n0ble's Blades in the Dark- Cult

[n0ble]

Fresh off the Boat

“Oi, Sorn! Hey Sorn, you listening?" A little snuffle went up from behind Moriya's back. Sounded like trance powders. " Hey ****head you listening? This is a good one. How do you tell a Stranger **** from one of their men?”

The sailor's partner sounded like he was talking through a particularly sticky tonic. “Oh thass easy Vioshek. Kick his ssister in the jawahaha!”

Moriya shook their head and kept walking down the gangplank of the ship. They wobbled momentarily, not quite used to traversing land. Under normal circumstances they’d have been situated to it. But the journey from Irondale had been a hard one, even ignoring the stop in Thorn. Moriya shook their head free of the memories and checked the satchel, satisfied that it still clinked as they moved. One false stepThere was little else of value on their person, outside of a longcoat and practical tricorn.

And the mask. Had it always been like that? Ever since leaving the homeland Moriya couldn’t never been too sure. Sometimes, when she didn’t have the mask on and the bottles inside her satchel proved weak against their content, she heard them. For now the implements remained silent.

Moriya shook their head again. From Irondale to Sevrin. To Whitehollow and it’s saltshores to the Dusk, all in the span of weeks. The explorer was glad to be free of the jungle. Too many ferals had lingered within its foliage. At one point a snake the size of a horse and with eyes like gems had broken their ribs. Such had been the price to pay for the new collection. Moriya breathed and reflexively scanned the docks for trouble. The two sailors behind her had departed, lugging a box of muscles behind them. A Stranger with a twisted face was hawking some hagfish at a nearby stall. The smells drifted back to them, mixing with scents of Duskvol’s industry to produce a salty-smoke that reaked of coals and industrial waste. Nontheless, Moriya’s stomach growled. It had been too long since they’d had true food, rather than the nuts and foreign meats of the jungle. Moriya scrutinized the man with a gaze bereft of emotion, then idly touched at her satchel once again. It felt reassuring, knowing that so much knowledge was so close by. They walked at a brisque pace, passing the vendor to venture beyond, into the sprawl of Duskvol’s docks.

The vendor wasn’t alone. Leviathan hunters stalked back to their fortress-boats, some stained and scarred with a familiarity that found no sympathy in Moriya. More Strangers and Severosi and Iruvians paraded their own knacks and seafoods in front of dockers or sailors. A few of the latter had stopped by to regard an Iruvian’s salted cod. Moriya had never cared for the delicacy. A sharp cracking sound drew their attention. As they looked, Moriya saw Bluecoats bungling another Skov off into an alley. The dockers and sailors milled about, willfully oblivious to the violence. Moriya adjusted their hat and kept walking.

The North Hook Trading Company loomed in the distance, like a giant archaic canker that had forgotten about the old age around it. Moriya snuck a glance at the guards around the structure’s fence. While they would have liked to go around it, such a task was easier said than done given the scale of the old manor. Each looked like they-and their gear-had seen conflict to put the explorer to shame. They bundled up their coat and tricorn, and then picked up the pace. It would not do to be accosted by a whisperer at this moment. Not in front of such an edifice.

Ever the practical explorer, they had no time for the squalor and chaos of Crow’s foot. That left a path through Brightstone that, if Moriya was being honest, they had wanted to see. They walked on, eastward Past the warehouses and flophouses were the less established seamen made port. Past Saltford’s and the bodies that swayed and creaked from the building’s lampposts. Every so often some enterprising sailor that was fed up with his wages got the bright idea of robbing Saltfords. The latest band of ghosts-to-be may as well have been Echoes for how much attention Moriya paid them now. Then it was over the Jayan Bridge into Brightstone. Just as the visions had told them to. Once. Twice. A hundred times. For another Boathopper, the wonder of Bowmore Bridge may have held some sway. But Moriya had seen better in the jungles, beneath the old Dagger Islander soils. The bridge, like so much of the Dusk, held little but means to the Skov. They checked the bag once more after crossing into Brightstone. Under normal circumstances, Moriya would never have considered dallying in such luxury. The white of the houses hurt the eye and Silver Market held little for one who had traveled the Empire. They’d everything they needed in the satchel. But the Unity Park memorial? That warranted an exception.

Moriya stalked past silver market, scorn writ plain on what little of their face was visible. It softened a little as they cut across the park, eyeing the massive testament to Imperial victory and Skovish failure. The explorer’s grip tightened on the satchel, perhaps a bit more defensively than they would have liked.

A group of penitents were purifying themselves at the base of the monument’s dais, and Moriya briefly considered what the Church members would appear as behind the mask. They almost smiled, not in support of the faithful but out of curiosity. One of the spirit bottles in her satchel quietly burbled a few quips into Moriya’s head. It was all the reminder needed, spurring Moriya southeast and into Six Towers.

They passed old names on every street that called the district home. Some of the names had become Skovish curses. Moriya cared little for such nostalgia. Setting foot in Six Towers had lit a fire in their mind. It was enough to make them hurry, to answer the call, the visions that had plagued the Skovlander’s dreams while on the electrorails. They kept to the shadows, occasionally sneaking furtive glances at the various ghosts that sifted through the walls of Six Towers. A few looked particularly ancient, unconcerned with the explorer’s presence. On occasion they had to avoid some of the new looking ones. Drowned men. Little victims of the Unity War missing their legs. Moriya swore to themselves. All of them would have a home.

Eventually, they found it. An old rundown house. Moriya tried the front door, found it locked, then had more success with the storm cellar entrance. Once the door was closed behind them, the explorer audibly sighed, then looked around. All was as had been promised. There was a space on the basement floor for sigils, along with several shelves of books. A particularly vacant one looked like the perfect place to store them. Moriya withdrew the spirit bottles from the satchel and placed them on the shelf to the left of the ratty books. The other explorers. One from each nation. Their very own little Path of Echoes. Moriya stroked the receptacles with a lovers touch.

A few errant shouts drew their attention to the floors above. They could make out a muffled conversation. “Ah ah, Nadia. Careful I says, careful!” A loud clatter followed the admonishment. Some sort of pleasant smell wafted through the air, drawing Moriya upwards. Somewhere on the stairs up out of the Sanctum, the mask came on. The house seemed brighter through its eyes. Some of the torcholders on the walls danced with pale light. Not a single ghost was around. Moriya withdrew a heavy blade and baroque pistol from the folds their coat. As though in response, a litany of Skovish curses wafted under the basement door. Maysawell have been Akorosi for all the explorer cared.

The door led into what looked to have been converted into a dining room. One of the rooms occupants was running a hand over his pantleg. Some sort of broth had spilled on it from a heavy cast-iron pot that rested on the dining room table. Belatedly, Moriya realized it was the source of the pleasant smell.

Six individuals greeted them on the other side. Each sported a tattered prison uniform, bedecked with fetishes or the odd occult knick-knack. Some of those hurt to look at, even through the mask. All the figures were boney, wiry, and more than a little tired looking in spite of the ample accommodations. Deathlanders. Moriya smiled under the mask, then closed the door to the basement. None of them had rifles, but the one with broth on his pants had a blade that looked equal to Moriya’s own in weight, if not length.

Moriya cleared their throat, then leveled the pistol at the most Skovish looking of the Deathlanders. Their voice came out distorted through the mask, with several other voices speaking in concert or against what was being said. The words came with a natural Skovish accent, tinged with flecks of Severosian and Dagger Islander. The explorer spoke Skovish. <Who-?> They stopped. It had been awhile since they’d spoken the mother tongue. <Who are you?>

Broth-Pants (https://i2.wp.com/bloody-disgusting.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/Supernatural-5x19-Hammer-of-the-gods-mark-pellegrino-16732729-1280-720.jpg?w=1280) looked at his sword, then really seemed to notice that a pistol was leveled at his torso. <Uh. Strictly speaking we’re all ex-convicts. Though really->

The pistol momentarily dipped low, then Moriya’s mind was momentarily flooded with all the possible crimes a man could be sent to the Deathlands for. <Does that bitch Thorn know you’re here?>

He spoke with an Akorsian accent. It sounded…nasally. <With her blessing. Did-> He moved forward, then stopped as Moriya leveled their blade at him. <Did you hear it? The call?>

Their grip on the pistol faltered, struck dumb as they were by such a revelation. The Spirits below burbled out in agreement. One of the Deathlanders twitched in time with what was said, and Moriya lowered their pistol just a little bit more. It’d not do to upset the collection. <I-Maybe. I might have.>

The man sighed, <”We did too. It promised us hot food and a place to sleep without the stars. Seemed better work than> out there.” He punctuated the Skovish with a jab of his thumb, towards the Lost District. Moriya tried to contain her anger. The Lost District was common associated with the Silver Nails. “What did it promise you, friend?”

<”Not your friend.”>

<Comrade then. Look-> The man dropped his hands and motioned for the others to do the same. “We’ve faced down worse than a pistol half full with powder. Fact of it is, we’re here to work. Figure most anything could be better than working the Deathlands or the Mire. Leastways here whatever it is offers a hot meal,” The man’s fingers went up to clutch at a mask that wasn’t there, while his other spastically twitched. It was a common tell, marking out those who had extensive experience in the wastes beyond the barriers. And that a ghost had once claimed the man’s body.

<I->

“Look, why don’t you put the pistol down, we can share some food, break some eel pie, carve up some goat and wait for the others, eh? Maybe you can tell us how you and Lady Thorn came to be acquaintances. How’s that sound? ”

Moriya looked at each of the Deathlanders in turn, unused to the kindness in their eyes. The broth smelled good, like old memories and fine Vodkas. There was something about it that sent her senses on edge in ways she was not used to. Goat meat did sound good…

<Standard job for standard pay. Helped her kill an Inspector that’d found out about her plan for a pard->

The man cut them off, which wasn’t what surprised the explorer. Treat someone like a savage, expose them to repeated ghost possession and what else would they be? Instead it was the friendliness of his tone that shook her. “Holy ****. Your Moriya.”

They stood struck dumb for a moment. The pistol went a bit lower. This time with the blade came down all the way with it. “Could be I’m Ritcher.”

“Look uh no offence…”

They relented, dropped the pistol so that it pointed at the floor, then answered <Moriya->

All the Deathlander faces brightened a little more. <”Moriya.> I’ve met Ana Richter and I gotta say, your way prettier than she ever will be.” Moriya’s face creased into an irritated frown behind their mask. They tucked the pistol and blade back into their coat.

<You know me. Who are you? Besides murdering rapists.>

The man’s face went mournful, and for the first time since meeting the group he looked like a true Deathlander. “No rapists here Moriya. I’m Cornel. Cornel Casslyn.”

Behind their mask, Moriya’s eyebrows rose in exclamation. Her face remained neutral. <Cornel Casslyn. The Bowmore Bomber?>

Cornel sketched a mockingly low bow. “The very same.“ His haunted look briefly morphed into a wolf-like grin, then settled into the same smile as before. Then he jolted rigid with energy, as though suddenly remembering something. “Right. We’ve work to do but it’s no skin off our backs to get it done. Be nice to work with a stove again, even if it is a ****ty little tinderbox. Still.” Cornel smiled to himself “You just sit here, “ He indicated a seat at one end of the table. “, and we’ll get you a proper meal. Nadia here,“ He jabbed a thumb at a woman who was less angular than the other Deathlanders, “used to be a cook. ” That seemed to be all the Deathlanders needed to hear. They filed out in good order to another door. Had it been there the whole time?

Moriya looked around, trying to see if there were any other famous personages underneath the dirt and gaunt faces. Finding none she could recognize, she turned to Cornel. <Others?!>




Alright, let’s get things underway! Feel free to describe as much of your characters daily life as you care to before they come to the house. I’ll leave it up to individual players to describe how they received the summons to appear and why you want to join up.

Below are some questions. Feel free to answer some, all or none. Just a few prompts in case people want to flesh out the Lair and Crew a bit more

Questions for the Crew

What does the house smell like?
What entrance do you take?
Do you know any of the Deathlanders-turned-Adepts?
What's your favourite food? It’s on the table, just as you like it.

Player Questions

GameofChampions
You’re a whisperer and this is Six Towers. What sorts of Ghosts call this district home/enemy turf/neutral ground? What does Moriya's spirit mask look like?

3secondcultist
Does the house have a garden around it? A decrepit greenhouse? Some other kind of plant housing structure? If so, what kinds of flora are present that you recognize? That you don’t recognize?

thenewflesh
You’re a Penderyn. What’s that like? How many siblings do you have? And which of the Six family’s used own the Tower next to this house?

Dojango
What makes this lair so valuable? Where can someone hide in Six Towers? Are there any major curios (the kind that pay) that are rumored to be in this district?

Let’sGetKraken
What sort of tier 0 books does the ritual sanctum have in it? Have you fought anyone lately? How does whooping some ass make you feel?

Idares
Do you have dirt on Moriya? What kind? Who in the crew worries you the most? Why

[GameOfChampions]

Vey eyes the rundown house with some misgivings. It had been a few days since he had seen the house in his drug trance and the... thing had told him to go. It burned an image of this house into his mind and since then he had felt it calling to him, pulling him towards it. He hesitates slightly outside the house, until now the thing had just been a source of pleasure without any investment on his part but now he needed to take the leap of faith.

With a deep breath he stride forward and opens the front door, entering into the room full of rough looking men and women and one other. The house is a mess of smells from the ripe scent of unwashed bodies in close proximity to his favorite dish, grilled eel with sauteed mushrooms.

The women is intimidating between her looks and demeanor, but the worst is the mask. Her mask is carved obsidian with silvery swirls along the entire mask with the eyes covered in volcanic glass plates of deep black glass mixed with red swirls that are almost hypnotic to look at. He could feel its power by just looking at it, it was effecting the weird around them and he could feel the slight unease of the ghosts. He was not the biggest fan of the ghosts is the Six Towers district, they tended to be pompous and arrogant ghosts from the districts glory days and treated most like trash, but he felt almost bad for them.

Awkwardly he glances around and raises his hand "Is this the right house? I've been... guided here by something."

Some of the men and women seem slightly familiar, they may have been brief clients or possibly been visiting Father Yoren at the same time as him. They had the feel of people who have been associated with weird at times.

[3SecondCultist]

With a practiced quiet, Thorn steps into the shadows of the house at the end of the block. A few of the other tenements here in Six Towers have marked graffiti on the walls in her mother tongue, but she pretends for the sake of her traveling companion not to read them. Instead, she keeps her eyes fixed on the door before her featureless alabaster mask. Through it, she can already start to smell the sweet, black-green aromas of rot from the house's walled off greenhouse.

In a way, the smell reminds her of Skovland. Of the occupation, of hiding in Father's study, living off of preserved rations while outside the family plot spoiled in the bleak midsummer sun. Perhaps it is not a pleasant memory, but at least it is a familiar one. Bezayn's First Axiom: the key to solving any equation is knowing or approximating its variables. Therefore, it is prudent to surround oneself with known factors whenever possible. The words come back to Anna, but she takes no comfort in them. Remembering the rot of her garden does not make this place home, even if she has already identified thirteen types of herb through smell.

Silversheen. Nightmare root. Some blend of alca-seed and oleander bush. Wild gorse and lavender. A cultivation of strange aromas that have no business belonging in her nasal cavity, let alone in the same plot of earth. The fascination carries the woman forward, pushing open the outer gate despite herself. Thorn knows well that the Professor is the kind of man who can handle this sort of endeavor. Anna Vasilia, on the other hand, follows nostalgia's mistress until it takes her to an unfamiliar door. Knocking three times, she finds that the portal is already slightly ajar. Somebody else has come to this place tonight.

Moving into the foyer, the masked woman is struck by the amount of people inside. Seeing that anonymity is not necessarily a priority, she removes her own facial covering, letting a curtain of pale blonde hair loose around her shoulders. Tying it back into a tight ponytail, her glacial eyes scan the room, before coming to rest on a gaunt looking fellow in robes.

"Good evening, sir," Anna says after a moment, her voice coming out a little bit clipped. "I was told by a friend that there might be rare reagents here, but I wanted to inquire with the master of the house about going through your garden before trespassing. Are you he?"

[dojango]

In this line of work, carelessness will get you dead. Or worse. Slink spent a few hours casing the joint. Was damned hard, too. High wall surrounded the grounds, topped with broken shards of crockery. Not many places to lurk unobtrusively nearby. If this were Brightcrown, wandering guards would have stopped by to give him a quick beating, but here, only a few restless ghosts wandered by. He'd asked Petra to pull the tax records on the place. No clear owner for several decades, and then... a mysterious buyer. Tax paid up front. Slink doubted any of the lowlifes he saw lurking about had that kind of scratch. Well, maybe Halleck, the counterfeiter. Slink had known him from a few years back, before he'd gone up to Ironhook for a spell. The front gate was padlocked with a stout chain, no real barrier, but opened out on a main street. The servant's entrance, on the other hand, was tucked into a discrete alley, out of sight. A small side canal offered water access, too. So. A few immediate vulnerabilities were apparent, but there was no target without them.
Slink drifted into the house, looked around. The gardens were overgrown with the strange plants that survived in the perpetual twilight. In the distance, Strangford's tower crouched in the dark. The Dimmer Sisters would pay a fortune for even a glimpse of his hoard. But nobody had survived to take them up on that offer.
The manor itself was largely abandoned. Slink went down into the basement. Unwashed bodies, poor sanitation... he hardly noticed that sort of thing anymore. The strange and twisted flora of the manor grounds had a sickly-sweet aroma that wafted in. Slink strolled in as if he owned the place. He set the silk-wrapped bundle on the table. "I brought the relic," he said. "Halleck. How you been? Out of the printing trade? Hey! Who brought the mushroom and mince pie? Cut me off a piece, would you?"

[Let'sGetKraken]

Grumbling with every step, the Professor strode towards the manor, making a feeble attempt at stealth. He had never been terribly good at it, to be fair, and today he had more important things on his mind.

Much like their owner, his clothes had seen better days: his suit, while clean, was painfully out of fashion and frayed around the edges, and his belt had only a few more stranglings to go before it gave out entirely. Nevertheless, the Professor was confident that he looked the part. After all, they're not looking for someone entirely reasonable. They need a problem-solver. A creative thinker. Someone who can out-think and," he cracked his knuckles, which were still bruised"out-punch the opposition."

Still, as exhilarating as the thrill of combat - no, not combat, mentally and physically defeating an opponent - was, he'd taken a nasty fall in the brawl with the Severosi earlier. His right leg threatened to collapse ever time he took a step. Maybe I should get myself a cane? He paused, lost in thought, and fiddled his top-hat. No, that would look ridiculous.

As he finally approached the ramshackle gate and the group of people waiting there, he called out a greeting. "Good day to you all! I'm terribly sorry I'm late - there was a copy of Sebetha's Realmatic Theory that I thought would make an excellent addition to our nascent collection. Shall we begin?

This is it. The final piece of the puzzle. I'm almost there.


I've been bedridden with Strep Throat. Sorry this took me so long to post!.

[Idares]

The scrawny yet potbellied figure is seen walking past the same front gate at the same house, from the same street, for the 6th time. He only gives a few glances towards the property as he strolls past, hands in pocket.

This is it, right? This is where the wrinkly ole wench said it would be. She wouldn't dare trick ole Roach, would she? Then again, she wasn't all too happy about being extorted like that. A smirk forms over his oily face. Right. Now or never Roach.

He swivels on the heel of his once-splendorous boot and makes his way up pathway. The smell of burnt wood and coal is ever stronger near the house, only soothed by the sent of a lovely meal. Maybe this place burnt down before, that would explain its dilapidated appearance. He stops next to the front door, lifts his knuckles to the door then down again. Shakes his head and takes a deep breath, repeats the same ritual, but this time manages the courage to actually knock on the door. After all, a gentleman knocks, it is only porpa.

He hears the voices inside the house change from rowdy banter to sudden whispering. He pushes the door open after realising none-one is going to reply to his courtesy. He strides in, but pauses for a brief moment at the sight of the peculiar arrangement of peoples. He recovers his composure by producing a crooked smile and folding his greasy long hair behind his ear. "Ladies, Gents. I heartedly apologise for disturbing your most buzzing gathering, but I have sheepishly stumbled upon something I dare to say I was suppose to." He opens with his very thick local accent. He then removes his worn top hat, folds it under his arm and takes a slight bow. "Rodgerson. Richard Rodgerson. Welcome to my neighbourhood, the Six Towers. You might not know me, but I probably know someone that would know you."

He places his hat back onto his head and leisurely strolls past the table searching the table with his eyes. His mouth waters and it is clear from his gaze that he is ravenously hungry. Eel-poppers! He takes the one battered ball from the plate and pops it into his mouth. There is a sweet release of eel eyeball juices into his mouth as he crushes the eyeball membrane under his teeth, complimented by the savoury sweet oil of rat fat wrappings. With his eyes closed in ecstasy, his mouth still full of food and some of the juice escaping the corners of his mouth he speaks "Divine! Forward my compliments to the chef"

Once opening his eyes he sums up the persons there. He notices the masked figure. He heard her name being spoken as he stood at the door, but dismissed it. Moriya is dead, everyone knows that. Or... perhaps that is what she wanted everyone to "know" Considering the enemies she made here, faking her own death would have been the perfect card to play in the web. Wonder what such enemies would pay to be enlightened otherwise.

His notice shifts to the tall, thin, yet burly man. This man had a lie about him. Dressed like he is fancy, yet clearly his bloodied knuckles speak otherwise. Reading some haughty book? Please...

[n0ble]

All are offered a seat at the table. Moriya sits.

There’s a clatter of plates and steel as the adepts either hand out utensils or dollop out the second pot of fish broth to you. The man with stains on his pants, who quickly introduces himself as Cornel, is quick to stay out of pescatarian concoction’s way. Where he backs off Halleck steps up to dispense and take orders. “Oh ya know how it is Slinky, got gutted by a ****in’ tunnbaq the other day out near the Lost District. Dam near ripped me in half ‘fore we got some stabs in it. Guess they don’t like seditious papers either or summuch. If the ****ers could read that is.” For a moment Halleck looks like he’s about to hawk some phlegm at thoughts of illiteracy. Then he remembers where he is and stops himself. “Bah, tell ya about it after dinner if ya want.” The ink rake’s hands momentarily spasm their way up to under his chin, grasping at an oxygen mask or spiritbane charm that isn’t there. He shakes he head and resumes bellowing orders in Cornel’s stead.

More servings of mushroom pie and eel poppers are meted out to any who are left in wanting. At some point Cornel returns with a gnarled looking bottle of hooch, referring to it as his “Deathlander Special”. He waggles the bottle at each of you in turn, and is none too stingy with the portions he doles out to those that want some. The rest is shared with good cheer amongst the Deathalnders. The desert comes once all are full: a particularly sweet fungus beer that has hints of cherry and pastries stuffed with candied nautili. The smell of ginger wafts from the cake dough that Nadia has baked across each mollusk feeler. It mixes with the steam that comes from their conical shells, each of which juts from the small cakes. In total there are seven, one set at each of those sitting at the table.

While food is served and consumed Moriya makes little in the ways of conversation and eats sparingly, as though unused to such rich nutriment. They take a shot of the Special as those it were clear water, only offering a curt cough after swallowing it. The mask shifts and swirls in time with it’s patterns, opening to accommodate modest portions of nautili tentacle into the explorer’s mouth. They answer what questions they can, starting with Vey. “I too was called. It would appear we all were. Though I am…unsure what it is that has aligned us together.” As they speak, the explorer’s blue eyes leave the Whisperer, trailing to each of you in turn. Moriya idly scratches at their own mask as they look Thorn over, only to rest on first Slink, than the bag he’s brought. Or maybe it’s at whatever is inside. Then their vision slides along like a glacier. For a moment the Skovlander’s face contorts in confusion at the sight of the Professor, then lingers on Richard for a time that is perhaps just long enough to be uncomfortable for all who take note of the silence accompanying it. But they save their oddest gaze for Volette: a combination of academic curiosity jumbled together with enough jealousy to make the two feelings not readily different in their mutual expression. In the end, for all the care put into their gaze, Moriya offers a tight-lipped smile to all of you.

They steeple their fingers. “I would like answers. ” Their eyes flit about taking in not just you six, but the adepts as well. “Though should none be forthcoming I have considerations towards-“Their voice slips into Skovish “<-”discovery-> of them. It has been an age since I put boots to the Dusk’s cobbles. I do not know to who or what that-” They break the steeple, pointing a white-gloved finger at the wrapped up artifact. “<truly> belongs to, but I would like to find out. Where does one acquire tomes of an illicit nature in the Dusk?”

A small silence descends on the table. Cornel clears his throat. A quick flurry of cutlery and dirty dishes follows in the sounds wake as the table is deftly cleared in good order. Cornel lays out a yellowed map of the Dusk, complete with a few brown stains he’s quick look to and from awkwardly. “That would be Nightmarket m’a-Moriya. Den of some pleasure more than likely, though with the Rail Jacks chugging about it’s anyone’s guess what comes in and out.”

Moriya ponders. “Hm. There used to be a warehouse here. An old society used to use it. If I recall The Heart was always fond of his esoterica. Does the warehouse still stand, <Mr.> Casslyn?” Cornel says nothing and ponders a moment. A rictus tugs at the edge of his face as he searches his mind. His eyes blink rapidly, searching everwhere over the map but the area Moriya pointed to. All the while he fights back the spasms that wrack his hands. After a short moment of concentration the palsy fades, replaced by a look of confirmation.“Sorry. Shakes-“ He pauses and a breath rattles out from his chest. “-S-shakes get bad sometimes. It’s a museum. Open often, prone to hosting galas for the upper terraces of society. Basement. Maybe two floors.”

“You know <much> about this city’s architecture. But you forgot about the catacombs underneath it as well. ”

Cornel shrugs. “Price I pay for knowing how many weak load bearing structures there are, even a place as posh as that. It’d surprise you. ”

“No, no I do not think I would be surprised by it.”

“Sturdy bed frames though.”

Moriya’s eyes narrow behind their mask. Halleck picks his nose with a pinky finger. The middle and pointer fingers of the same hand are missing the top knuckle. “Pardon my Tycherosic assembled Sirs and Madames, bur what’n the Weepin’ Maid’s tits is a gala?”


If everyone’s alright with it, I’m going to call for a vote for the engagement roll now. Please choose a plan type and suggest and/or vote on a pertinent detail. Feel free to respond IC to that effect. If people feel the need to, we can roll gather information for a detail as well. I can break a tie if need be. :smallsmile:

[dojango]

"You remember when we was kids, and that ward boss threw that huge party? Bought, like, 50 kegs of whiskey for everyone in the ward? There were people all lined up and down the canal, puking their guts out? A gala is kinda like that. Except, you know, for rich people. If'n it were just me, I'd say sneak in after hours for a bit of smash n' grab. But books are kinda bulky and heavy so. I reckon we find the next big party and try and blag our way in. Dress up a coupla' posh lads to walk in the front, the others pretend to be servants and go through the back. Rare books'll be up on the top floor, away from the damp. People often mistake height for security. It ain't, though." Slink puts his hand on the relic, as if to reassure him that it is still there.

Social. We infiltrate the next gala. Two people (spider and one other) dress up posh to pose as guests, while the others dress up like servants and go in the back. We wait until everyone's good and drunk inside (maybe helping them along a bit) and then sneak up and grab the rare book collection. We throw it in a trash can and the 'servant crew' carries it outside under everyone's noses.

[Let'sGetKraken]

The Professor remains reserved throughout the dinner, cautiously studying those around him. A curious bunch, to be sure. After listening to Slink's suggestion, he clears his throat and speaks.

"I am no expert when it comes to subterfuge, I'm afraid - I'm more suited to, ah, how would you say it... resolving problems as they occur. But yes, disguising ourselves at the next gala seems reasonable enough. We will need disguises and will need to procure invitations, of course."

I also vote Social. I think the front door at an upcoming gala is our best bet.

[GameOfChampions]

Vey squints at Moriya and the others trying to diacern anything about her as she says she had been called here as well. After a few seconds he stops looking for anything Weird among Moriya and the others. He ponders the womens words as well as the other people's about the possibility of a Gala. He had heard of them from a theoretical perspective but never been. "Well I haven't been to an event like that in... ever. Still I've always been curious so i wouldn't mind going to the Gala as a route to the books.

Social works for me too. Going through the Gala will probably be easiest and also could lead to some meetings for our next job or meeting. Though i do not like the idea of dumping the booms in trash to gather later, that reeks of the possibility of someone messing with us.

[Idares]

Rich squishes another eel popper between his teeth humming to the feel of deliciousness. With another gushy ball pinched between his forefingers and pinkie in the air, he waves the hand about and begins to speak "A most cunning plan I venture to say. A show of brilliance, ain it?" He pops the eel ball into his mouth, partially chews, then speaks further "Don't fret my good man, they would be all too obliged to accommodate esteemed gentlemen like ourselves, I'll assure you that. We'll be drowned under the flood of invitations."



Well my vote doesn't matter right now, but I wouldn't object to Social anyway, especially a plan that involves Roach :smallsmile: I dont have a huge issue with dumping the books if there isn't any better suggestions. Roach will find out who (NPC) is going to the do and blackmail a pair to surrender their invites to him and one other cultist/player.

EDIT: I have to say though, this isn't Social actually, this is Deception. Social would be if we approached them openly and negotiated.

[GameOfChampions]

Vey looks around at the group of people gathered at the table talking about the plans and best ways to go about doing the mission they had decided to do. He had not been meaning to bring it up so quickly but he would rather have the edge it could give to the group going into this mission rather then the secret. He pulls out a small bag full of a powdery mixture and sets it onto the table. "Well I can use my connection to this thing to try and get some glimpses of how these plans may pan out, if someone could lend be an incense burner and a match I can commune to see.

Several minutes later, assuming that Vey found the necessary items, the man licks his lips as he measures out the set amount of mixture into the burner. He eyes the mixture and measures it with precision as he hurries through the process of getting it ready. As he lights it up and inhales it he sighs as bliss washes over him right before the power of the thing rips him out of his mind to start showing him glimpses of the immediate future.

Using the Ritual to get a bonus.

[n0ble]

Days Later...


t’s a few easy words and handed over coats that see you through, pas the initial security that flanks the entrance to the Halls of Time. Once clear, Nightmarket’s electricity illuminates the garish interior of the Hall’s main chamber.

A riot of colors play out, casting the displays in alternatingly ghoulish and pleasant hues. There’s a desiccated grindylow (http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-28joshs3EmU/U-SN9_1EOPI/AAAAAAAAFrc/fYOzLJuYPEQ/s1600/tumblr_n6ay6xJ1kq1so9972o1_500.jpg) corpse in one display, it’s long dead jaws hinged open for nonexistent air. The western wall is, for the most part, occupied by the skin of Dagger Islander python, easily measured in a length of double digits. And that’s not even mentioning the narwhale tusk, billed as the weapon of a Skovish King and swathed in enough dead scrimshaw runes to lend credence to the claim. A series of marble stairs, complete with a crimson carpet, before it aggressively bisects into a left and right onto the upper balcony that rings the chamber with more oddities and knacks. Two doors stand almost perpendicular to the stairs, each fringed with a pair of guards that are sinister in their silence.

You are far from alone. A whole troupe of servants wait on the assembled lower crust of Nightmarket society. They serve fine confectionaries, not unlike those you’d dined on days ago, in Six Towers. Goat meat served with cheese and peppers is carried about on silver trays, accompanied by smaller clusters of algae that run the full spectrum of greens. The main drink being served is a particularly fizzy purple liquid that gloms to the inside of ones throat before sliding down. The gala’s centerpiece is a great dunkleosteus (https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/dinosaurs/images/9/90/Tumblr_inline_nr45vlcd0A1t9y3no_500.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20160321092306), prepared with a care that would only add to the Weeping Lady’s tears. It’s mouth is stuffed with mushrooms and caviar, while it’s lower body had been slit open and stuffed with battered shrimp and small roasted cephalopods. Like the centuries-late grindylow, the colossal fish’s mouth gapes open. Silently screaming. Simple plates and cutlery are arrayed around the creature, each garnished with a series of hermit crabs that have been evicted from their homes.

Nightmarket’s eclectic citizenry is on full display, sporting enough variation in dress and “style” to put the lights to shame. Some dither about in schools, attached to a particular Lord or Lady. Others admire the tastes and sights. Each strives to outdo the next with increasingly garish displays of waistcoats, suits and dresses, yet the different masks they wear unite all in the Halls of Time. There’s a particularly large crowd circled about a gentleman telling a story next to the grindylow exhibit. He sports a fine, featureless mask of burnished gold that reflect all the colors back as a soothing pale light. The fawning A few good-natured laughs spill out from the sycophants and ditherers that surround him before he presses on with another anecdote. “You know I’m not quite as familiar with Iruvian water colors as I would like to be. I only ever saw one, in my travels to Mistport’s Imperial Quarter. Apparently a few days later the Spirit Wardens confiscated it. Dreadful really. Given the general lack of water in Iruvia they’re incredibly expensive.” Another bout of high-pitched tittering and lickspittle laughter emanates out from the group. It’s accompanied by a cloud of vapour that escapes the storyteller’s mouth, no doubt from the trendy spark-craft cigar at his lips.

Others, like the painfully out of place woman sporting a driftwood kraken mask over her eyes, stand awkwardly apart, on the fringes of conversations next to the boa skin. She wears little finery. Indeed her mask seems to be the only concession to the Gala’s dress code. The rest of her posture and outfit speaks to a life at sea. She wears an officer’s uniform that’s several years out of date. The medals on the upper right side marking her out as a veteran of the Unity War, four years of service. Her posture is reminiscent of a fish out of water, but the tide of conversation waits for no one as she is swallowed up into another cliques conversation.

Security is, as ever, uniform. Each wears the same black jacket and featureless black mask. The jackets barely conceal their heavy flintlocks.

Whatever clothing and masks you’ve managed to procure have turned several heads as you enter. People break from their conversations to observe you before returning to other gossip, no doubt to talk of the newcomers.

[dojango]

Slink tugged nervously at his borrowed finery. He was a lot more comfortable out of the way in a dark corner, rather than on display like these strutting nobles. At least the strange bird's face covered his own. He excused himself from any passers-by and snagged a small plate from a server. From the upper gallery, he made a slow circuit, pretending to examine the exhibits closely, while counting guards, watching where they came from, and cataloguing the entrances and exits to the party rooms. Trying to find gaps in the patrol routes of the guards, where and when exits might be available, and of course, how best to slip into the upper floors unseen.

Going to SURVEY the guards & stuff to figure out what their patterns are, where they come from, and where we will need to go. PUSH for +1, [roll0]