sits bathed in light, Jolus having left the front door wide-open, as if to taunt you with the idea of a life you couldn't have. Or so your tormentor thought...

========
Lorik
========

True to your intuition, a few minutes after you arrive at your post, Jolus ambles up, flanked by a couple of Lamm's toughs. Jolus "Dreamweaver" Radulescu, always dressed like a preppy Korvosa University student, slightly chubby and cherubic in features, was a curious choice to head up Lamm's cooking operation. Of course, his demeanor was different, once you knew him. So devoid of empathy that some of Lamm's hangers-on even whispered he must have been the Key Lock Killer, he was someone you didn't want to annoy, and maybe that was enough for Lamm to put Jolus in the position he was, overseeing the crimelord's cooks. It must have been pretty easy to keep them in line. And right now, Jolus looks pretty godsdammned annoyed.

A light rain has just started falling, chilling this time of year once it seeps through your clothes, and Jolus looks more... ruffled than usual, as if he's been on the go for most of the day.

"Jaw." He says, with a slight nod of his head. "Weren't at your flat this morning. Been here all day?"

Jolus's eyes sweep the Old Dock, his gaze settling on a pelican sitting atop a moor-post nearby. Radulescu's hands squeeze just so slightly at his side, as if he's imagining strangling the bird.

"Anyways, you're the last person I gotta round up, and good for you you're here. Boss wants to see you this afternoon, at mid-past. Don't be late."

Turning, Jolus shuffles off, flanked by his toughs, into the drizzle.

You look out across the Old Docks. This time of day, they're mostly empty; a few fishermen arriving from their morning catch offloading their wares before they head out for the afternoon. In a normal year, during normal times, the dock would be busier, with merchants from near and far offloading their goods. The winter has been tough, what with the giant raids to the west coming to the farms nearby, Bloodsworn Vale's closure, even rumors of discontent in the Old Empire... Dockworkers sit idle, idle men with idle hands, their discontent palpable as if blowing on the wind off the Jeggare River.

Blue shiver? Why the **** would Jolus be asking about that?

Even the mention of the drug is a strong trigger: Cathy's hand is inside her pocket before she even realises what she's doing. Nothing there of course, except - whaddya know - there is, somehow?

She gives Yarryn a weak smile as he talks about being safe. "You keep using that word. I dunt think it means what you think it means." Her conflicting emotions as she watches him walk away have her hopping from one foot to the other, until - almost in spite of herself - she breaks into a skipping half-run and catches up with him, wriggling one arm round his waist and drawing him into a fierce hug, her other hand around the back of his neck as she tiptoes up (he's not especially tall, but Cathy is shorter than most) to give him a long, lingering kiss. "Thanks. For coming to find me. Specially after how - how we left things." She steps away hurriedly, acutely aware of how she looks - and smells.

"Anyway, tonight. We'll talk. About... you know, things. And ... stuff. Gotta go."

With that, she's away. It's not until she's round the corner and alone that she pulls out the card. She frowns as the voice sounds in her head: she's been clean for - what - six hours now, easy. Maybe even eight. That means the voice is real, probably. She has to get real high these days to start hearing voices. She inspects the card critically, doing her best to examine it for occult power the way Yarryn showed her, before tucking the card inside her clothes.

Spellcraft, detect magic on the card: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (10) + 6 = 16

Even as she makes her way to the meeting, her mind is running over the implications. There's another player in the game, looks like. One with some power, too. Or a death wish, if they're gonna go up against Lamm. As if her life wasn't complicated enough already. Also...

"Bring you some 'jewel of great price,' huh? Yeah, don't fink so, lady." She mutters the thought out loud. Cathy can think of other uses for any loot that finds its way into her hands.

========
Annalise
========

Your sister sniffs, a slight frown crossing her face and her eyes glassy, and lifts a bit of cheese to her nose before taking a tentative nibble. As you leave, that moment's hesitance seems to be gone, and she waves, smiling cheerfully as you duck out into a cold early afternoon drizzle.

"Bye sis! Be saaaaaaaaaaaffe!"

======
Kaio
======

"No, no, life isn't fair at all, lost one!" the man whisper-hisses, scratching his throat as he speaks to you. "I was just dreamwaking in a flophouse in West Dock when these goons - GOONS! - grabbed me and drug me here. Left for gods knows how long..."

The man loses focus and stares past you into the dark, as if somewhere else. "Start asking about blue shiver, do I know where to get it? Like, bad way to get woke, man."

"Starting to shake, man. You got any shiver?"

======
Cathyriel
======

Lorick categorized the people who worked with Lamm into two groups. Those who were forced to work for him and those who wanted to. Jolus fell very much into the second, and more dangerous, group.

He doesn't respond to Jolus's offhand question, not that Jolus expected an underling tough like Lorick to do so anyway and just stares at him until he leaves. Once he's gone Lorick heads towards the meeting place. No reason to delay.

Kaio settles in as best as he can. "No friend, I ain't got shit." Didn't even know shiver came in multiple colours. Or that anyone would care. Grades? Maybe. Still, seemed like an odd thing to ask a junkie. And not something he had wits to think about right now.

Moment after Jolus had left the room, Darius sighs heavily. He hadn't realised he had been holding his breath for some time now. But the situation is over, for now. No beatings today, it seems.

"You don't have to tell that idiot anything, you know." He turns to Jakinda, slightly disapproving look on his face. "Besides, I don't think it was our blue he was talking about (whatever that was about). So, we're clear. And, good thinking with that Harrow card..."

Darius reaches out to accept the mysterious card. "...only now it smells like your bum." But as soon as his hand touches the card, he finds out it certainly doesn't smell like Jakinda's bum. So startled by the sudden scent and the voice, he almost drops the card. He looks at the girl, but she doesn't look like she heard the voice - no way with that bored look.

"Hrm..." is all he manages to say, and he pockets the card for future reference.

Time to move out. He grabs his coat from the rack on the wall. Greatcoat of burgundy leather, long and flowing. It's his favorite. And to be honest, his only. Makes him feel like one of those wizards in their robes, except better match for the looks one wears in the dark alleys of Korvosa. Also, it has plenty of pockets to hide things in.

He walks by the bookshelf, picks a small, nondescript book right next to Dreamspiders: An Ecology. His spellbook. While he is a firm believer of hiding things in plain sight, this was a close one today. He shakes his head, stuffs the book into a hidden pocket inside his coat, and heads for the door.

Annelise frowns for a moment - making teh exact same expression as her half-sister, ahtough she doesn't realise it - as the voice sounds in her head, before she pockets the card and gets on her way.

13 GOZRAN 4715 A.R., mid-past

=========
EVERYONE
(yes, finally!)
=========

Kaio is freed from his makeshift cell and everyone else, traveling individually, arrive at last at Eel's End, a little before mid-past (you are certain to arrive early; it is unhealthy to keep Gaedran Lamm waiting).

Even in the drizzle of this gloomy afternoon, a sprawl of light and sound marks the first (or last, depending on your orientation) pier of Old Korvosa. Hooded, glowing lanterns in the shape of dream spiders hang from pilings or lampposts, flickering through all hours of the day and the night. Eel’s End never truly sleeps, and though things are quieter in the day, Lamm's demesne is always raucous.

Eel’s End is open and welcoming of nearly everyone - only those who are obviously affiliated with the Korvosan Guard, the Order of the Nail, or the Sable Company aren’t welcome. Since Lamm pays his vice taxes and self-polices Eel’s End well enough that trouble here never impacts the city beyond, the guards rarely have any cause to visit.

Besides, you're known here, and expected: nobody gives you any trouble.

The pier at Eel's End is 100 feet long, although its last 30 feet widen into a large square platform on the water. Five ships are moored to the pier. The largest of these is the Eel’s End, a warship that serves as the stronghold of Gaedran Lamm and the administrative center of his entire operation. Each of the other four barges are owned by peddlers of vice, and they pay regular rent for the honor of attaching to Eel’s End. Nearly twenty years ago, the owner of the Darkhouse refused to pay his dues in a dispute. That ship was cut loose in the middle of the night, aflame and infested with deadly spiders, and sank within minutes, its owner and his family rumored to have gone to the depths with his ship.

The Goldenhawk (a single-masted Chelish sailing ship) is of little interest: it's where those whose endurance has been taxed by the wild cavorts of Eel’s End’s various delights can retreat to sleep it off. Not comfortable, but Lamm's presence ensures that nights spent here are relatively safe.

The Twin Tigers is an Alkenstarri sternwheeler gambling den; even at this hour, the raucous sound of laughter and periodic roars of victory can be heard tumbling from its stacked decks. [/i]

The House of Clouds is a single-masted long, elegant whore-ship, whose interior structure sits open to reveal a large room decorated with throw rugs, large pillows, and air thick with incense and lit by red paper lanterns. The scent of anise, rosewater, and cinnamon pour forth from smoking bronze braziers set on silver stands carved in the likenesses of slit-eyed serpents and proud hunting birds. Several scantily-clad men and women loiter on deck.

The Dragon's Breath is a once-proud Tian trading vessel, now painted in gaudy red. A sign at the aft entrance reads simply, “Pass Into the Dreams of the Dragon.” Thick, pungent smoke assails the nose from belowdecks, the open interior of which is partitioned with silken curtains and filled with large beds and couches. Glossy-eyed patrons loll about and mewl, their minds burning with shiver, pesh, qat, flayleaf, and other exotic drugs. Cathyriel, of course, is quite familiar with the ship's comfortable accoutrements.

Making your way to Lamm's ship, you are met by a large, surprisingly polite Varisian man; a man with scarred fists and one cauliflower ear -- Sammy the Ham, one of Lamm's fists.

Sammy ignores any attempts at conversation, shrugging his broad shoulders. "Sorry. Lamm told me to be seen and not heard. Follow me." He leads you below decks, to the lower levels of the ship and to a bare, wooden room perhaps 15 feet across. A lantern burns fitfully on a stand; there is no other furniture. Sammy shrugs again. "Stay 'ere." It appears you are to wait until Lamm is ready to see you.

Others arrive, until there are five of you all waiting in the room. You look around closely. Are they potential rivals? Or are these the 'new friends' that your mysterious voice told you about?

And so, you wait. Time passes, slowly.

Annelise is known to be reliable and profsessional, so it's no surprise that she is one of the first to get there, walking brskly from her home to Eel's End - a place she is not comforble, but you go where the work is. And recently, most if not all her work comes from Lamm. Her nose wrinkels as she steps around teh clouds of gods knows what that belch out of the Dragon's Breath. She doen't have time for drugs - you need a clear head in this business, or you'll end up deadd. Her stepfather taught her that, although not intentionally.

She nods at Sammy, but shrugs when he brushes off her questions. "Fair dos." She stays silent as he directs her to the waiting room, after a quick look around she finds a spot that lets her see the door and gives her a good view of whoever else comes in. Her armouered coat is unbuttoned and sits loose on her broad shoulders, the same way that her fair hair falls loose and untied. Her heritage is that peculiar misxture that you find only in Korvosa - part Chel, part Varisian, part Taldan, all unremakrable apart from her piercing green eyes. The only other thing of note is the scarf wrapped tightly around her throat, regardless of the weather. The spiked chain that hangs from her belt is as still as she is - no fidgeting, as motionless as a coiled spring - as she waits to see what happens next, and to who.

Yes, at least outwardly she is calm. Inwardly, she is still replaiying the rather odd conversation with her sister. Am I a bad person?! What made me ask that? Good people pray to the gods that they never end up in this place.

"Right. Hurry up and wait, eh? Typical..."
Despite Darius' muttering, there comes no further response from Sammy. Well, as Lamm's muscle go, this one seems quite polite one. Quite the opposite to Jolus, really.

Since they're waiting, better expect to wait for a long time. And no chairs, no benches. Lovely. The varisian leans back against the wall, trying to lodge himself comfortably as he can. Only then, he takes a look at the others.

"So... who's you lot then? Figure out why we here? I reckon either we're getting promoted, or getting our hands cut off or something. Somehow I doubt Mr. L will be asking our opinions how to run his business, right?"

Kaio gives his large friend of few words a small nod as he enters the room. Careful? He was always careful! He suppresses a pained grin. Maybe not yesterday though. Right. Better get back into that habit. Inside the sparse room he casually appraises his new 'friends' - best not to put too much stock in magical messages just yet - as they no doubt do the same.

He is a well kept chel extruding confidence and a bit of smugness, the effect is tarnished by wrinkled and mildly washed-out clothes and bleary eyes. Surely a night of good rest would do him well. Finding little else to occupy his hands, he plays with a short wand of some sort dancing it over his fingers.

But perhaps it was time for actual introductions. "Kaio. Kaio Felix." he flashes a smile. "And I'm betting Lamm wants something. Let's hope it's not our limbs friend." A fair bet. If it was just collection/extortion, he'd lose anyway. Better play for the outs.

Lorick nods at Annelise and Cathyriel, who he's worked with before and just stares at the two others. He's large and scarred with a stern gaze and an expression that says nothing else than "Don't mess with me."

Usually, Lamm likes making an example of a person solo, not as a group. He offers though.

Cathy blinks owlishly at Lorick and Annelise, whom she recognises, and at the two others, whom she doesn't. Although (as per her system) this is one of her sobriety days, she stopped off on the way here to pick up a little something to take the edge off her nerves; just a little micro-dose, you understand, something to calm the anxiety verging on terror that Lamm always induces in her.

As the others speak, she shuffles idly from foot to foot before giving her opinion. "Nah. The people Lamm makes an example of don't get summoned like we did, they get dragged in kicking and screaming. Whatever he wants us for, I dunt reckon it's that." She wraps her arms round her thin frame, as if trying to keep warm. "Doesn't mean that what he wants us for is nice, though. He dunt do nice."

TOILDAY, 13 GOZRAN 4715 A.R.

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EVERYONE
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The wait is interminable, seemingly at least an hour, the five of you left standing in this small, dim, wood-paneled waiting room. Eventually, the door deeper into The Eel's End swings open with a soft creak, and Sammy the Hamm stands hulking in the frame. The giant of a man steps aside and waves his arm, a gesture: come in. No one bothers to search you for weapons, but then most of you are familiar enough with Lamm to expect this; the crimelord famously never bothers to have guests searched. The implication being that others should fear him, and likewise, that he has nothing to fear.

The main hold of the ship is one large chamber, cluttered with tables and benches. Crates and cabinets clutter the walls of the hold, as if they are there to crowd the seating closer; the whole environment is crowded; the room smells of smoke, liquor, perspiration. Normally there are raucous 'games' being put on for Lamm's entertainment, cruel games like 'knivesies'; one part of the floor is cut away, with a pair of manacles suspended from the ceiling via a winch.

Now, all is silent: the assorted minions perch on benches, watching as you are led in before your 'host'. The one that runs Lamm's cooking operation, Jolus "Dreamweaver" Radulescu, stands besides Lamm, bored eyes passing over you, his expression not changing. The lumbering Sammy takes stands behind you, his presence unseen but definitely felt, crowding like the cabinets along the walls.

Gaedren Lamm, cruel, callous predator, pox on Korvosa’s forgotten children, drug dealer, murderer, extortionist and all-around despicable wretch, is seated on a raised chair built into the bow of the ship. The self-styled 'King of Spiders' is a lean, sixty year-old Chel with close-cropped iron-grey hair and blue eyes. He's kept good care of himself over the years (magically enhanced care, the gossips whisper); he moves with the alacrity of a man half his age, and his mind is still keen. His black chain armor is accented with a steel spider-shaped shoulder baldric and his weapon of choice, a thick spiked chain criss-crossing his chest, links together as if a web. Its blades glisten with poison, poison which never seems to bother the crimelord, no matter how much seeps onto his skin - and the chain is always seeping. Now and then, spiders clamber over Lamm's skin, but he takes no notice. Gossips say that Lamm has the blood of fiends in him, and that he can communicate with spiders telepathically.

Well-schooled in the credo, “secrets can kill,” Lamm earned his 'King of Spiders' moniker by collecting the secrets of many powerful personages throughout Korvosa and bending them to his influence. Another key to his success lies in the regular shipments of shiver he supplies, the funds from which ensure that his vice taxes are always paid on time (and more secrets are gathered). Now a presence in Korvosa's underworld for over 30 years, Gaedran Lamm is living proof that, sometimes, crime does pay.

Jaw, Ham, Dreamweaver, Grease-fingered, criminals are free with nicknames, any reason or occasion to earn someone a new moniker. Criminals are free with nicknames, that is, except for Gaedran Lamm. Lamm has only one nickname, the same one, for every soul bound in servitude to him, willingly or not.

He smiles at you, a smile that stretches across his face as if he were a doll, or a statue; devoid of genuine humanity. "Well, look what we have here. A flock of Little Lambs, answering their shephard's call" His voice is soft, like a growl: Lamm famously never shouts, and rarely raises his voice. He doesn't have to.

There is no sound in the ship's hold; one could hear a packet of shiver fall from an addict's hand. Lamm's attention is on you, and no one dares interrupt his gaze.

Gaedren Lamm pauses, looking intently at each one of you, before continuing. "As it happens, I'm not happy. Now, which of you miserable, worthless bits of cat-skat is going to ask me why I'm not happy?"

"All right then, o' mighty leader. Why are you not happy?"

Of course, in this situation there could be wisdom in staying silent. But Darius loud mouth has earned him quite a few beatings already, so what is one more to that score. Although, somewhere underneath his bravado, even Darius has to admit Lamm's gaze is pretty unnerving.

Kaio shifts from feet to feet, too much a fan of his kneecaps to drip acidic comments. Luckily one of his companions didn't have such feelings and he felt smug by proxy. He was a bit curious what the 'shepherd' wanted; let's hope it's not chops.

Cathyriel is miserably aware that she lacks the willpower to stand up to Gaedren Lamm; she seems to shrivel and wilt under his gaze, imperceptibly shuffling towards the back of their little group. When Darius speaks up, she gives him a look: part horrified incredulity in case Lamm takes offence at the rest of them by proxy; and part envy that anyone would have the guts to speak to the crime boss with such insolence.

She tenses up, ready to flee at the first sign that Lamm decides to hang those guts from the rafters as a warning to everyone else.

Lamm was going to go whatever he had planned no matter what the group did , they just had to get through the theatrics. Lorick plays his part as the meathead and stays silent... a lot like Sam the Ham really.

The room was already quiet as an empty confessional; now, you swear you can hear your own heartbeats in your ears, so silent are things, the assorted onlookers in the room ceasing even to fidget.

Lamm, for his part, seems nonplussed; the crimelord holds Darius's gaze for what seems an eternity, the smile on his face slowly vanishing. "Darius Radulescu... your cousin tells me you're more trouble than your skill as a cook is worth. And you are a gifted cook. Which is why, precisely, my Lamb, you may get a reprieve tonight."

Sitting back in his chair, Lamm surveys the lot of you.

"Cathyriel, your skills at opening locks may be needed. Lorick, Annalise, you are, quite obviously, my hammers. Don't be afraid to hit any nails in your way."

Cocking his head, Lamm looks Kaio up and down. "Kaio Felix, my newest Lamb... I understand you're a keen judge of cards - and character. If someone needs to be talked to, you may speak - glowingly of course - on my behalf."

"And you," Lamm says, raising a crooked finger and pointing at Darius, "I haven't decided if you'll see the morning yet. Sit tight and stew."

"Someone is stealing my property. My addicts. A cook from Absalom has set up shop, not too far from my Fishbowl. He's at an abandoned in fishery in West Dock. Thinks if he stays out of Old Korvosa I won't notice. But he doesn't know me, does he, my Lambs?"

"He's making blue shiver, iridescent like the back of a moth's wing."

Gaedran Lamm turns his attention to Cathyriel, his gaze intent, focused, like the drip of an alembec. "And the addicts are noticing. So, when their operation opens up for business at 7 o clock tonight, you're going to waltz in and shut him down. Don't care how. Open him up if you have to. And his cronies. But." He waves a finger at you all. "Those addicts there are my property. I won't have them harmed, understand? Bad for business if you hurt your customers."

"Oh yeah. One more thing. The drugs he's put together. Dump 'em in the river. Destroy his lab. Don't want anyone getting their hands on his stuff and getting ideas. Except..."

Staring again at Darius, Lamm considers you again, as if an idea has just come to him. "You, Darius Radulescu, will take a sample, and figure out what gives it its color. And if you don't..."

Lamm again jabs a crooked finger, this time at Darius's crotch. "I'll have you opened from stem to sternum."

Lamm sighs with satisfaction at the prospect of violence well done. Who he's envisioning violence being done to - Darius or the unnamed alchemist - is not clear. "Any questions?"

Darius has been beat up too many times to be disheartened of this new set of threats. If anything, these orders sound like exciting change of scenery to his normal life at the lab.

"Right. Hurt Absalom cook, not customers. Do we know how many cronies he has?"

Plus, best catch this guy alive, and persuade him to spill out the secrets of the blue color. Might be easier than to study the sample, with the shoddy equipment of the lab. But that doesn't need to be mentioned to Lamm. Not now.

Hmm. Didn't sound like Lamm was interested in negotiating his debt right this moment. Not in this mood. But perhaps the secrets of "blue" shivver would improve that. Mildly. But moving out of the 'disembowel' category should probably be their first priority.

There were something else gnawing on his thoughts though. One of those questions that might be better unasked; but if his hunch was right, it could just save them some trouble.

"Why us?" Lamm had more then enough talent to drag 'one little alchemist' over here if he wanted. "Anyone of note looking out for him? Or trying to beat us there?"

Maybe it was just a silly game - or a test. But if there were anyone out there sharpening their knives over this knowing about it couldn't hurt.

Taking out a drug pusher, even if it was to protect Lamm's turf, was still a damned sight better than breaking the fingers of terrified shopkeeps... less on his already burdened conscience.

Lorick nods,but waits for his more foolhardy companions to stop asking questions so they could go. Silence was a kind of armor and the two men seemed to have no idea of the fact.

Lamm turns and gestures to Jolus, who looks over Darius with a cool, placid stare before answering. "Couple of Bonekrack Brothers have been working the door. Addict we grabbed says there's a large room that they let the users hang out in. Stairs down below from there, don't know what lies beneath." Jolus shrugs. "Probably a kitchen, yeah? There's also a derelict ship out back, probably hasn't moved from its mooring in a decade."

Lamm, sits forward, interest obviously piqued by Kaio's question, and returns with one of his own. "Why you? Why not? You're mine, Kaio Felix, and this is what I want. Simple as that."

"As to your second question... if there is anyone trying to beat you there, deal with them too. My expectation is that you don't fail."

Sitting back, Gaedran Lamm waves his hand the crowd stirs, as if anticipating the meeting is over. "Any other questions? If not, get on with your day. Other things need my attention."

Knowledge (local): 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (9) + 9 = 18

"Merdu..." Darius curses, voice barely above whisper. "Bonekrack Brothers... we'll need to tread lightly with that lot. Don't want half the city's half-orcs after me."

But that's it for questions. And for once Darius decides to keep his mouth shut.

Cathy does her best to suppress a shudder as Lamm looks directly at her, even if his words are in praise of her skills she'd prefer he forget about her existence. She can't hold that gaze for long and looks away as soon as she can.

She doesn't know anything about the Bonecrack gang but trusts Darius' information to be accurate. "Keep kills to a minimum, sounds like, yeah?" That works for her. She's drawn a blade in her time, of course, but self-defence only (sometimes, admittedly, for a robust definition of "self-defence"). She's a sneak, rather than a killer, both by profession and by preference.

good to go!