Clockwork Abattoir: Sordid Tales

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Alisandre]Alisandre arrives as the Watchmen's blockhouse, clad in the charcoal frock, hose, and top-hat of the Cemetarians. After a brusque inspection, she is escorted down to a basement corridor crowded with injured gendarmes in varying states of consciousness. Some lay comatose from visible wounds: others sit and moan in liquor-soaked stupors. Fortunately for the Watchmen chirurgeons, not many of the patients, inebriated or otherwise, have the wherewithal to thrash around mid-surgery. Yet, as Alisandre walks past an operating room, she witnesses one exception. A rather large man covered in gruesome burns screams like a stuck pig after the chirurgeon's first cut. He violently kicks out with both feet, sending one of the surgical carts crashing into the distant operating theater dimness and forcing the physician to step back for fear of nicking something important –or be injured herself by the flailing man. Eventually, a pair of orderlies subdues the man, though not before earning a smattering of sharp, broad bruises.

"Don't worry -yer patients aint so lively," her escort dryly quips. The Watchman then ushers Alisandre into a dark cement chamber steeped in antiseptic, formaldehyde, and bleach. A dozen concrete slabs run the length of the room. Half are empty; the rest support still-warm cadavers.  Punch-card dossiers hang from a telescopic lamp bolted to the ceiling.

"Some new recruits just came in from 'cross the hall," the Watchman explains sardonically, "Captain wants them gussied up in addition to dressin' the one we apprehended." He points to a canvas-covered body in the dim corner of the room, then jerks a thumb at the door, "Let me know when yer done, and I'll help file the paperwork and get your pay. Oh, and the court-daguerreotypist will be by. Let me know if she tries to cop a feel again with the stiffies."

He grabs a stack of newsrags and parts with a final word of advice, "Best hurry, else yer bound to get buried alive -or should I say dead- with reinforcements. Some of them boys out there don't look so good."
[/ic]  

[ooc]The punch-card system likely takes her a little bit of time to unravel; fortunately, she's a smart cookie and this is her field of expertise (literally and figuratively). You can auto-succeed on preparing the 5 dead Watchmen, or try for an Intellect DC 3 to rapidly finish them. For the Papillion, they want a report on the level of lethe-tea in her bloodstream (i.e., was it enough to impair memory, how much, how recent, etc.) which is an Intellect DC 4 for you.  Toxicology isn't your speciality, drugging siblings aside.

Assuming no one else is in the room, injecting yourself with nectar can be done without issue –performing the invocation, talking to the corpse, and having it talk back to you, however, make noise. So add a roll to whatever strategy you attempt. [/ooc]

[False Epiphany]

[ic]Alisandre clinically surveys the row of corpses. She fills a steel bowl with water, dips in a rag, and wrings out the excess moisture. Her eyes glint at the familiar sound of water splashing back into a bowl, at the feel of wet, rough cloth in her hands--a familiar preface to a familiar duty. Slowly, reverently, she hand-washes the first cadaver, wiping away grime and waste. She could have used an invocation--magic would have been faster and more thorough--but the rag's usage was ritual. She couldn't even remember the first time she'd taken wet cloth to corpse; Mei-Vourne children were entrusted with caring for the dead as soon as their fine motor skills were sufficiently developed. Under Caraumonde's watchful eye, his heirs' tiny hands gingerly dabbed away the stains of death. Ingrained confidence swiftly replaced that gingerliness, for the earlier his children started, the better they took to the family trade.

Next, Alisandre covers the now-moist corpse's genitals and face with strips of cloth, mindful that the dead deserve privacy just as much as the living. Her fire-charred fingertips work across the cadaver's muscles, kneading away the stiffness of rigor mortis with all the care she would show a living massage patient. She carefully inserts bits of cotton over sunken eyes and glues their lids shut. She bites off a length of thread to stitch the mouth closed, careful not to sew it into a permanent too-tight grimace. That was an easy mistake for beginners. Next, she retrieves her scalpel--used but last night to bash in Xedric's brains--and makes an incision by the clavicle bone, draining out the corpse's blood. Once the coppery-smelling flow tampers off, Alisandre pulls out the cadaver's intestines, kidneys, and other insides with all the casual aplomb of a small girl picking flowers, then drops them into a bucket with a messy wet plop.

That task done, Alisandre sets up a clockwork embalming machine and inserts its drain tube into the cadaver's incision. She scowls when the device fails to start. She should have expected that public undertakers would work with shoddier equipment than a noble family. She patiently coaxes the device into performing its duty, and sickly-green formaldehyde is soon pumping through the tube. Alisandre closes her eyes as the machine whirs and hums, breathing in the all-too familiar chemical scent like baked treats from a grandmother's kitchen. Finally, she pads the corpse's insides with linen strips and sews it back up.

The rag sees a second round of use to wash up leftover blood and formaldehyde. A whispered invocation summons spectral maggots that hungrily devour bacteria and disinfect the corpse--tradition was well and good, but some precautions were better left to magic. Alisandre methodically clips and files the corpse's fingernails, then holds up a shaving razor. She nicks her fingertip and nods in satisfaction as the sharp (by necessity) implement draws blood. She gives the dead man his final shave, then styles and grooms his hair to a series of snip-snip-snip sounds from her scissors. She applies makeup to cover purple bruises and infuse pale features with a blush of life as the finishing touch.

Alisandre washes her hands and looks across the prepared corpse, smiling inwardly to herself at a job well done.

It has been far too long since I was able to practice the family's craft.

Four more cadavers await. Alisandre loses herself in their work. This was her calling. Her duty. Her birthright--far more so than wealth or titles. It was something no treacherous sibling could ever take away from her.

Once the remaining four Watchmen have been prepared to her exacting standards, Alisandre pulls out a small and hex-marked jar from her pockets. The container grows hot and rattles in her hands as she sets it by the final cadaver.

"Yes, the duration of your service will soon be at an end," she mutters impatiently.

Alisandre dips her fingers into the jar and lathers sticky, brimstone-smelling yellow ointment over the Midnight Papillion's features. Miniature howling faces pop over the woman's body like burst pimples. The spirit exults in its imminent freedom and is impatient for that time to come. Alisandre diligently works and rubs the gleeful faces away, forcing the demon to conform to her will. The ointment grows blisteringly painful beneath her palms, hissing like a hot pan thrust into water. When the necromancer withdraws her hands, however, the Midnight Papillion is a plague victim. Horridly-colored boils and blemishes mar her decaying features.

This done, Alisandre washes her hands, stows away the jar, and approaches the guard, exclaiming that she must speak with his superior. "The corpse cannot remain here," she urgently states. She leads the officer back to the morgue and shows off the disfigured corpse, then bedazzles him with a variety of medical, mystical, and technical terms to explain the corpse's present condition. It's uncommon, yes, but victims of some magically- or bio-engineered plagues exhibit no visible symptoms until after death. That makes their spread all the more insidious.

"You are fortunate that I've come this early--your men would be placed in needless risk if the corpse were to remain here. Our facilities are equipped to contain an infection like this."[/ic]

[ooc]She takes her time with the corpses.

Roll to disguise the corpse with corpse-canvas ointment.

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6+2 : 5 + 2, total 7[/blockquote]

Roll to bluff, spending 1 grit.

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 6, total 6[/blockquote]

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

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Alisandre]The officer babbles a semi-coherent reply to Alisandre's explanation, then swiftly summons his superior –a slant-eyed woman with pinched features introduced as Watch-Captain Raoule-Hua. The advice of Chief-Chirurgeon Leung is sought. He gingerly examines the pox-seeping body and quickly concurs with Alisandre's 'diagnosis' of nerterologic ptyalism, or 'casket-drool' as it is known in the vernacular. Orders are issued. Respirators are distributed and donned by the on-duty gendarme and physicians. Pressurized nozzles are manipulated by a pair of waxcloth covered janitors; they douse an acrid-smelling concoction over the Papillion's quickly vacated slab. Papers are signed: the 'infected' corpse is officially transferred to the Cemetarians' care. As the hermetically sealed corpse is stowed in an automaton-pulled hearse, Captain Raoule-Hua privately thanks Alisandre for her skillful care of her gendarmes, living and dead alike, and tells Alisandre to seek her out in the future if she has need of the law's aid. As the captain gives a parting handshake to the guised necromancer, she surreptitiously passes Alisandre a folded bill, saying, "For your professional discretion."[/ic]

[ooc]The winch-wound automaton is programmed to return to the station once it takes you to your desired destination. The silk-woven bill is worth 500 crowns, backed by House Lucor-Rrem. Finding a suitably unoccupied place in the Ebon Ward to perform the 'interrogation' is a DC 3. Alternatively, you could head to the sewers where the DC is 1, but 'there be dragons.'

Either way, marvelous post. I really appreciate the detail you put into the mortician role. The dice gods seemed to approve as well.[/ooc]

[Steerpike]

[ic]Catena waits by the bar, lingering, hoping that Titus doesn't cause any further commotion. Even if she got upstairs, she'd be penned in with no way out. If the "half-woman" is Tandy, she'll have to think of some way to get close to her; if not, she can wait until the Watchmen leave.[/ic]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Catena]The sergeant and six guards swiftly ascend the stairs as a tight, well-disciplined squad. The rest stay behind with their commander, their rifles still menacingly fixed on the bar's patronage.

One gendarme barks at Catena and Titus to lower their heads and hands upon the bar. Titus almost barks back, but he swallows his pride and complies... though Catena can lip-read his stream of silently-chewed invectives.

"Abhuman filth," the guard mouths more audibly to the crowd.

The commander meanwhile continues to sneer. His hexed-glasses alit though upon spotting the silk-robed bureaucrat. He issues a command to a nearby guard who promptly grabs the man. The bureaucrat initially objects, then silences as the visored-Watchman grimly shoves his muzzle in the man's face.  

There is a brief exchange between the commander and bureaucrat, but their words are lost as the sound of gunfire, shattering glass, and screams echoes down the stairs. Amidst the violent cacophony, the bureaucrat is dragged out of the bar.

A few, tense moments later, the sergeant and five soldiers return. A naked, drug-pricked ghul is brusquely escorted in their midst. Although haggard, bruised from rough treatment, and sprouting berried-vines from several orifices, the ghul woman resembles Red Mei's description of Tandy Suckle.

"Well done, Sergeant," the knife-mustachioed commander purrs with a vicious smile.[/ic]

[ooc]Not sure if you plan to interrupt them now. If so, post your attempted actions and potentially relevant rolls.  Otherwise, I can continue, just let me know your plan so I can adjust my post's end accordingly. Also, based upon your last post, I'm assuming you were complying with the guard's commands (i.e., sitting down your head and hands on the bar -during which they would have disarmed you).[/ooc]    

[False Epiphany]

[ic]Alisandre doffs her hat and graciously accepts Raoule-Hua's promise of aid, stating that it is always a pleasure to service customers who can recognize a quality emalming job. "Most are too beside themselves to notice--unless it's done poorly."

The money note is discretely accepted with a murmured, "It will be as if the corpse never arrived."

Alisandre departs the Watch's headquarters and guides the hearse down Skein's twisting streets. The thought of taking her cargo home--she did prefer to work in familiar surroundings--is considered, then quickly discarded. More than one individual desires more than one type of discretion in this matter. She instead proceeds into the Ebon Ward, looking for an unobtrusive spot within the slums to conduct her business.[/ic]

[ooc] This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 1d6 : 5, total 5

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

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Alisandre]Alisandre's search leads her to the Mooncalf Tangle and its warped architecture. There, she finds a long-abandoned warehouse that grants her easy access and complete privacy. Almost hidden among the graffitied crates, rotted pallets, and glass-cracked syringes, a swarm of rats greedily devour a huddled mass. The vermin scatter at the automaton's approach, revealing a half-eaten corpse: a dark-skinned woman dressed in the red-dyed cloak of a Labbimite chymist. A clockwork-nozzled gas-mask dangles from her gnawed face. Its hose spools out to a large bottle of laudanum. The rats eventually return to their grisly feast. No other witnesses remain.[/ic]

[ooc]You're free to shoot up, perform your interrogation -though remember to include a social role of your choice. Also, Alisandre would recognize that the laudanum is a valuable commodity.[/ooc]   

[False Epiphany]

[ic]Alisandre shoos away the rats and pockets her surprise find, already considering potential uses. She opens the casket, pulls up her sleeve, and injects Madame Fontanelle's syringe into a vein. The necromancer closes her eyes and breathes deeply as her mind opens to the aether, exploring higher vistas of consciousness.

Anwers. I seek answers.

She sifts through the swirling mindscape, pulls forth power beyond her own, and presses her hand over the Midnight Papillion's heart. She utters an incintation in Morbis and the corpse jerks like an unconscious woman who's suddenly been electrocuted. Glowing eyes snap open, casting ghastly illumination over plague-boils.

"Where did your living self obtain the ambrotype she was killed over?" Alisandre demands without preamble. Her tone is cold, clinical, and vaguely impatient, as if she were speaking to a faulty machine.[/ic]

[ooc]Alisandre spends 2 Intellect points to ask two questions.

Intimidation roll for her first one:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6+1 : 6 + 1, total 7[/blockquote]

Pools: Might 6/8 (0), Agility 4/11 (1), Intellect 2/17 (1)[/ooc]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Alisandre]The corpse initially attempts to lie. It is punished. Severely.

When the Papillion's dead lips stop screaming, they are far more forthright:  

"From Chun-Lui and Sebastien's studio. 916E Tinplate & Seven Shears. Near Pewtertree and the Floret-Blocks in the Damask Ward. Jun-Moise stole it for me."

The corpse violently shudders, splattering her already pulverized skull and brain tissue against the floor.

"N-now, release me!  My chrysalis, oblivion awaits!"[/ic]

[ooc]With your last 6, you don't need to roll another social check, just ask your last question.[/ooc]

[False Epiphany]

[ic]Good. That is start.

"What do you know of the bricoleur whose work is portrayed in the ambrotype?" Alisandre queries levelly, indifferent to the psychic residue's protests.

She begins tracing an invocation with her other hand in preemptive answer to any dissembling or defiance.[/ic]

[ooc]Pools: Might 6/8 (0), Agility 4/11 (1), Intellect 2/17 (1)[/ooc]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Alisandre]The corpse's sallow-lit eyes flicker madly. Its mangled fingers flex at disturbing angles. It thrashes, once more bashing its caved-in brain against the warehouse floor as if to silence itself. But Alisandre's eldritch anacrisis tears the words from the corpse's broken-toothed, phlegm-less mouth:

"N-nothing! No-thing but what I've forgotten.. and t-then reminded myself... the l-letters helped me re-call the particulars... my former self k-knew much more... must have known m-much more. I m-must have want-ed to forget... did I k-know the grave-spawn or j-just the ambrotypist? I -this I- no longer re-members... b-but my instructions from my f-former self were c-lear and accurate like all t-the rest. T-they reminded me of the ambrotype's l-location, it's value. I -the former I- was adamant... but I s-said nothing of the bricoleur to myself... I must h-have wanted to f-forget..."

With its last reply, the Papillion's corpse shudders as Alisandre's spent invocation releases it into the paralytic embrace of rigor mortis. Similarly released from the nectar's aetheric rush, Alisandre's mind slips into a nootropic fugue. An uneasy silence settles upon the warehouse. The carrion rats sniff the air and eye the ex-magistra and the now-still Papillion with wary hunger.[/ic]

[ooc]Within the next IG minute of time, Alisandre must make an Intellect defense DC 5 of suffer 1 Intellect damage for every point you fail by. You might consider this the withdrawal or side-effect of your nectar use.

Also, make a Might DC 3 save to avoid becoming addicted to Nectar.

Otherwise, you are free to rewind and release the automaton hearse and proceed as you will.

Finally, the Watch has otherwise stripped the Papillion.[/ooc]

[False Epiphany]

[ooc]Intellect:

This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 1d6 : 6, total 6

Might:

This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 1d6 : 1, total 1

Edit: So, I was gonna roll first and write my descriptions afterwards, taking into account whether A became an addict and how much her trip messed her up. But since there's both a disaster and major benefit coming her way, I'll hold off for you to adjudicate the no-doubt entertaining effects of this bizarre stroke of fate.[/ooc]

[Rose-of-Vellum]

[ic=Alisandre]The nectar's rush eases Alisandre's enervated psyche. Yet, the rush -and its seeming lack of negative consequence- reawaken an old psychophysiological hunger for the substance, something she hasn't felt since her nootropic experimentation at Vlerinn-Phoi. The 500 crown-bill sits heavy in her pocket.[/ic]

[ooc]You regain 4 Intellect. She also is now addicted to nectar. Make a 3 DC Intellect check or be distracted by the impulse to immediately obtain/use another dose of nectar (i.e., -1 to all Intellect checks). Acting on the impulse removes the penalty (but may impose others).  
[/ooc]

[False Epiphany]

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

[False Epiphany]

[ic]All-too suddenly, the mystic drug's high is gone--and mundane reality is all-too lacking, all-too drab. Desperate to reattain her former state, Alisandre turns over the empty syringe with trembling fingers, praying there's a few droplets left.

That misguided hope is quickly shattered. Her heart pounds. Her palms sweat. Her gaze furtively darts across the room--if there was laudanum, perhaps someone also left behind Nectar!---then settles on the Midnight Papillion's corpse.

Her family's sacred charges.

A wave of self-disgust hits Alisandre like a second crash, shaking her back to reality. She lugs the Midnight Papillion's corpse onto the floor and punches in a series of commands on the hearse, sending it back to the Watch. She withdraws to the corner of the room so as not to unnerve the rats with her presence, then waits for the hungry rodents to begin their grisly feast.

Once the flesh-eating creatures are at work, she turns and leaves, seeking temporary accomodations until the Eastern Cemetary is open to visitors.[/ic]

[ooc]Alisandre looks for the nearest reasonably safe inn--ie, someplace she's not likely to wake up with her throat cut or the bank note missing, which may or may not entail leaving the Ebon Ward.

Provided these actions are still possible after the 1....

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