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Clockwork Abattoir: Sordid Tales

Started by Rose-of-Vellum, February 14, 2014, 02:18:41 PM

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Rose-of-Vellum

[ic=An Exegesis of Scrap-Metal & Mangled Skin]Shrouded by shadows, you watch them.  

A pair of syndicate punks, with brazen tattoos still raw and glistening, search the antelucan gloom. They squint their slanted eyes, their callow faces naked save for the gleam of sweat. The taller of the two, a lanky-limbed youth with a brass-knuckle crudely sutured to his hand, whispers to his shorter companion, "It's looking for us, isn't it?" In reply, his companion merely shrugs, rubs his shaven scalp, and draws a bottle of cheap liquor. Uncorking it with a vestigial arm of chased spelter and sputtering clockwork, the stout thug takes a swig, then passes it to his spindly peer. As they sip the sickly-sweet brandy, you catch a flash of golden teeth. Repoussé Boys.

Beside you, Vex yawns in boredom, and slinks away to torment a pox-marked tabby slumbering in an adjacent alley. Stifling a curse at the irksome hellhound, you step out of the shadows and approach the Brass Skull thugs from behind. As you advance, the lanky one almost gags at the necrotic miasma and rancid halitosis that precedes you. Spinning around, the stouter thug visibly relaxes as he sees your trademark tricorn, black mask, and achromatic garb. His companion, however, continues to goggle you, his nervous eyes lingering on your scarred hands. Instinctively, you fold them neatly behind your back, and break the silence:

"It doesn't know where else to turn, so it looks for us in dark allies."

"Are y-you Mr. Nix?" the brass-knuckled youth asks, his Alleyspeak-accented voice slurred with false bravado and burnt wine.  

"It can call us that if it wants."

The stout thug, eyeing his companion with a mix of disgust and pity, turns back to you and says, "I have a job for you."

You answer, "We know."

While the taller youth's eyes widen, the stout thug just grins, then replies:

"Of course you do. Otherwise, the Brass Skulls wouldn't be asking."

Rubbing his scalp once more, he looks down at his totenkopf-buckled shoes, then continues:

"See, a couple of sods from Black Souse have gone missing during the past fortnight. Normally, we wouldn't care, but a few of them are kin to some good payin' clients in the Copper Ward.  After some digging, it seems the sods were all pinched in the dead of night. Me and some other boys from the local Mandible Clubs have since upped our night-strolls, thinking that it might be the Nine-Eyes or another syndicate starting trouble, but, well, the Boss ain't so sure, especially after last night..."

Looking up at his companion, he nods at the large, red-stained knapsack the youth has been carrying the entire time. In response, the youth unties the sullied silk, displaying a jumble of mangled, half-rusted metal and tattered skin-flaps. Still uneasy in your presence, he cautiously places the grisly bundle at your feet.

"That's all we could salvage. It was half-past the eleventh chime when Yomi and I were patrolling two-streets down from Swinehowl, and we heard this strange shuffling, a wet dragging noise with a rattle and creak of chains. We tried to follow it, but we lost it near the 'Salvers. Then, just as a patch of smog parted, Yomi saw something framed by the moonlight, atop a nearby roof. It wasn't quite man-shaped, she said, maybe a bit bigger. It was hard to tell, as it seemed hunched over, with limbs that didn't quite match. I never saw it myself, see, cause as Yomi called my name, it went to bolt. But Yomi was quicker, she shot it clean with her bastard. The blast knocked it right off the roof though. This is all we could gather –there was a lot of gore and junk that we couldn't scoop up, not least without risking the Watch. Boss wasn't too happy with that."

"Might not be related to the disappearances, but I'm thinking different. See, some of the other Boys said the neighbors of the missing folk reported hearing similar sounds –wet gurgling, almost like snorting, mixed with the jangle of chains- on the night of the vanishings. At first, we just thought the sods were blowing smoke or strung out on juice. But after Yomi and I heard the same thing, well, I figure the two are connected.  Boss agrees too, and after he saw the strange carvings on what we salvaged, he says that it's witchwork. Your kind."

"He's willing to pay, of course. He wants to know what it is, and where it came from. Says he'll let you slide on next month's rent, maybe two.  Also said there's some real chit if you actually fix the problem, either by returning the pinched kin or handing over the cutter who's responsible."


Glancing at the gory jumble one last time, the thug offers his bottle and asks with a gold-toothed grin:

"Do we have a deal?"[/ic]

[ooc]Ok, SH, tis your go. Mr. Nix knows the second thug as a syndicate punk named Shiqq. He regularly collects Mr. Nix's 'rent' and belongs to a local Mandible Club in the Ebon Ward, a place where other Repoussé Boys and lesser guttersnipes scrap and swagger to earn the favor and attention of the Brass Skull higher-ups. The Club, known as the Sutured Cabaret or more simply as the Scabaret, is led by a Brass Skull underboss named Yves, a retired illicit pitfighter known for his flatulence, affinity for head cheese, and four mechanical arms sutured to his torso, earning him the moniker of the Aerugo Attercop. [/ooc]

Seraph

[ic]Mr. Nix stands in a still, enigmatic silence, allowing the breaths to lengthen before he makes any move.  His eyes glaze over as he recedes into his thoughts.   A beast stalks the night, slouching along rooftops.  Slimy.  Chains dragging.  Something about it echoes in his mind, like a half-remembered dream.  He can almost see it in his mind, but the image is indistinct; a ghastly silhouette.  It comes for them.  Will it come for us next? 

"It comes, but it won't take us, will it love?"

Mr. Nix hardly registers the perplexed looks on the faces of the two Brass Skulls thugs.  He was not speaking to them.  They are of no importance, just pawns, like the rest, in the machinations of the overlords.  It was their game that concerned him.  Says he'll let you slide on next month's rent, maybe two.  As if they'd make it that easy

The young, lanky one stifles a shriek as the cracked nose and bony form of a hellhound brushes past, its nonchalant growl a rumble in its throat.  Mr. Nix frowns.

"It wants to get rid of us, doesn't it?"
"W-w-what?"
"W-w-what!" Nix sprays the boy with flecks of spittle as he mocks him.  "It comes here to put us in front of it, and it says WHAT?!!"

Vex croons out in the groaning, growling tones of Hellspeak.  "Patience master."
"SPEAK NOT OF PATIENCE, FIEND!"

The ghul kicks at the dog as he shrieks.  The familiar yelps and slinks away, sniffing at the syndicate thugs before speaking again.
"We don't know its game.  If it's a danger to them, maybe a danger to us too..."
"Coming for us.  Did...
He...send it?"
"It hides from us.  Seek it out."
"Walk into the mouth of Hell, it would like that, wouldn't it.
  What's in it for us?"  In the last sentence, Mr. Nix slips back into Shambles.  Shiqq seems about to respond, when Mr. Nix violently presses a scarred and claw-tipped finger to his lips.  "SHHHHH!!!"  He looks round.  It's here, isn't it?  Listening.  His perfect night vision reveals no beasts, but the ghul witch can't help but feel they are being watched.  Silent as the grave, he scoops up the bundle of metal and flesh and motions for them to follow.  Vex takes point, running ahead as they lead the thugs through a series of alleys until he slips through the door to a derelict building.

"Wait, this isn't..." says Shiqq, and Mr. Nix clamps his hand down over the man's mouth.  Vex scouts the room just inside, then Nix leads the men in.

"Vex.  Keep watch" he orders, and quickly, but quietly shuts the door.  The Hellhound won't control what happens next.  He pulls out a piece of chalk and scribes a few sigils on the floor around the bundle.  He chants in hellspeak, drawing a circled around the lot, then with his wavy knife, slices open the air, and the room fills up with the sulfurous, choking haze of brimstone.

"Err..." mutters the youth. "What's he doing, Shiqq?"
"Calling on his demons."
"I don't want to meet no demons!"
"Relax, boy."  He addresses Mr. Nix.  "So we have a deal, then."

Mr. Nix just waves his hand in a dismissive gesture.  Yes, We'll do it.  But not because of two months' rent.  Something is out there, and we need to know what it is.  [/ic]
[ooc]Mr. Nix is using Emonomancy to try and figure out as much about the flesh and scrap metal Yomi shot off of this creature.  When the ritual is over, he will give them to Vex to sniff, and keep them around in case he needs to refresh them.  He hopes Vex will be able to help him track this not-quite-a-man.[/ooc]
Brother Guillotine of Loving Wisdom
My Campaigns:
Discuss Avayevnon here at the New Discussion Thread
Discuss Cad Goleor here: Cad Goleor

Bardistry Wands on Etsy

Review Badges:
[spoiler=Award(s)]   [/spoiler]

Seraph

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 4, total 4[/blockquote]
Brother Guillotine of Loving Wisdom
My Campaigns:
Discuss Avayevnon here at the New Discussion Thread
Discuss Cad Goleor here: Cad Goleor

Bardistry Wands on Etsy

Review Badges:
[spoiler=Award(s)]   [/spoiler]

Rose-of-Vellum

#3
[ic]Shapes form in the quivering haze, a monstrous shadow congealing into a many-eyed grotesquerie with slavering tongues of fire and frenetic, chiropteran wings. Fang-rimmed orifices open, discharging eye-stinging effluvia and skin-bristling moans. For a brief moment, the thing test the circle, buffeting the smoke-veiled boundaries with its flickering tongues, spastic wings, and horrendous screams. But its prison holds.

Trapped alongside the fiend, the syndicate punks tremble. Unable to contain his fear, the younger thug cries out in terror and tries to bolt -but is fortunately yanked by Shiqq's spelterwork arm before he can break the eldritch lines. The two nonetheless huddle behind the sanity-strained ghul, their fear-sweat mingling with the reek of sulphur.

Tasting their fright, the demon moans with gluttonous ecstasy. Its orifices ripple and flush with morbid delight. So mollified, it temporarily forgets its rage at being conjured, and turns its panoply of eyes towards its nightfolk gaoler.

"You seek the sagacity of Pruflas-Shezbeth," the fiend hisses in Hellspeak, its tone declaiming a truth rather than query.

"Very well, husk, we shall spare our wisdom -though only a pittance is needed to satisfy your meager mind."

Closing its variegated eyes, Pruflas-Shezbeth shudders momentarily, then vomits a burning coal from its gullet. It catches the infernal bezoar in its flickering tongues, then suddenly pries open Mr. Nix's mouth and shoves the coal inside, singing the grave-spawn's tongue. Yet, as the scent of smoldering corpse-flesh fills the air, alien images, sounds, and insights sear Mr. Nix's consciousness in a blinding thoughtographic slurry.

Having fulfilled the strictures of its binding, Pruflas-Shezbeth gives a final, cacophonous groan, then melts back into the brimestone smog, causing the vapors to congeal into a greasy, sulphuric rain.

Caught in the fleeting, yet still sickening, shower, the Repoussé Boys swallow back their rising gorge. They stagger a bit, then steady each other as reality once again reasserts itself in the absence of hellish incursions. Both nevertheless retain the presence of mind to quietly await the ghul's response.[/ic]

[ooc]Mr. Nix learns a number of potentially helpful information from his emonomancy, including an understanding that the sigils are of infernal, rather than mortal, design, but were executed by the hand of a grave-spawn. The flesh comes from two recently slain humans, a man known as Nian and woman known as Virdal. The metal comes from the Flensery, an abandoned slaughterhouse at the heart of Black Souse, a rundown section of the Ebon Ward that straddles its border with the Copper Ward.

The imprinted knowledge also awakens a host of other insights -though whether they are demon-spawned or the product of his past life's memories unclear. Regardless, Mr. Nix recalls that Black Souse was once known as Black-Souse Burnish. An artificer named Rel-Shan, taking advantage of an abattoir fire, rebuilt the slaughterhouse with the financial aid of the Phan-Laru family, fashioned it so that the polished black-iron factory was almost completely automated. Although Rel-Shan considered his Flensery a monument to progress and industry, the former workers of the slaughterhouse did not share his glowing sentiment. It was not long before the unemployed denizens formed a mob, descended upon the Flensery, and allegedly murdered Rel-Shan and broke his still-burnished machinery.

Although the incident understandably enraged House Phan-Laru and other merchants and nobles, there was little that could be done, as the mob was too numerous, too anonymous to fully prosecute, although a few presumed rabble-rousers were executed to placate the Phan-Laru. Merchants and nobles nonetheless avoided the area, refusing to do business in the region, rendering it a place of extreme poverty. As time passed, the buildings succumbed to rust, especially as massive sewer-vents were built to spew toxic steam-vapors away precious Copper Ward factories. It was not long then before citizens replaced the area's official moniker of the Burnish with the pejorative title of the Tarnish. Now, the Black Souse, and the Flensery which sits at the heart of the Tarnish, remains all-but abandoned, a rust-ridden ruin inhabited by drug-addicts, diseased vagabonds, and other destitute or deranged souls.

Also, note that you take 1 point of damage to your Intellect Pool from using the esotery. If you, and other players, can keep a running log of your pools, I'd be appreciative.  Also, if you wish for Vex to attempt to track something, you'll need to roll. [/ooc]


Rose-of-Vellum

#4
[ic=Child's Play]Twilight sleeps restlessly upon the Saffron Ward. Shadows yawn as the gloaming hour gives way to dawn, rousing the district's manifold boutiques, cafes, theatres, and opera houses with languid sunlight. Snicket-sweepers maneuver the waning penumbra, meticulously harvesting the prior evening's excess. They prepare the ward's manicured labyrinth of promenades, lesser avenues, and countless alleys for the morning rush of shopkeepers and servants, who in turn ready their various businesses to snare the fancy –and coins- of masked nobility and lesser merchants.

Disguised as one of these snicket-sweepers, Xavier walks unnoticed by the tabernarious crowd. He surveys a nearby street and its various establishments with his ice-blue eye, scrutinizing the street's myriad details.

Paedarchs' Boulevarde. Connected to a larger avenue lined with fragrant persimmon trees, Paedarchs' Boulevarde is the product of technolatry, a playground of boutiques specifically catering to child clientele –or more precisely the permissive, affluent parents who spoil them. Painted by dawn's blush, the Boulevarde's shops proudly proclaim their monikers and hint at their costly merchandise.

The Scutestage Drollic. A massive chelonian shell imported from Marainein whose hollowed interior houses a troupe of black-furred zerda who perform elaborate shadow-puppetry under the direction of Yağmur Sahif, better known as Messeuir Marionette, a dark-skinned Erebh expatriate who pretends he's a shade, complete with pitch-black fez, cassock, parasol, and shadeglass spectacles.

Phengge's Emporium of Confectionaries, Candies, & Childish Delights. Known for its prolix candy presses and the eponymous Phengge, with her sweetmeat-speckled hoopskirt and sugar-powdered periwig.

Amorce. Whose wheellock cap-pistols and elaborate toy flare-guns fill the air with perfumed smoke and percussive symphonies, each lovingly crafted by Qishen, the alleged bastard and apprentice of the famed Val Corvan.

The Prescite Palm. A palmistry shop run by the eyeblight-infected Madame Volar, whose chirosophic arts and veiled legerdemain captivate young and old alike.

The Auturgic Circus. A clockwork toyshop selling trinkets, baubles, and gewgaws made by an unseen sweatshop of mantid tinkerers who answer to Ringmaster Serell, known for his toy train that winds around his top-hat's brim, his handlebar mustache greased with ever-buzzing aerugo-flies, and his organ-grinding monkey of argent manufacture.

Tragematopolis. A confectionary run by the witch-spinster Hortense whose hexed candies, ensorcelled alphenics, and bitter rivalry with Phengge are a legend of the Boulevarde.

The Moth-Prince Menagerie. Run by Sogni, a pygmy thremmatologist from the Collegia Vlerinn-Phoi, who sells miniature animals, bred like bonsai trees for the fancy of petulant, if prosperous, jackanapes.

Opposite such opulent businesses, an enormous mural frames the Boulevarde. Its pastel hues depict a chimerical representation of the Fevered Ocean, complete with sirae sailing cloud-ships over iridescent seas formed of rippling silk-bolts, magisters sauntering across beaches of golden coins, and children flying xsurs like giant kites with ribbon-tied tails. Allegedly commissioned or crafted by the Mad Magister himself, the mural is the source of the Boulevarde's other titles: Orlando's Stroll and the Febrile Esplanade.

Considering each of these spectacles, Xavier's attention nonetheless lingers on a particular establishment: the Phalerate Dollhouse. A fluted fence encloses its manicured yard, where a posy-festooned path leads to a garishly bright building. Its facade has been meticulously painted to resemble a child's doll-house, while an exquisitely gilded placard announces the boutique's name, complete with dolls smiling and cavorting all around the lettering. A triptych of windows displays festive scenes, in which dozens of dolls play leap-frog, hide-and-seek, and peek-a-boo, each clad in its own unique apparel of ruffled lace, dyed silk, and embroidered velour.

Such merchandise, however, does not hold Xavier's interest for very long. He has not come to Paedarchs' Boulevarde or the Phalerate Dollhouse to shop. Another sort of business has summoned him. For besides its celadon-faced dolls and delicate, diminutive dresses, the Dollhouse is home to Xavier's mark: the doll-maker Tsin-Leirre.[/ic]

[ooc]Before dusk banished the previous day, Xavier was summoned by his Brass Skull superior, Boss Xann-Carlu, better known as the Niello Mongrel. Xann-Carlu related that a member of the Annealed Brethren, a clandestine group of merchants allied with the syndicate, requested Xavier specifically to arrange an 'accident' for Tsin-Leirre. Evidently, the merchant's daughter was killed in a botched abduction. Although the would-be kidnappers were all slain, the merchant also blames Tsin-Leirre, as his daughter's doll, purchased from the Dollhouse, did not properly activate as intended, failing to release its noxious fumes that otherwise may have delayed her attackers and allowed her to escape. Although the doll-maker was acquitted after a all-too swift trial, the undisclosed merchant has nonetheless requested the Brass Skulls bring Tsin-Leirre to 'justice'. Beyond wanting the doll-maker's death to look like an accident, the merchant has one additional, complicating request: he demands that Tsin-Leirre dies by the day's end, as today is his daughter's birthday –and thus the assassination is intended as an anniversarial, if morbid, gift.  

Beyond any other actions, roll that disguise check for me please. You've had about an hour to case the street, with it being about half-past 3rd Chime (approximately 7 am). Also, should it matter, the Dollhouse is between the Auturgic Circus and Tragematopolis. [/ooc]

Rose-of-Vellum

#5
[ic=The Wages of Sin]Inside the Gravid Boudoir, the heady aromas of asherat, opium, and quarinah permeate the pleasure-den, staining the lacquered walls and low ceiling with a smoky veneer. A swarm of tangled bodies sprawls across a sea of aporrhea-slick cushions, their owners inhaling psychotropic vapors from complex hookahs or elaborate pipes of brass and bamboo. Curtained alcoves line the sides of the room, and flickering lights show that Smoulder and Cerulean Bliss are being enjoyed in these as well, though some grunts and moans suggest other pleasures are also being sampled. A few urchins, their faces painted like lapis moons, wander through the den. They delicately step over and around the maze of addled flesh, collecting coins in return for small blocks or bundles ready to be lit, tending porcelain drug-lamps, and checking the breathing of the most besotted patrons with small mirrors of polished brass. At the far end of the room, an obese man with hangdog ears and beady eyes sits on a protesting stool, a glyph-scribed crossbow resting lazily in his prodigious lap. He wears clothes that might have been finery before they too became stained with smoke and neglect. Behind him, a curtain of strung scrimshaw and glass-spun beads sways, suggestively revealing another chamber filled with unnamed diversions and delights.  

Emerging from this half-veiled chamber, a handsome young man in silken clothes enters the den, a perfumed handkerchief pressed to his powdered face. Ignored by the flaccid, glazed-eyed guard, the handsome popinjay scans the room and sprawl of bodies. Spotting the object of his inquiry amidst the mass, he gingerly threads his sandaled feet across the floor. He clears his throat as he approaches and speaks with a melodious voice. "If it pleases, my mistress desires to speak on a matter of dire importance and potential profit."

Not receiving any answer save for a soporific snort, the fop frowns momentarily, draws a thin whistle of hex-marked bone, and blows thrice. Although no audible sound escapes the instrument, it is not long before a tall skin-stitched servitor emerges. Dressed in mildewed raiment, the corpse shambles over to the powdered courtesan. With a curt gesture, the fop commands the servitor to carry the still-sleeping Phrixia, which it does so unceremoniously, rousing the dark-skinned rogue in the process. Ignoring the erstwhile corsair's complaints and curses, the courtesan merely repeats his earlier statement:

"If it pleases, my mistress desires to speak on a matter of dire importance and potential profit."

Meanwhile, the servitor retains its hold on Phrixia, escorting her out of the Gravid Boudoir, out into the morning fog, down the pleasure-pier, and into a mildew-stained steamboat. Despite her furious attempts, Phrixia cannot escape the servitor's iron-sinewed grip.

And then, as abruptly as the incident began, the servitor drops Phrixia down a chute, causing her to spill down its riveted expanse. Reflexively tumbling to her feet, Phrixia dusts off her brigandine, confirms that all her gear is present and intact, and surveys her surroundings.

The air here is thick with clouds of steam, scented with cloves, cinnamon, ginger, and stranger spices. Bizarre plants hang entwined from the condensation-dripping ceiling, fronds of thick yellow, vines of enormous bulbs, and flowers bulging with glistening stamen. Two huge iron stoves, bolted to the floor and walls, belt out great heat into the room, which is dominated by a greenish pool. From the look of its steamy, scum-rippling surface, the waters must by very warm. A heavy desk sits against the edge of the pool, its surface cluttered with papers, wicker plates of gutted fish, cobwebbed bottles, a gold waterpipe, and an elaborate puzzle-box of aged ivory.

Seated beside the cluttered escritoire is a piscine woman, with squamous skin a glistening mottle of azure and indigo. Fin-like ears sprout from an ovoid head that tapers into a ridged pair of operculum head-flaps. Vermillion-hued eyebrows flutter and pulse like external gills. Her eyes are sallow, phlegmy orbs, and her nostrils are slimy orifices. She wears a massive hoopskirt with ruffled silk dyed to match her skin and a tight corset of tooled leechskin that brazenly displays her décolletage. A large, orichalum pocketwatch hangs from her neck like a pendant, while a pair of petite stilettos peek out from the ruched hem of her dress. There is a practiced, haughty mannerism to her ichthyic features and movements, but Phrixia also notices a hidden fatigue and trepidation.

"Greetings, Lady Gronne," the cerulean fish-woman says in Glatch-accented Shambles that nearly mirrors Phrixia's dialect, "I am so pleased you accepted my invitation."

"I am Madame Zamorra. While you may have heard of me, I have definitely heard of you. You see, I own these docks, from the pleasure-dens you relish to the boarding house you call home. You are a good customer, and I make it a point to know my customers, especially those with peculiar appetites and particular talents. And you, my Lady Gronne, have both. It is of the latter I hope to utilize, and the former I hope to sate in recompense."

As if to illustrate her point, Madame Zamorra turns and tosses a bottle to Phrixia. Effortlessly catching it, the olive-eyed woman wipes away the moisture-slick cobwebs, and tries to read the faded label.

"Madwine culled from Red Edward's cellar," Madame Zamorra offers, adding, "352 C.R., an old and excellent vintage."

Waving a webbed hand in the direction of a nearby chair, she continues:

"Recently, a number of my employees have taken ill. The disease is unfamiliar to me, and I fear, quite contagious. Moreover, its symptoms are insidious, lying dormant for days before they begin to manifest in full –symptoms that can be quite gruesome, and I daresay deadly. I consulted with an esteemed iatrochymist from the Collegia; he confirmed that the disease is venereal, communicable, and without a known cure. I paid him a hefty sum to discover said knowledge, and an even greater amount to purchase his silence on said discoveries. If word spreads that my workers are tainted with a presently incurable plague, it would doom my business. I am already suffering loses as more and more of my workers succumb to the illness. Thus far, most have only shown the slightest of symptoms, but we could have an epidemic on our hands if we do not act swiftly. My patrons, as you know, are not picky, and could easily spread the plague beyond these docks, throughout the ward, the city, and even to other ports. And this is why I need your help."

"You see, I believe I have located the source of the sickness. After the chymist identified the plague as resembling a rare phage found in the Rancid Barrens, I realized that my workers became ill a few days after they entertained a large party of expatriates from Marainein. These exiles, who call themselves the Communion of Cagastric Rapture, are likely carriers of the disease. After first sending several missives that went unanswered and then messengers that went outright missing, I am increasingly convinced that the Communion is not only responsible, but knowingly so. Consequently, I need someone able and willing to visit the Communion and make them answer for their deeds. Hopefully, with proper persuasion, they might reveal a cure or willingly submit to an examination by my associate at the Collegia. Or, if such methods fail, a proper number of their corpses might allow my associate to derive a vaccine. Either way, time is not our ally."

"As I said earlier, Lady Gronne, I am more than willing to pay you for your services; all I require is swift and decisive action. Based upon my reports, the Communion are holed up in a derelict slave galley called the Varegous Idol, in a southerly region of the ward known as Hullsgrave. Assuming you accept, I suggest you charter passage on a vessel heading down the Radula to speed your travel. I will cover such expenses, of course, and more for successfully resolving this matter."[/ic]

[ooc]Although this is the first time you have seen Madame Zamorra, you have heard of her. Behind her back, she's more commonly known as Beldame Mouldegill. Zamorra is an oddity, with a circus of rumors surrounding her origins. Some claim she is a spawn of the Southern Swamps warped by an Utterance of the Beast-Gods. Others say she is a liberated mere-creature from the Lesion Sea, or is a hideous product of Macellarian fleshwork, or the cursed result of Slow Plague. Regardless of her origins, she controls a major pleasure-pier in the Indigo Ward. Although her inhuman nature makes her despised by most of Skein's xenophobic citizens, her fortunes are predicated upon her business acumen, her special blend of quarinah, asherat, rare fish oils & blue-green algae (a product called Cerulean Bliss), and her practice of harboring and caring for pregnant prostitutes from the Violet Ward (she allegedly sells the children to foreign slavers and has the post-partum prostitutes work as indentured servants until they repay the debts they accrued during their pregnancies). Of the Communion, you nothing more than what Zamorra has just told you.[/ooc]

Ghostman

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 1, total 1[/blockquote]
¡ɟlǝs ǝnɹʇ ǝɥʇ ´ʍopɐɥS ɯɐ I

Paragon * (Paragon Rules) * Savage Age (Wiki) * Argyrian Empire [spoiler=Mother 2]

* You meet the New Age Retro Hippie
* The New Age Retro Hippie lost his temper!
* The New Age Retro Hippie's offense went up by 1!
* Ness attacks!
SMAAAASH!!
* 87 HP of damage to the New Age Retro Hippie!
* The New Age Retro Hippie turned back to normal!
YOU WON!
* Ness gained 160 xp.
[/spoiler]

Ghostman


[ic]
Xavier proceeds to sweep the alleys betwixt the dollhouse and it's neighbouring buildings, keeping up his assumed persona. In fact he is looking for any potential side entrances into the doll-maker's shop: anything from actual backdoors to windows and balconies, or even hatches for waste disposal. Going in the front entrance is something he'd rather not risk, especially if he'll have to do so in the light of day. Thrice-damned merchant and his sense for poetic justice, he muses. This gig would be so much easier after dark. The time limit imposed by the contractee, if anything, is what's made this job challenging. Normally Xavier would take his time, perhaps even several days, to gather intel and plan ahead before moving in for the kill, but today he has no such luxury. A hasty hit means much greater chance of something going awry, particularly when it comes to making the death appear a convincing accident. He starts to consider various alternative approaches whilst continuing to pick up junk.

The doll-maker could fall victim to his own fumes. A little "mishap" in the workshop... that would be both ironic and appropriately inconspicuous. Or perhaps a machine malfunction with fatally injurious consequences? Then there's always fire. Though burning down the dollhouse would attract a lot of attention, not to mention the fire brigade. Although he finds imagining the potential scenarios in his mind's eye both amusing and intriguing, Xavier takes care to keep his exhilaration concealed. He maintains a bored frown on his face, his shoulders slumped, with a cheap hand-rolled cigarette listlessly smoldering between his lips -- a typically wretched mien for a lowly snicket-sweeper. Before anything else though, I'll need that way in.
[/ic]
¡ɟlǝs ǝnɹʇ ǝɥʇ ´ʍopɐɥS ɯɐ I

Paragon * (Paragon Rules) * Savage Age (Wiki) * Argyrian Empire [spoiler=Mother 2]

* You meet the New Age Retro Hippie
* The New Age Retro Hippie lost his temper!
* The New Age Retro Hippie's offense went up by 1!
* Ness attacks!
SMAAAASH!!
* 87 HP of damage to the New Age Retro Hippie!
* The New Age Retro Hippie turned back to normal!
YOU WON!
* Ness gained 160 xp.
[/spoiler]

Rose-of-Vellum

[ooc]Roll a sight-based Perception check for Xavier please. [/ooc]

Rose-of-Vellum

#9
[ic=Sanguine Lottery]Dawn creeps across the Clockwork City. Its bloody radiance baptizes the countless armories, gunsmithies, and arms-dealers of the Crimson Ward.

Emerging from the scarlet affusion, a cadre of mercenaries gathers at the headquarters of the Night-Marrow Merchant Company. Nestled inside the Ossein Court, the pillared edifice looms over its neighbors. Shadows and sulphurous vapors cavort across the structure's ichnite-embedded limestone, stained-glass oculi, and bronzed statuaries of leering marrowgaunts and sword-swallowing justicars. One by one, the sellswords present their punch-card invitations to the massive, axe-wielding automata at the filigreed gate. One by one, they are admitted, then escorted through the mercantile hive, past armies of clerks, and into a spacious, but swiftly crowded, parlour.

Crushed-velvet curtains conceal a row of mullioned windows, their charcoal-hued cloth defying dawn's would-be voyeurism. The chamber is nevertheless awash with light, provided by a trio of quartz-cut chandeliers. Highlighted by the amber illumination, the north wall is lined with an impressive, if macabre, display of execution paraphernalia. Maiden swords, nooses, breaking wheels, gibbets, and even an elaborate guillotine are accompanied by placarded bell-jars. Inside the display glasses, unsettlingly realistic wax-model heads immortalize the final visage for each of the paraphernalia's victims. The south wall hosts an equally gruesome decoration: the taxidermied corpse of a fang-trunked beast, equal parts pachyderm and cave-bear. Between these morbid ornamentations, a magnificent table of petrified wood and snake-skin dominates the little floor-space not claimed by the standing assembly of mercenaries.  

Seated at the table is a wiry, well-coiffed youth, dressed in a nobleman's finery and a bronze half-mask that resembles a fettergeist's face. Attached to the youth by a silver leash, a diaphanous winged, pustule-bearded toad squats atop the table. Its five eyes nakedly glare at the dirt and disreputable dress of the present sellswords. Oblivious to the demon's sanctimonious gaze, the young magister nurses a glass of expensive sherry. His hand trembles gently as he sips the fortified wine. Despite his mask, his facial expressions and darting eyes betray that something disturbs his peace, something beyond the throng of murderers-for-hire overcrowding his parlour. Pensively, he glances back at the servant behind him, a stout, thick-necked woman dressed in the garb of a man.

She wears a muslin veil, tricorne hat, liveried frockcoat, and greased pony-tail. An ur-fossil sabre and a hex-scribed pepperbox hang at her side, while a voltaic-charged tipstave rests in her yellow-gloved hand. Although her maroon, mirthless eyes remain locked on the mercenaries, she reassures her patron with a firm nod.

Apparently mollified, the youth sighs, sets down his glass –which the demon greedily finishes off- and rises from the table.

"Very well, Guin," he says in well-mannered Hellspeak, "I leave things in your capable hands."

"Thank you, my lord," the sinewy woman replies with a sharp bow, "I shall see it done."
While his servant curtly motions for the crowd to part, the magister brings his wine-slavering fiend to heel, then ambles out the room. A pair of liveried automata closes the mascaroned doors behind him.  

"Right then," the wide-faced woman barks in accented Shambles, "You are here for coin."

"The Night-Marrow Merchant Company, on behalf of his young lordship, Elphias Rasch-Lurot, has authorized me to award three thousand crowns for the safe return of his maternal uncle, one Xalmas Rasch."

"There are, however, certain stipulations, to the offer. First, you cannot have any active warrant or bond-price on your head. Second, you cannot have any extant contract with any of the syndicates. Past contract work is permissible; only current obligations are prohibited. Third, you must be willing to sign a notarized contract with me, rather than the company or his lordship. Fourth, while that contract is in effect, you must forgo taking on any additional contracts, whether as a bounty hunter, bodyguard, or work of similar nature. In sum, I am looking for someone who can devote his or her full attention to the task, and thus complete it with the utmost of immediacy."

"If you do not meet those specifications, you are dismissed."

Grumbles ripple through the crowd. The woman's grim demeanor, however, halts any challenge or request for clarification. Many nonetheless mumble at their time being wasted. Even more leave. Among them, Sharp Jasper spits out a smoke ring from his nacarat beard and storms off with a trail of expletive-spelling cigarette-smoke. Others, like slant-eyed Xar-Qay and tattooed Usha, depart with less fanfare. The former, in fact, gives a slight bow that Guin reciprocates.

In the wake of such departures, the once-overcrowded room is left with just a half-dozen sellswords.

Looking over the remaining mercenaries, Guin continues, "By you continued attendance, all of you are manifesting that you agree to the above conditions."

"And-,"
she adds with severe emphasis, "-are prepared to sign an ensorcelled contract that will both establish and enforce said stipulations."

At those words and implied warning, two pimpled-faced sellswords exchange a worried glance, then wordlessly slink out of the room.

At their exit, Guin approaches the remaining four. She eyes each in turn, appraising their stature, stance, and arms.

"State your names."

The first to answer is a tall, slant-eyed man wearing manskin chaps, a sweat-stained handkerchief drawn over his mouth, and the pelt of a tentacle-wolf. He carries a variety of manacles, a large skinning knife, and an aged blunderbuss whose flared barrel resembles a vomiting gorgefly. Teeth, of various beasts and men, are tied to his oil-black hair, and a scar-thin goatee hangs from his slender chin.

With an accent that marks him as a native of Mulcatra or Shoi-Tann rather than Skein proper, he answers in Hellspeak, "Tarpaulin Tlex, fastest trigger this side of the Radula."

"Indeed," Guin flatly replies.  

"And you?" she asks, stepping up to a hunchbacked ghul. Clothed in patchwork rags and a gauzy veil that dangles from a rickety straw hat, the female grave-spawn reflexively tenses her prodigious, scab-laced muscles. Slow to answer, the ghul eventually looks up with urine-hued eyes, straightens her tortuous spine, and reveals a vestigial head that hangs lifelessly between her breasts.

"They calls usss the Ossifragant."

Slightly raising an eyebrow, Guin sidesteps the disfigured nightfolk and continues her inspection.

"Name," she demands.  

"Catena."

Guin nods with what might be construed as approval, then steps up to the last sellsword.

A comparatively slight man of pale complexion and murine nose, the last mercenary squirms nervously under Guin's gaze. Jade-tinted spectacles, a broad-brimmed hat, and a charmeuse tunic conceal eyes, hair, and a tangle of tattoos that share the same dark-red hue. He bears a fraying lynch around his neck like a morbid necktie and a single-shot pistol at his side, but is otherwise unarmed.

"Jarrow Slake, ma'am."

"You have tattoos," Guin states with a disapproving eye.

"Y-yes, ma'am," Jarrow answers.

"But you aren't tied to a syndicate."

"No, ma'am."

"Good."

Stepping away from the group, Guin motions to a pair of liveried manservants who begin to roll up the room's brass-stitched rug with immaculate efficiency.

"There's one last stipulation," Guin says, her back turned to the sellswords. "The contract will only be extended to one of you. You have five minutes to settle amongst yourselves who will get it."

In response to the nigh-instantaneous cocking of Tlex's firearm, Guin nonchalantly adds, "No gunshots inside, please."

"N-now, ladies and gent," Jarrow sputters with palms extended, "I'm sure there's a way we can resolve this, w-without resorting to violence. Why, we could flip a coin, play a hand of cards, or draw lots to determi-"

The man's words are cut short, however, when the Ossifragant lunges at him and slashes his throat with her serrated claws.  As Jarrow crumples to the ground in a blood-foaming gurgle, the ghul just laughs:

"Lookss likes you lost the draw, s-ssmall man."[/ic]

[ooc]Make an initiative (Agility) roll, DC 2. If you succeed, you can take your turn without delay. All 3 sellswords are within an immediate distance.[/ooc]

Ghostman

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 3, total 3[/blockquote]
¡ɟlǝs ǝnɹʇ ǝɥʇ ´ʍopɐɥS ɯɐ I

Paragon * (Paragon Rules) * Savage Age (Wiki) * Argyrian Empire [spoiler=Mother 2]

* You meet the New Age Retro Hippie
* The New Age Retro Hippie lost his temper!
* The New Age Retro Hippie's offense went up by 1!
* Ness attacks!
SMAAAASH!!
* 87 HP of damage to the New Age Retro Hippie!
* The New Age Retro Hippie turned back to normal!
YOU WON!
* Ness gained 160 xp.
[/spoiler]

Seraph

[ic]Mr. Nix stands in place for a long time, eyes shut and clawing that the air as if the information he has uncovered were in fact physical pieces of information to arrange and piece together.  He sorts through them piece by piece, arranging and rearranging them, muttering to himself, and quizically revolving in place with his eyes closed, dragging one leg around an anchoring axis point as if in some kind of bizarre dance.  Perhaps the Repousse Boys think he is working another spell, but in fact he is only thinking.  

His eyes snap open.  They are wide, in a mixture of determination, rage, fear, and perhaps several other emotions.  

"They are still here!" he shrieks, and charges them as if to attack, teeth and claws bared, then stops, an inch apart from the youth's face.  The boy flinches and squeals, then opens one eye.  "Who are they!?" Mr. Nix growls exhales breathily, and the youth crumples into a fit of coughing and sputtering.  

"You know who we are" asserts Shiqq. 

Abandoning the boy, Mr. Nix turns to Shiqq.  "Not here.  Gone.  All gone.  We need names...Get us their names.  All gone, does it see? We needs to know what it's up to..."

Shiqq grins at him, "Then you're agreeing."
"Yess....yesss." Mr. Nix waves him away again, then suddenly seems to change his mind.  "Come with us..."

Mr. Nix carefully wipes away any remaining chalk dust that might hint at what he was doing in here, and peeks out the door until he spots his hellhound.  Motioning for the others to follow, he calls to the familiar.  "Vex!  We're going."  He begins to wind his way through the streets of the Ebon Ward, weaving in among other Ghilan, with the syndicate thugs in tow.

Rel-Shan cuts automates the slaughterhouse.  The mob of unemployed workers slaughters him.  Now people from that same section of the Ward are disappearing, and Yomi shot a piece of rusted metal from the Flensery off of what took them.  Yomi shot off bits of Nian and Virdal too, and they're dead....

"Nix, where are we going?"
"It knows where we are going!" the Ghul accuses.  "Black-Souse Tarnish.  Shiqq must show us where it happened: where Yomi shot it.  It takes us there, then it goes.  It gets our names, and meets us at The Sutured Cabaret."[/ic]
[ooc]Once in the neighborhood, Mr. Nix and Vex will follow Shiqq to the spot where they encountered the creature...whatever it was.  Mr. Nix has a few theories already, and he doesn't like any of them.[/ooc]
Brother Guillotine of Loving Wisdom
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Rose-of-Vellum

[ic]Shabby, dilapidated buildings mark Shiqq's path through the twilight-shrouded streets. As Mr. Nix and the others follow, they encounter a gang of hollering, offal-flinging guttersnipes. Fortunately for the diabolist's entourage, the urchins' fury is focused inward, as a pair of tattooed waifs circle one another with dirty shivs. So engrossed, the savage mob ignores the passing quartet. Pressing onward, Shiqq leads them through a claustrophobic alley, strewn with refuse, roaches, and drunken or drug-fogged runagates. Stepping over the fetid, moaning obstacle course, the group continues toward the Tarnish.

Crossing its threshold, the smell of rust, slag, and long-dead things assaults them. The drone of a million decay-gorging grease-flies mingles with an incessant whine, like that of a monstrous, off-key pipe-organ. Occasionally, the whine becomes a roar, as corroded vents and mottled valves belch steam-clouds into the bruise-purple sky. While the thinner fumes lazily rise toward cavernulous rooftops, the more ponderous gases crawl upon the ground, creating a choking haze that obscures the group's vision.

Overcome by the miasma, the younger thug gags, spewing bile and brandy unto the shrouded streets.  Vex happily laps up the vomit.

"Shut it, Tohno," Shiqq hisses, "Tarnish's no place to be caught with your teeth between your knees."

"M'm, s-sorry," he replies, half-retching.

Shaking his bristled scalp, Shiqq looks to Mr. Nix. "Kid just got his tooth last night."

Turning around to better orient himself, the three-armed tough continues, "Smog makes it hard to tell, but... I think the thing was on... that roof." He points to a four-story building with a heavily patched roof.

"Yeah-," he says, as if trying to convince himself, "-that's the one. I remember the hobnailed shingles –moon made 'em glitter like a magistra's brassiere."

Behind him, Tohno lurches. He feebly holds his stomach. He tries to steady himself, but his hand brushes a scalding pipe. His scream echoes strangely in the mist, followed by a stream of Baubo-worthy swears.

"Look, Nix-," Shiqq says without a mix of trepidation and annoyance, "-I've got to get the kid out of here. Tarnish air, it's no good for the quick. Especially now, after they flush the bloomeries."

As if punctuating his point, a subterranean gurgle shakes the ground, then erupts in a nearby gust of noxious fumes.

Stifling his own puke, Shiqq shuffles over to Tohno. Half-leading, half-dragging the curled-over thug, he shouts back:  

"I'll meet you at the club, Nix. I'll get those names."

The haze swiftly engulfs them.

At their departure, Vex looks up, licks the bile from its muzzle, and snickers:

"I like the lanky one. His emesis has an exquisite bouquet of freshly lost innocence, florid delusions, and blossoming regret. I remember when your's had the same tang. Ah, those were heady, delectable days, master."[/ic]

[ooc]I'm not sure your next course of action, but I'll wager it will include/require a perception check in the haze, which acts as a 1 step hindrance. Also, the vapors are poisonous, but your mastery reduces their DC to 0, so you are automatically unaffected. Vex's anatomy likewise renders it all but immune to such substances.[/ooc]

Rose-of-Vellum

[ic]Between the Circus' bright brickwork and the Dollhouse's fluted fence, Xavier sees little options. The tight ally is secluded, but little means of ingress are observed, as both buildings lack inward facing windows, and only the Circus has a side-door.

On the Dollhouse's other side, the Tragematopolis rises, a thin building of chocolate-stained wood that smells of licorice, plums, and chimerical dreams. Although the Boulevarde's curvature makes the alley more visible to passers-by, Xavier does notice a side-door on the Dollhouse, painted-over and seemingly unused. The distance to the door and the alley is about a half-dozen paces, though a pair of chimneys might provide some concealment to a person standing at the painted-over threshold.

Behind the boutique, however, another option presents itself. A set of slanted basement doors, built directly into the sloped lawn, provides access to the Dollhouse's bowels. Compared to the Boulevarde and its side-alleys, this back snicket bustles with carts, wagons, and pedestrians carrying supplies to the various establishments that flank both sides of the street. Lacking their glittering facades, the buildings form a bland row, barren of windows, and broken only by the occasional back-door, loading station, or supply chute.

As Xavier inspects the Dollhouse's back-entrance from afar, a careless porter jostles the disguised assassin, knocking his cigarette with a large crate. The burqa-dressed worker, without stopping to apologize, hustles toward the Dollhouse, stops at its basement doors, and kicks the lintel thrice with his heel. As the porter waits for the doors to open, he readjusts his grip on the cumbersome crate. In doing so, his robe twists, momentarily revealing the outline of several blades. The doors, however, open, and a similarly robed woman peeks out, scans the street, then admits the porter and his cargo. As the wooden doors close, Xavier hears the distinct sliding of a heavy door-bolt.

Before Xavier can react to the scene, however, he hears someone shout behind him. He turns, and sees a Watchman, spearsword in hand, hustling towards him.

"You there, sweeper," the guard shouts, "Halt."[/ic]

[ooc]The guard is currently a short distance away from you, but closing. The guard, though insistent and perhaps upset, does not seem overtly hostile.[/ooc]