Clockwork Abattoir: Sordid Tales

[Steerpike]

[ic]Catena drums her fingers on the stained teak bar.

"A glass of marrow-wine, if you have it," Catena requests. "Whatever's cheap if you don't." She glances about, looking for Orchid-Eaters, particularly around the stairwell. "What's upstairs?" she asks as wthe bartender prepares her drink.[/ic]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Catena]The barkeep's eyes crease momentarily at the mention of the ghul- and lilix-favored liquor. "Fresh out," she breathes unconvincingly. She pours Catena a cup instead from a molasses-stained bottle, then drops in a dark berry from a nearby vine. "Ranckle-rum," she says, "Honest, unwormy, and only two crowns a bottle."

When asked about the upstairs, the masked barkeep chuckles, causing her twin respirators to wheeze fitfully. "What do you want to be upstairs?" she asks lewdly while waving to the pornographic wood-cuts.  

Before Catena can reply, a movement to her left catches her attention. A tattooed man steps from the tea-lit shadows and inserts a crimpled note in the eye-socket of the dead gearborg. Noting Catena's scrutiny, the man scowls, flips up the collar of his canvas-coat, and slinks out the Stallion's entrance.  

Yet, Catena's attention is swiftly stolen by the sound of hollering to her right:

"Breech-raped thrice-bastard of Draukyr's ingrown toenail!"

The voice belongs to a towering, heavy-gutted man who lumbers down a nearby staircase. A pair of slatterns saunters underneath each of his meaty arms, occasionally supporting him as he half-stumbles down the stairs. The man's forearms are elaborately tattooed with fish-headed rose-stems. He wears a patchwork vest that miserably fails to cover his bloated, port-wine stained belly. His silk-striped pantaloons are half-buckled and slung with a holstered dragoon and a boilshark-toothed dirk. A seaman's cap sits haphazardly over his olive-skinned, multi-chinned face. Hexed buttons are sewn into his eyeless sockets.

Those shellaced buttons stare at Catena with brow-contorted rage.

"Ye got some gribble-sucked powder showin' yer muzzle-faced arse round here! That, or yer a briny fish-sucker."

"Either way-" he says pushing past his whores to stand face-to-face with Catena, "-yer good as crab-eaten 'less ye get down right 'ere and now and lick me cannonballs like the hagfaced starfish ye are!"

To accentuate his point, he knocks the woman's cup from her hand with a swipe of his ham-sized fist. The glass shatters splendidly against the crude woodcuts. Fast as a barracuda, his other hand draws his dragoon –a thick-flared matchlock coated in nacre- and sticks it between Catena's breasts.

"Yer move, ye snot-tail ruttin' lily."[/ic]

[ooc]His name is Titus Chum (short for Chumluck). He was the first-mate on the ship that took Catena from Somnambulon to Skein. Unbeknownst to his captain, Titus was a Lophius-born smuggler. Catena may or may not have stolen his stash of counterfeit pence-plates from Crepuscle, but Titus certainly thinks she did.[/ooc]

[False Epiphany]

[ic]Alisandre silently considers the darkness-shrouded figure. Father trusts her with his children. His family's future. He gave up his finger...

"The tale is a long one, my governess," she replies. "I shall trust that Xedric's state is being seen to."

Calmly, Alisandre begins to speak. She risks a gambit--a considerable gambit--and relates almost everything. Drugging Xedric. Following him. The Chrysanth Ring's ritual combat. Saving his life. Torturing him. His confessions--the nature of the Ring, engineering her downfall, poisoning their father's wife. Saving his life a second time. Bringing him here.

Yet beneath her own lengthy confessions, hidden amidst the many truths, Alisandre neglects to relay a single one. She mentions nothing of Alphosine's involvement. Yes, she accompanied her sister to eavesdrop on Xedric, but it was her own hand that placed the madwine in his drink, and her own hand that tortured him for his secrets.

"I have no proof that Xedric orchestrated my downfall save his word, and no proof of that save my own," Alisandre concludes. "I do not expect anyone to believe me on the basis of such third-hand hearsay. If father examines my stepmother's wine-glasses, however, I am sure their evidence will tell a more compelling story. Xedric is guilty of a great crime against our father, and it is through my doing this is known."

"If I wished it, I could have kept this to myself. Delivered Xedric to a chirurgeon. Blackmailed him for my own benefit."

"If I wished it, I could have simply killed him. It would have been effortlessly simple to dispose of the corpse. The Eastern Cemetary is, after all, full of them."

"I have done neither of these things. There was nothing that compelled me to return here save my own free will. You and my father can level whatever punishment for my actions you see fit. But know it was by my hand that Xedric's treachery was discovered--and by my hand that Xedric was delivered here, alive, to face our father's judgment."

Alisandre regards Madame Fontanelle evenly, her tone unafraid.

"If, however, my bones are to join your collection, then get on with it. The family crypts would have been my first preference, but you will be a fitting place for them to lie as well."[/ic]

[ooc]To clarify my meta-strategy here: Alisandre is basically taking the fall for Alphosine. She knows she isn't a very good liar, so rather than rely on her own glibness of tongue (or lack thereof), she hopes that by spilling such a massive amount of incriminating information about herself, Madame Fontanelle will miss the omission-needle amidst the truth-haystack. (Ie, hoping to rely on a circumstance bonus rather than my own dice luck.)

At the same time, Alisandre hopes to use Xedric's poisoning to make herself look better. I'd planned to use that as blackmail material she'd never actually go to Caraumonde over (since Alisandre doesn't want another sibling either), but given present circumstances, she'll play that card early in order to respin her actions from "I kidnapped and tortured my brother" to "I kidnapped and tortured my brother, yeah, but look at the service I've just done for the family."

Spending 1 grit on each roll, and including my Morbid flaw. Obviously, big gamble here on many levels.

Diplomacy:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6-1 : 5 - 1, total 4[/blockquote]

Deception:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6-1 : 5 - 1, total 4[/blockquote]

Might 2/8 (0), Agility 4/11 (1), Intellect 5/17 (1)

Also, this takes me back! Remember Ashir's similar confession to Taba'at about how events turned out as they did, replete with its own Diplomacy check? We'll see what body parts this PC loses in lieu of testicles.[/ooc]

[Rhamnousia]

[ooc]
Agility Defense roll:
This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 1d6 : 2, total 2

Spending 1 Grit to reduce the DC of the balance check.

Agility check to maintain her balance:
[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 1, total 1[/blockquote]
[/ooc]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Decarabia]As Decarabia attempts to take off with her still-clutched quarry, a Watchman fires. Instinctively, the others follow suite. The lethal volley traces the spotlight's beam. Decarabia tries to dodge the barrage, dancing and weaving like a spider on a hot tin plate. Her coat catches the worst of the spark-spitting ricochet and shrapnel. One bullet passes 'harmlessly' through her bloodless innards.

The Papillion, meanwhile, impotently thrashes and screams in Decarabia's grip. Flack slices the woman's face.  She jerks reflexively –and the shift in her weight, coupled with Decarabia's acrobatics, causes the shade to lose her footing.

Both plummet over the edge, away from the limelight and bullet-fire... and to cold ground below. In the split-seconds before they crash into the cobblestone, Decarabia unconsciously twists to cushion her fall using her only means at hand: the Midnight Papillion.

Her last scream reeks of lethe-tea. Its sound is cut brutally short by the crack of her skull on the pavement. Its scent is rapidly drowned in the odor of pooling blood and splattered brain.

Limbs splayed like a broken doll, the Midnight Papillion stares at Decarabia with lifeless eyes. Her countenance is frozen in shock and fear. The faux-mustache dangles ridiculously from her still-warm lip.

Already dead, Decarabia fares infinitely better. A rib sticks dumbly from her necrotic side. Something sloshes in her gut –a ruptured spleen perhaps? Such wounds, though, cause little hindrance to the shade's cadaverous host or her own alien mind.

Decarabia, however, has little time to contemplate the fortitude of her parasitic existence.

Behind her, the Watchmen rush to capture her. They shout at her to halt, reloading mid-run or brandishing moonlit spearswords. The automaton follows, slavishly obeying its punch-card instructions. It levels its rotary cannon in Decarabia's direction. Electricity crawls over its vise-tipped appendage.[/ic]

[ooc]You take 10 damage total from the bullet and fall. 'Nicodemius' is glaringly dead. With the guards closing in on you, two immediate (but not exhaustive) options present themselves: fight or flight.

If you choose the former, DC is 2 to hit, DC 4 to dodge the Watchmen. DC 5 for both rolls vs the construct.

If you choose the latter, make three run checks (you have expertise) and a DC 3 and 4 Agility defense roll.

Also, with a DC 2 Perception check (which you can make reflexively regardless of your above choice), you note the following:

[spoiler]Inside the Papillion's swiftly-staining frock-coat, there are several sealed, now-blood-splattered letters and a dog-eared journal bound in fish-leather.[/spoiler]

[/ooc]

[TheMeanestGuest]

[ic]Hadric stretches his mouth open wide, his jaw unhinging to swallow the air. He takes a great breath, his chest expanding grotesquely; he exhales with the force of a gale into the sails, powering the craft forward - charting a new course for the wayward dreamship. The fog begins to clear, and off the starboard bow a forest of crimson sails appears on the horizon. In a flash Hadric drops from the rigging to the deck of the ship, alarm writ plain across his features. "Admiral!" he calls to the dreamer "We have enemy ships in sector fourty-seven!"

"It's a trap!" the peacock-hat squawks as the literary hodge-podge that constitutes the crew rushes to the gunwales carrying outsized knives and forks. Hadric advances to stand at the dreamer's shoulder, gesturing out to sea with an octopus.

"Keep your wits about you sir; I know that sigil. The Dread Moustache. It's master is a villain of the vilest sort, and foe to book and beast alike. Ride these waves well, or Snibs will see us all rotting in Davey Jones locker." Hadric says as the fleet draws near.[/ic]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Hadric]The mere mention of the Moustache's name causes the epistolary golems to flutter with fear. They tear out their pages and smudge their ink with despair-penned cries.

"Snibs! Snibs!" the crew scribble into their parchment and paper hides. "Terror of the 616 Winds! Dread-Commodore of the Hirsute Philtrum! Nary a lip has escaped his waxen wrath!"

The eye-shut captain, meanwhile, nods to Hadric, then mumbles new orders to his well-plummed hat. The avian-turban plucks a feather from its rump, then relays the captain's commands with its makeshift quill, literally rewriting over the panic-struck crew with a penmanship that compels as well as calms.

The bibliomentals instantly spring into unified action. A stratagem begins to unfold, bold and daring.[/ic]

[ooc]Make an Intellect check (DC 2 for you) to help win the 'naval battle'.[/ooc]

 

[Steerpike]

[ic]Catena wastes no time. Seizing her glass of rankle-rum she hurls the concotion into Titus' eyes, hoping that in the confusion she can grab the pistol.[/ic]

[ooc]Not sure what sort of roll this is - Agility?

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 5, total 5[/blockquote][/ooc]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Catena]Titus' hands may be fast, but Catena's prove swifter. The rum splashes into the man's button-grafted 'eyes'.

As the liquor harmlessly runs down his lidless gaze, Titus barks out a phlegmy laugh:

"Baastan's left pincer! Ye spit grog in me eye-holes?!! Thoggu's slimy muzzle, yer chunder-brained. What did ye 'pect me to..."

Titus' tirade halts as he finally recognizes that Catena has used the distraction -in large part provided by his own bluster- to disarm him and flip the flanged barrel to now point against his prodigious gut.

He chortles, causing his bloated belly and manifold chins to heartily shudder.

"Har-har-ah... Eelish trick. Course, me pistol ain't loaded... so yer still a sharkshat gribble-fish."

Titus stares hard with his black-lacquered gaze.

In the dim tea-light, the Stallion's patrons watch the confrontation with a mixture of bored amusement and murderous preparedness. Pistols and cutlasses are fingered defensively. The masked barkeep remains still, save for the mechanical gasp of her respirator. The red-eyed corsair continues to blow piquant smoke into the already hazy air.

The tension –however- is cut by the sound of fighting outside, rather than inside. There is a sudden cry from the thugs guarding the door, the firing of waxwood bullets, and the sharp crack of batons against bones.

A trio of flash grenades burst into the room, blinding most of the establishment. In their wake, a platoon of Watchmen with black-visors storm the bar, carbines readied. Within a heartbeat, they secure the room, shouting at the disoriented patrons to lay down their hands and heads on nearby tables. Most submit. A few, too proud or drugged to comprehend the situation, resist.  They are uniformly beaten unconscious with the butt of the gendarmie's rifles. The barkeep loudly protests the intrusion and is unceremoniously silenced with a volley of waxwood bullets. The blow causes her to fly back into her rack of liquors, shattering bottles and leaving her dazed and mechanically gasping in pain.

Immune to the grenade's flash, Titus remains standing. His button-stitched visage only slightly deviates from Catena's face. "Friends of yer's?" he whispers.

Meanwhile, a Watchman shouts, "All clear!"

A slender man walks into the room, his brightly polished boots sharply clacking on the wooden floor.  His ribboned epaulettes mark him as an officer, though his breastplate and waxsuit uniform also bear a strange insignia resembling a human being sheared of tentacles. Unlike the other gendarmes who wear black-visors and conical hats of reinforced copper, the man's head is crowned by a pointed hat of red-dyed silk. A pair of hexed glasses conceals his eyes, while a knife-thin mustache adorns his upper lip.

"Thank you, Sergeant," the officer replies with an air of well-oiled authority and disingenuous gratitude.

He confidently strides up to the gearborg skeleton and retrieves the recently stowed note from the dead man's eye-socket. He swiftly reads it. Flashing a predatory smile, he speaks with unbridled triumph:

"The half-woman is here. Third floor, second to last door on the right."

"Bring her to me."

"Now."
[/ic]

[ooc]There are at least a dozen Watchmen inside. Only two are nearby the bar (the two who shot the barkeep) as the rest are guarding the officer, the door, and the other tables. You automatically succeed on your defense roll vs being blinded, by virtue of your innate toughness/reflexes and by dint of you looking at Titus and thus away from the blast (and for being farther away).[/ooc]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Alisandre]Madame Fontanelle listens to Alisandre's confession with breathless silence. Once the ex-magistra finishes her tale, the bricoleur noisily inflates her purloined lungs, then replies:

"Xedric is not mine. I did not sculpt his cartilage as he slept in his crib, nor did I croon lullabies to his infantile marrow as he learned to walk. I did not massage his newborn mandible nor shape his tender milk teeth as he learned to speak."

She pauses. A delicate rattle of tiny bones breaks the otherwise breathless silence.

"Whether he lives or dies is not my concern. What concerns me is whether his life or death –or the actions of others- threatens my artwork. Tonight, you have threatened my masterpiece."

"Skein is full of tongues and eyes all-too eager to be bought.  This have I taught you. But you have either forgotten or spurned that lesson. Did you think Xedric's outburst at the Comte would cause all to forget the Phel-Nirian-liveried handmaid who followed him after his departure? Did you think that same handmaid who later rode with him on his mad ride across the city would remain unnoticed by the mobs he almost crushed under his wheels?  What did you think those tongues would say when Lucretius was later found roving the Mosswines alone? Did you think those eyes would not see you steal those two corpses and pauper's coffin? And what would they say when Xedric arrived at the Mei-Vourne's doorstep, dying inside a commoner's coffin?"

There is another sharp intake of air. The interrogation continues.

"Xedric may not be mine, but he is your father's. Who do you think he would first suspect? Who would he most likely blame for his eldest son's state? The mysterious handmaid, perhaps? How would he have reacted? How would Alphosine respond to his enraged questions? And how would House Phel-Nirian? Did you mean to incite war between the houses? Or cause your sibling to be disowned by Claudius to join you in the Grand Seplutura? Or have you so utterly divorced yourself from your birthright that you no longer care what happens to House Mei-Vourne and its inhabitants?"

"You offer in recompense Xedric's confession of poisoning Proserpine with barrenness. So be it. My charge is not to protect Caraumonde's unborn, only those who pass from his brides' wombs into my hands. Those are my charges. Those are my children.  Those I toil to protect–so often from themselves. Why would you threaten my masterpiece?"[/ic]

[False Epiphany]

[ic]Alisandre momentarily reflects on the situation's irony. That her own desire to protect Alphosine has, indirectly, earned her this fellow protector's ire.

"Of all my siblings," the ex-magistra begins to reply, "I have ever loved Alphosine the most, my governess--indeed, she is the only one of them I can truly claim to feel that emotion towards. For she has been the only one to show it to me since my disownment. I would not see her share my fate, nor any other harm, and I believe such is within our power to prevent."

"The rabble saw Xedric leave with a Phel-Nirian handmaid, and tongues will wag, you are correct--I had intended but to follow him before events moved beyond my control. Nevertheless, I am confident that my father will not pursue retribution against Alphosine nor House Phel-Nirian when he learns the full details of those events--and that his disgraced daughter, not a Phel-Nirian handmaid, was their chief instigator. Nor do I believe he will allow Xedric to seek vengeance against Alphosine. That does sound like an idea which would cross his brutish mind, but I am sure he will be on a very tight leash--and in little position to threaten Alphosine--once my father learns why his wife has yet to bear him a child."

"Claudius Phel-Nirian has been mired down by legal matters surrounding my cousin's return. Should he fear reprisal from House Mei-Vourne over Xedric enough to divert his attention from the courts, the solution is simple--present me to him as a peace offering. Offer a full explanation of my role in events, along with House Mei-Vourne's full apologies, and allow him to decide my fate. Claudius will have no reason to punish Alphosine, who is innocent of any wrongdoing save spying upon a relative for gossip--and that is no sin for a lady, but a chief activity in many's lives, after all."

"We are alike in our desire to see Alphosine kept safe, my governess. My father has but to hear the tale I have told you for this to be so."[/ic]

[ooc]I figured Alisandre would've heard about Hadric/Claudius while lunching and gossiping with Alphosine.[/ooc]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Alisandre]
There is a sharp, disapproving rattle of vertebrae and ribs.

"You are gravely mistaken -about a great many things."

"You offer yourself up twice as a sacrifice, first to assuage your father's potential rage, then to mollify Lord Phel-Nirian's. Beyond discounting the possibility that both men might demand satisfaction, your offers suggest you either took no thought for the consequences of your actions till now, or you think so little of your life that you would part with it for little gain."

"Recall your father's punishment of Xaphan, a non-heir grandson, for his attempted assassination of Narimonde, another-at-that-time non-heir grandson. What sentence, then, do you think he would pass on a legally disowned daughter abetting the murder of his now-current heir?"

There is another bony rattle in the dark, another sharp inflation of lungs and subsequent expulsion of necrotic breath.

"No, my childe, Xedric must die another way, another nite, or your life is forfeit for naught. I cannot protect you should he die this way -there are too many tongues, too many eyes. You are fortunate Alphosine's missive reached my handmaiden and not another servant of your father. We might yet avert disaster."

An uncomfortable silence fills the stagecoach before Madame Fontanelle speaks again. 

"We -and we alone- must see to his recovery. Already, there are too many involved."

"There is a grimoire... it may help. Procuring it will not be without risk. Using it will certainly entail many. Leave the former to me. The latter, however, you must do. The grimoire's spirit only bargains with the quick."

A skull reaches forward and grabs Alisandre's hand with phalanges sutured in place of teeth.

"Your father disowned you, Alisandre. Your mother did not."

"I do not abandon my artwork. At times I may revise it; at times, I may break it to make it anew, to strengthen and repair unforeseen flaws and imperfections."

The jaw-fingers retract into the darkness.

"Your imperfections are known to me, Alisandre, as is your potential. I have not abandoned you. All this tonight I do for my artwork, my children, my masterpiece."

"Yet, for this aid tonight, I must ask a boon in return, related to another's artistry." 

[False Epiphany]

[ic]Alisandre slowly lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding at the bricoleur's words and bony touch.

She still wishes to protect me.

Her posture relaxes.

"I pay my debts," the ex-magistra states simply. "And I will owe you a great one for this, Madame, let us make no mistake. I thought Alphosine was the only member of my family not to abandon me, but I see that assumption was incorrect. Daily visits to the crypt are not your way--to provide aid in my hour of need is a far greater thing."

Xaphan's severed, animate appendage scuttles through Alisandre's mind.

"To owe you a boon is preferable to seeing my hands assist the family butler as maids, in any case--if my punishment would indeed be so light. As is bargaining with a grimoire's spirit over my father and Claudius Phel-Nirian."

Alisandre touches the skull-hand that grasped her own. "Tell me what you would ask, Madame. It is within my power, I shall see it done--and if it is not, I shall attempt it regardless."[/ic]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Alisandre]Madame Fontanelle nods approvingly in the darkness, causing a cascade of clattering bones.

She then explains her predicament and related request. The rival bricoleur. Its failure to present itself. Its alleged sculptures of human flesh.  The framed ambrotype. The Midnight Papillion. Decarabia's errand.

"There have been complications," she morosely adds.  

"The Papillion is no longer available for questioning."

"Her corpse, though, is –at least to a skilled necromancer."

As the stagecoach continues its journey, she explains.

"The Watch has requested a Cemetarian to perform an autopsy on the cadaver. Below your bench is a uniform and sawbone's satchel. You will pose as the requested mortician and complete the autopsy. Your true task, however, is to clandestinely effectuate the necessary invocation to question the corpse and discover the source of the illicit ambrotype."

The governess then reaches out to Alisandre with a number of ossein limbs. Vertebrae tongues, teeth-fingers, and sculpted bonespurs caress the woman's shoulder, tickling her flesh. Suddenly, the multifarious appendages latch hold in a piercing grip that causes the ex-magistra to momentarily pass out from pain. When consciousness returns, Alisandre discovers her shoulder is once more hale.  

"Professor Yubei would be dismayed to learn you've been neglecting your sacraosteopathy. You were his star pupil, after all."

There is a soft rattle in the darkness.

"Inside the satchel is a syringe filled with nectar. The nootropic will assist you in the invocation."

The stagecoach stops. A toothless footman opens a door to reveal the outlines of a sepia-lit street. Madame Fontalle bids Alisandre good fortune. She provides an address and promises to be in contact.[/ic]

[ooc]You regain 4 Might. The nectar will, in addition to other effects, allow you the numina to perform the following invocation:

Corpse Communion (2 Intellect points+): You can ask a question of a dead being whose corpse you are touching. Because you must get the answer through the filter of the being's understanding and personality, the being cannot answer questions it would not have understood in life, cannot provide answers to questions it would not have known in life, and in fact is not compelled to answer at all, so you may need to use standard interaction actions that would have convinced them while they were alive. You can ask an additional question for each additional point you spend (determined when you begin). Action.[/ooc]

[False Epiphany]

[ic]"Often the dead have more worth than the living," Alisandre responds to Madame Fontanelle's explanation of her task, as if reciting some familial motto or truism.

As her vision returns, she massages her shoulder and manages a pained half-smile, recalling her days at the Collegia Arcana. Neglected as her old professor's lessons may have been, it was likely thanks to his courses that she was able to relocate her popped shoulder at all.

Alisandre dons the mortician's uniform, taking some amused comfort from the fact this deception will require little actual acting. Autopsying corpses was, after all, something the Mei-Vourne children were trained to do from birth. She thanks her old governess one last time for her aid (and now-hale shoulder), then departs for the Watch's address.[/ic]

[ooc]Pools: Might 6/8 (0), Agility 4/11 (1), Intellect 5/17 (1)[/ooc]