Facade

Re: Facade

Postby Carnath-Emory » Sat Oct 12, 2013 7:58 am

No, insists Agnieszka, and with a single word completes perhaps the quietest denial that Ariane Emory has ever faced. There is no defying it. Agnieszka, after all, who'd been as a sister to Rhaena Olwak, and she? She'd been a cautioning word spoken by an angry voice. Never more than that, and often far, far worse -

"I was going to kill her."

Knows that, knows it, in ways that having nothing to do with the body laid so demurely at their feet. The hours they'd spent, securing one district after another. The installation of Acting Governor Treadwell; the seizure of each key building in turn, of each tactical landmark and crucial intersection. There was never any question but that it must culminate in this. And still, she echoes the words so quietly.

"You couldn't help but stop me - "

There is an implication. It is written as surely as words into Agnieszka's flesh. Tears in her eyes. A weapon clutched close to her side. And the swordswoman who was once her teacher has slowly shaken her head, but the hair clings damply yet at her temple, her brow. Sticky with more than sweat, and to rake a palm back over the mess of it is to leave her skin smudged dimly red -

This is what you do.

"It is not the time for this. This speculating, this - " This remembering. It was days ago, just days, that little Genny Tolleson had braved the blood and fire of her mind; days, since she was lost in a living dream of Perfect silken beauty. Still, her eyes stray. Still, their gaze wanders towards what lays upon the floor. It is an immediacy. This corpse, its cooling blood. It demands; its very existence cries out for answers -

"Look at you." It is possible to speak the words, even when her eyes do not move at all. Folding the hand behind her back has not begun to still its tremor, but a testing clench of the fingers suggests strength enough to grip leather reins. "Look - " Her throat tightens on the words. After a quieting moment, she begins again. "Constables we can have. Militia - " Hells. "Come. Now." A cautious approach: frayed fabric across her thigh; it bubbles thin red with every step she takes. "You'll ride double with me. I want the Militia stood down. And this -" You. "- seen to, before - "

One corpse cooling upon the floor.
She will not have another join it there.
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Re: Facade

Postby Tolleson » Sat Oct 12, 2013 8:09 am

The doors had been locked and guarded, but as an ally to both regimes, perhaps they’d let her in without question. Perhaps she had been there all along. Had there been anyone brave enough to stay, could they? The Inquisitory is utterly still and silent. There had been the scream from Rhaena’s residence, heard by few, and felt by many. But there had been another, before that, an echo that preceded the event and it had been as quiet as this room. Perhaps they had heard it, the few who had ever shared a link with her mind, perhaps they’d forgotten already. But for those who knew their own minds well, they might still feel it, the ringing absence of her branch in their mind. Rhaena if she had lived, Zilliah, and most of all, James.

In that plain she was no more, whatever sensation marked her presence, vanished.

And yet here, in Glenn and then Giuseppe’s chair, she sits safe within the office, her body entirely intact. Alone, her long legs are curled to her chest, arms that had once hugged them laid loosely as if she had simply fallen asleep. There is no blood on her hands, no soiled weapon, the over-large black garments are still scented with fresh lavender and untainted by the metallic stench so prevalent throughout the town.

Everything about the scene points to a frightened woman trying to find sanctuary, clinging to what little comfort she could find. Grasping for what is left of the people she assumes are lost. Everything that is, except the half-full cup of inky black, cold tea before her and her own dried blood; a few small drops, in a path from her nose. Resting against the chair unruly red hair juts out as a cumbersome pillow behind her resting head, her chin slightly up and her eyes barely open, are vacant. Streaks of dry tears have calcified on her cheeks and though her chest rises and falls, the rest of her is un-moving.
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Re: Facade

Postby Suede » Sun Oct 13, 2013 5:59 am

The Marshall must have been mad to think I would get involved in that nonsense in the streets. Fighting in one giant town brawl was a great way to wind up as a notch on some meathead's hilt. No thank you, I had better places to be. I'd warned that pale girl to stay out of town, but I went stomping back inside once I realized how bad things would be, and where. There was this old lady, I think she was a bit off in the head, but she was nice enough. Had enough cats in her house to clear the town of rats for years, and they always went "missing." Mostly they were up a tree, but she'd feed me if I went and found them all.

Hell, I knew the names of most of them at this point, since it was an easy way to get lunch. But she also wasn't the sort to be able to stop it if things got out of control and spilled into her home, so I'd dropped onto her stoop and set in like I was a fungi growing there for years and doing my best to looking menacing. Most of what I saw in the area was just group of men stomping around in time, or bungling about in swarms, but no one came too close. The old lady came out once with something to drink, calling me a nice boy. More proof that she was a little lost to reality. She made good coffee, though, like a fire in the belly.

....

Fire in my belly, like I'd been hit more than a few times with something stout. That was the first thing I noticed, the second was the root I stumbled over, and the third was the tree that owned the root when it swung a branchy fist into my face. I staggered back and stopped, I needed to collect myself. Why the hell was I outside of town near the edge of the trees, and why was I bruised all over? A glance down showed me I had my club in one hand, it was stained. I checked my dagger, it wasn't dirty but the rag I carried to keep it clean had blood on it, not to mention one of my coat sleeves and the front of my shirt. I couldn't tell just then if any of it was mine.

What in the hell happened? Did I get hit on my head? A quick swipe of the hand didn't send me cringing, but I still didn't know why I was here, was I running to or from someplace? I tried to stand up straight, but stretching my stomach just made it ache all the more. So I just hunched down my shoulders and began bumbling back towards town in the dark. First I needed to find somewhere to clean off, and if anyone asked the blood was from all the fighting earlier.
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Re: Facade

Postby Suede » Sun Oct 13, 2013 7:13 am

Kals had become something of a recluse since he'd battered his way into several minds about the town, seeing just what his sister had been up to. It was disturbed, truly twisted, and something hard to process about someone you're suppose to have a relation to. He had the cabin he and Kacela had built deep into the surrounding woods to spend his time at, and trips back to the Rain Wilds where the rest of his family was. It gave him places to hide and think.

He didn't know how to fix what Rhaena had done, it was different than it should be, so he'd started studying and practicing, trying to find a solution that didn't involve things he'd rather not think about.

He'd heard things were getting worse on his few trips into town, tensions running high and he thought he might have to try something, even just guarding his mind as strongly as he could and trying to reason with his sister. Whatever was wrong with her had to be fixable, then she could fix the rest. This was all likely Glenn Burnie's fault. Maybe if he snap the little bastard in two? Worry about it later, he'd left the forest near the Dagger and was heading towards town, a town that was coming to a boil.

When he stopped walking he was standing in the building in town his people used to store and sell the simpler Rain Wild treasures that the folk of Myrken Town might be able to afford. He didn't remember coming there, or why he was just standing in the middle of the floor. It was late, and he largely left the management of the store up to others these days. He turned his head and looked around a moment before realizing his veil was missing.

He raised a hand to check for it on his head and saw the blood on his fingers. He only gave it a moment's notice, wiping dry flakes onto the side of his vest before heading towards one of the windows. The sky told him more time had passed than should have, and the streets were a mob he didn't remember passing through.

A moment's focus and he reached out with the Skill, a touch to Kacela to see that she was well, then another out to find where Rhaena was in the mess. Even with all the activity he should be able to find her, to actually take care of why he came before things became even worse.

But... he couldn't find her, she wasn't anywhere. Even if she was guarding his mind, he knew he should still be able to find her. Maybe she'd figured out some other trick he just didn't grasp, but why not use it before. That left one frightening thought for a brother, even to a sister he often disavowed.

He felt panic and other things bubbling up inside, but he ignored them and pushed them out of the way, reaching with more force through the town to see where Rhaena was, and there was still nothing. Then something must have snapped, a switch flicked more primal than he was used to from his bond with Kacela. The door to the store nearly snapped off its hinges and Kals stormed out into the street, at a near run fueled by fear, moving towards the center of the fighting. Maybe Rhaena was there somewhere... just unconscious.
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Re: Facade

Postby Dulcie » Sun Oct 13, 2013 12:04 pm

Kacela had been hunting, the wolf needing it's fix of it's own shape. One minute she had been bounding after a little brown rabbit that moved quick enough to give her a good chase, the next she was there in the middle of a copse of trees surrounded by her kill, the fur and blood scattered across the ground and across her paws.

Both the woman and the beast found themselves in a state of confusion. How they had been hunting one minute, and full and sated the next was something that baffled the pair, which was precisely the state they were in when Kals reached out to Kacela.

It wouldn't take longer than an instant after that rush of primal panic from Kals to hit her before she started bounding off in the direction of the town. He was heading that way and she was bound to catch up with him. He'd hear her calling to him through their connection, trying to find out what was wrong even as she moved so quickly that she hadn't taken the time to shift back to human.
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Re: Facade

Postby Dulcie » Sun Oct 13, 2013 12:32 pm

"You knew that when I asked you to take a walk with me that wasn't exactly what I had meant didn't you?" Simona teased the Councilor gently as she walked along beside him, her arm looped delicately in the crook of his arm as she strolled through the town. She had found the Councilor of the Arts to be delightful company, despite what Seasons had said about him. However, most men just strolled right up with her to her outside room, they didn't actually want to take a walk.

"But of course. I just prefer my own surroundings. I do hope you don't mind, but I thought I might invite you into my home?" Berdini asked as he looked back at his lovely companion, already imagining the great number of things he could do with her when he got her home.

"Oh I don't mind at all, that'd be lovely. It' s nice to have a change of scenary" She gave his arm a little squeeze and leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked.

The pair chit chatted all the way down the street, and Simona was facinated as Berdini led her up the stairs to his apartment above the theatre. It was almost eerie to see a place so usually full of life so empty of it. On the other hand it felt blissfully private and alone, and the Councilor had magnificent taste in decorating. He had given her the tour of the apartment when he came to a panel against one of the walls.

"There's just one last room I'd like to show you Simona. Though I'm worried you won't enjoy it quite as much as I will." He breathed as he pressed the panel in just the right spot. The door creaked open and Simona balked at the sight of what was within. The room filled with things that looked made for torture, restraints on tables and wooden furniture and whips hanging on the wall. She shrieked and tried to run when a firm hand pressed her into the room as she heard the click of the lock behind her.
----
Berdini blinked as he stood in the middle of the hidden room, a naked, beaten Simona laid out on the floor in front of him, his own knuckles bloodied and his bare chest spattered with the drops of the delicate girl's blood.

He was baffled for the moment. Oh he had remembered his intentions for the pathetic teahouse girl, though as he looked at her body he wondered if he had killed her, though if that had been the case he wondered why he wouldn't remember it. It was a strange thing indeed. But if he had a body to deal with that would need to be taken care of first. It would be hard to explain how he left with a teahouse girl and never returned. Troublesome indeed. This was a bigger mess than he cared to deal with.

He walked over to the girl and lowered his cheek to her lips, where upon he breathed a sign of relief. The girl was alive. Alive was so much easier to problem solve than dead. He scooped the girl up into his arms and carried her to one of the bedrooms, laying her on a dark colored blanket that she couldn't stain with her still bloodied skin. He left her there then, and went to fix a drink, a cup of tea to which a few drops from some colored vials were added.

When he returned, Simona was stirring, groaning in pain "What happened?" She began to choke out, her memory still not completely returned to her. He pressed the drink to her lips, and she received it on his urging.

"Sssh now, we were attacked and I've rescued you." He murmered, watching as her eyes snapped open mid drink as she recalled the moment before she stopped remembering everything. That first sight of that dark room and the hand that pushed her inside, the sound of the lock clicking. But even as she was remembering he was continuing to tip that drink to her lips. He held her shoulders as she started to struggle before she sank back down into unconciousness.

"About damn time." He muttered to himself. He left the teahouse girl to her sleep and went back to his hidden room. Her clothing had been removed carefully at least and he collected that and a bowl of hot soapy water before he returned. Blood was sponged away from flesh as he watched the potion he gave her working miraculously upon her skin, healing wounds as if they had never been there. "What a waste, it will take months before I can afford another of those." Healing draughts that strong were hard to come by. They took just the right amount of magic from just the right person.

The girl was redressed and once the last wound had knitted her eyes would open again.

"What happened? Where am I?" She murmered softly, no look of fright in her eyes this time, a benefit of the other potion he had tipped into her glass, stealing away those few memories she had before the black out.

"You're in my home." He assured her. "We were attacked by a pair of knaves on the street. I fought them off, but you were terribly frightened and fainted. I brought you here to recover. How are you feeling?" He asked her in the most gentle of tones.

"Better I suppose. I'm so lucky you were there to protect me." She said with a gentle smile as she reached out to touch his arm. "So very lucky."
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Re: Facade

Postby Glenn » Mon Oct 14, 2013 8:04 am

Elliot

One good turn deserved another. No good deed went unpunished in Myrken Wood. These were two very different philosophies and strangely enough, in their own way, both were true. Elliot Gahald was a particularly stubborn young man. Elliot Brown had been as well, certainly. Knighthood had brought him poise, maturity, focus, but some things were nature. Some things did not go away no matter how much proper rearing one had. Some things did not go away no matter how much trauma one went through.

He should not be on his feet. He should not be leaving the safety of the hovel. That's what it was really. Elliot had spent so many hours of the last few months helping the unfortunate, offering them food, clothes, even, as things got more and more dire due to Rhaena's escalation and the advent of the Civil Constables. Elliot did not refuse that they had to follow the law but he did everything in his power to make it easier on them, to encourage them and to support them. They still chafed under the insane rule, but with less negative consequence than they might have otherwise.

The beautiful people, Rhaena Olwak's chosen would not be able to take Elliot in now. Those who had railed against her regime would not either, but the lowest of the low, those who he fed, those who he clothed, those who he supported, first bemused by the help but more and more appreciative, were working to hide him away, to shield him from authorities old and new, until he healed.

He was still far from that moment, but there was a bustle outside in Myrken. There was so much going on and he was unable to help anyone through it. He wasn't even sure what was afflicting his town. People spoke of the horror of Lady Olwak being dead, but of stories unraveling and an hour lost to everyone, not just him.

He had lost that hour, yes, but he'd gained so much more, phantom dreams and the weight of memories not his own. Something had happened was wrong, and as he tried to stand again, now, days later, the wound from his armor collapsing inward flared with pain. More than that, though, he saw himself again, brash, unseemly, casual, not uncaring, not unfriendly, kin in words and deeds, but not to him. Kin to someone else. The combination of the two were too much and with a scowl and a groan, he fell once again. "Cherny." He finally managed to speak. "Is Cherny alright? Is Petronela? Are they well?" Blackness overtook him once more and this time, as it did, his fist slammed hard into the floor. He had to be better than this. He had to be stronger. Myrken needed him. He had to ...
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Re: Facade

Postby channe » Tue Oct 15, 2013 6:49 am

One minute, Petronela was laying out tea-cakes. The next, she was pouring tea all over herself.

She was missing the cup in front of her, and the scalding liquid caused her to screech and step away from the unfortunate customer -- and as she blinked, she saw the teahouse with a new light. The lace tablecloths. The -- salon. When did she put in a salon? How did she forget why? Why were the customers different than the moment before? Why -- why did she feel different? She couldn't put her finger on it --

"Ladies," she says, hurriedly apologizing to the customer, reaching for cold water to pour over her scalded hand -- "Ladies, are you all here? Come downstairs!"

One by one, some dazed, they assembled in the main room.

"We're missing Tara. And --" She frowned. "Simona. Did they tell anyone where they were going?"
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Re: Facade

Postby catch » Tue Oct 15, 2013 5:17 pm

He waited for them.

He knew they were coming. He knew what the posters read. He knew what was planned. So he waited, through all the long night, his bloodied fingers clenching the rope around his thick, bulging neck, every muscle of him taut, screaming. There was blood in his mouth, and it wasn't his; it tasted like Haik, it tasted like fingers and bone and marrow and flesh. He tried not to think at all, and it was his rage that held him, that kept him from strangling, that kept his breath hot between his teeth - teeth inside a jaw that had snapped a man's arm to useless kindling.

When the sun dithered through the warehouse slats, he finally heard them, hard boots on cobbles, breathless Militia-men who knew he was here, who had seen, and in securing the area also secured him with a quick saw of the knife.

"Didn't you see what he-" one of them started, nervously edging away.

"So? 'E's One of th'Marshall's," the Captain said. They spoke around Son, but their words were a tiny buzz in his ears. One of them held something to his mouth, and his throat spasmed as water came into it, poured down. He coughed and sputtered, but when they tried to take the pouch away, he latched onto the wrist that held it, thrust the spigot back between his teeth. He needed water. A hunter's boy would know that.

"Y'stay in here now, lad," the Captain said, and they left him with the pouch of water and a bit of food-ration. "Y'll be safe in 'ere."

Son stayed just as long as it took to devour the food - he was hungry, hungry, so hungry - and suck the rest of the water into his belly, promising it more, more meat meat blood and meat and bone and later, later, at the Dagger, when Sera Nine-Shillings sat on Myrken's throne and he and Cherny and Noura could laugh about this. His body staggered only a little as he strode through the dim light and thrust himself back into the day.

The stocks were on fire. It took him some time to get to them, but they were on fire, empty. And he turned down another alley, trying to stay out of sight, his thick fingers flexing and curling and remembering the day before, how it all went wrong, and how much he wanted to do it aga

Cat had done it this time. There was Cat, first and foremost in his mind, and he pushed out against the wall. He needed to find Cat, didn't he? No, he needed to find Noura. But something didn't work right. Cat was there, but then she wasn't, the urchin who tried so hard to be a boy, so ready with a dagger, and Son's leg came down and it collapsed and he sagged in the street. Something didn't work right. It was hard to breathe, harder than it had been. He hurt in all new places, all new ways, that had nothing to do with the beating he had endured the day before.

He took his hand away from his belly. Hunger. he was so hungry, and that's what that gnawing, screaming pain was. But his hands were full of fresh blood - a broken finger, he notes, with a detached sort of air, a nervous giggle that hurt everything all over again. It wasn't hunger. There was a hole in his belly. He covered it up with his hands again, and stubborn, angry part of him pushed him on, made his feet move, sluggish though he was.

What was it about Cat? Why was it Cat, and not Noura? He had to find Cat.

__________________________________________

The Rememdium stretchers came and went, taking the wounded to be mended, and for those first couple of days, it was sheer chaos. Hands were what were needed, and there were not nearly enough. Uncles and Aunties, old and gnarled, oversaw youngsters snatched from the street to carry bowls of water and trays of supplies, to pressed a bandage here, a bandage there. There were no names at the Rememdium, no allegiances. Son was put in a bed with five other people, his wound stitched shut, a rather nasty jab to the belly with a wickedly sharp knife.

He was remembered, recognized, by one of the staff. That man made certain to keep the boy drugged quite well. Almost like an animal; he had been the one to amputate the ruin of the Civil Constable's arm. Hardly human. Inquiries would have to be made.

Son slept, and he couldn't remember why Cat was so important in his dreams of copper sand and devoured gore.
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