R-Group
2015-02-17, 06:05 AM
“Let’s not allow ourselves be jumbled by titles or exotic names, alright? Frankly, I don’t care what you call yourself—all I’m interested in is what you do. The rest is nothing but details, and those are so easily ignored these days, aren’t they? Details, such as who I am, and why I’ve asked you to join me here tonight. No one minds and in fact most prefer, when such topics are willfully overlooked: all that matters tonight is whether or not you accept my invitation.”
The voice is monotonous in its incredulity, as though the entire monologue is an elaborate joke that only the speaker finds funny. It is the pitiable humor of the stage performer who laughs at his own performance, contained by quiet dignity alone. The voice has already offered you its arrangement, and has since then been unable to cease speaking without the distinct quality of desperation, despite clearly lacking such tone.
The voice had offered you a rather simple investment opportunity—an investment made in, specifically: you. The voice described the agreement as “ensuring that the future occurs as I decide,” yet offered no further explanation. He offers an insurance that you will be provided whatever is necessary for you to conduct your business continuously, so long as when the time comes, you will return the favor. He offered no further explanation.
“Despite the men in the room around us, I cannot force your hand to comply with my offer. I recommend that you do, although then again you must understand, gentlemen, that I make my bid entirely out of my own self-interest. What you provide is a modicum of assurance, to me, that this city will never change. Gentlemen, you are all the epitomes of rottenness, something which Pseudepas suckles from the teat of damnation. Men such as us ensure that this city never improves, that the same addicts and derelicts come crawling back to our realms day after day to satisfy their needs, their ugly holes through which they swallow the nutritious filth of decadent bilge. We are the men that make this city turn on its head, and we are the men who profit. Say what you will, but I prefer to not be alone in the industry, even if I must create my own competition.”
There’s a short huffing sound from the shadows as you briefly see the end of a long cigarette flare alive—momentarily outlining the voice’s figure—before disappearing once more amid coils of sour smoke. The voice pauses for a moment of obvious satisfaction, exhaling deeply. Visible streams of breathed crystals solidify in the frigid atmosphere, taking your attention before their existence is snuffed out. The puffs of breaths and smoke offer the only contrast in the silence against the hanging corpses of pigs and cattle, even oxen or horses, spiked on wide hooks just outside the flickering glow of the singular oil lamp. The cadavers drip unfrozen blood onto the cold concrete below. The stink of fresh death is repulsive, and ever present.
The room is vast and labyrinthine: you’ve met here in perhaps the largest slaughterhouse he city offers, settled deep into the confines of Spit’s–Trough. You had received word of this meeting several days earlier, when rumor reached you that your presence was requested in the Icebox. You had been on the fence about attending, though the day of a pair of suited men arrived at your doorstep to escort you—they were unarmed except for briefcases and coded letters, and very polite. You thought it would only be reasonable to follow along; perhaps not the wisest choice ever made—but here you are. And there’s been no harm so far. Each of you must have entered the Icebox’s storage floor by different means, since you were brought through what appeared to be a main entrance, yet never saw any of the others beside you until the light was lit above. There is a force, evidently magical, blocking natural darkvision from penetrating farther than several yards past the lamp’s edge—although the concrete floors echo destructively, and the only footsteps you’ve heard are your own, the voice’s, and each pair of guides’.
The cigarette brightens once more before plummeting, the dim light finally crushed beneath flat leather shoes. The voice sighs and steps forward into the murky light, revealing himself to your view. He wears an immaculate black suit, over which rests luxuriant fur coat. His face is squashed and heavily scarred, worst of all is the crookedly disfigured nose. The lack of beard throws you off momentarily—the man is a dwarf, the slit-mouth full of nothing but molars and the wide brow evidence enough. After another brief pause, the man extends a gloved hand.
“I know you, so you better get to know me—though I meant it when I said no details. Call me Kenchman, but don’t believe for a second that it’s the right name, it’s only a moniker that stuck. So take it as you will.”
The hand stretches farther, dragging itself into the midst of your cluster beneath the lamp. The hand isn’t pointed at anyone in particular; merely forced in a vague direction without care.
“Details can always come later. So, do we have a deal?”
I think the only thing I need to mention is that you are armed however you wish, since you could bring whatever you wanted to the meeting. The guides didn’t stop you at all, so what you take is up to you. The lamp is magical, though I imagine that was obvious. Detect Magic reveals moderate Illusion and Necromancy when viewed.
The voice is monotonous in its incredulity, as though the entire monologue is an elaborate joke that only the speaker finds funny. It is the pitiable humor of the stage performer who laughs at his own performance, contained by quiet dignity alone. The voice has already offered you its arrangement, and has since then been unable to cease speaking without the distinct quality of desperation, despite clearly lacking such tone.
The voice had offered you a rather simple investment opportunity—an investment made in, specifically: you. The voice described the agreement as “ensuring that the future occurs as I decide,” yet offered no further explanation. He offers an insurance that you will be provided whatever is necessary for you to conduct your business continuously, so long as when the time comes, you will return the favor. He offered no further explanation.
“Despite the men in the room around us, I cannot force your hand to comply with my offer. I recommend that you do, although then again you must understand, gentlemen, that I make my bid entirely out of my own self-interest. What you provide is a modicum of assurance, to me, that this city will never change. Gentlemen, you are all the epitomes of rottenness, something which Pseudepas suckles from the teat of damnation. Men such as us ensure that this city never improves, that the same addicts and derelicts come crawling back to our realms day after day to satisfy their needs, their ugly holes through which they swallow the nutritious filth of decadent bilge. We are the men that make this city turn on its head, and we are the men who profit. Say what you will, but I prefer to not be alone in the industry, even if I must create my own competition.”
There’s a short huffing sound from the shadows as you briefly see the end of a long cigarette flare alive—momentarily outlining the voice’s figure—before disappearing once more amid coils of sour smoke. The voice pauses for a moment of obvious satisfaction, exhaling deeply. Visible streams of breathed crystals solidify in the frigid atmosphere, taking your attention before their existence is snuffed out. The puffs of breaths and smoke offer the only contrast in the silence against the hanging corpses of pigs and cattle, even oxen or horses, spiked on wide hooks just outside the flickering glow of the singular oil lamp. The cadavers drip unfrozen blood onto the cold concrete below. The stink of fresh death is repulsive, and ever present.
The room is vast and labyrinthine: you’ve met here in perhaps the largest slaughterhouse he city offers, settled deep into the confines of Spit’s–Trough. You had received word of this meeting several days earlier, when rumor reached you that your presence was requested in the Icebox. You had been on the fence about attending, though the day of a pair of suited men arrived at your doorstep to escort you—they were unarmed except for briefcases and coded letters, and very polite. You thought it would only be reasonable to follow along; perhaps not the wisest choice ever made—but here you are. And there’s been no harm so far. Each of you must have entered the Icebox’s storage floor by different means, since you were brought through what appeared to be a main entrance, yet never saw any of the others beside you until the light was lit above. There is a force, evidently magical, blocking natural darkvision from penetrating farther than several yards past the lamp’s edge—although the concrete floors echo destructively, and the only footsteps you’ve heard are your own, the voice’s, and each pair of guides’.
The cigarette brightens once more before plummeting, the dim light finally crushed beneath flat leather shoes. The voice sighs and steps forward into the murky light, revealing himself to your view. He wears an immaculate black suit, over which rests luxuriant fur coat. His face is squashed and heavily scarred, worst of all is the crookedly disfigured nose. The lack of beard throws you off momentarily—the man is a dwarf, the slit-mouth full of nothing but molars and the wide brow evidence enough. After another brief pause, the man extends a gloved hand.
“I know you, so you better get to know me—though I meant it when I said no details. Call me Kenchman, but don’t believe for a second that it’s the right name, it’s only a moniker that stuck. So take it as you will.”
The hand stretches farther, dragging itself into the midst of your cluster beneath the lamp. The hand isn’t pointed at anyone in particular; merely forced in a vague direction without care.
“Details can always come later. So, do we have a deal?”
I think the only thing I need to mention is that you are armed however you wish, since you could bring whatever you wanted to the meeting. The guides didn’t stop you at all, so what you take is up to you. The lamp is magical, though I imagine that was obvious. Detect Magic reveals moderate Illusion and Necromancy when viewed.