n0ble's Blades in the Dark IC

[n0ble]

It was Jac’s words that woke her. “M’am. You wanted to know when were ten from leaving the Ease.” Rolin slowly opened her eyes. They were greeted by the full spectrum of Silkshore’s colors. Several lamps warred with their opposites hues, mounted atop or slantiwise on places like The Last Call or the Drowned Saint or any of the many, many other dens of pleasure that constituted Silkshore’s topography. Memories of satisfaction stirred within her psyche as the small sailboat they had rented cut past The Bull’s Horns. They had passable food, and good drink, though Rolin had always stayed for the pit fighters in the basement. Not many people knew about it, and by her estimations of the pit’s customer base not many people knew how to be on it either. Or that the Bull Horn’s basement level was below Silkshore’s water line. It paid to know things like that. Rolin blinked and watched a coterie of Weeping Ladies cross a quivering gangplank. A reflexive hand passed through her hair as she took in each of the Churchgoer’s baldpates. Their uniforms hung and clung for purchase on the churchgoer’s emaciated frames, no doubt the result of a long day of fasting. The garments were an oddly stark grey against the riot of hues playing out across the gangplank Rolin watched them clear the gangplank, and turn inside to one of the Church’s shelters. The magistrate sighed, let her gaze linger on the shelter’s doors, then turned back to the calm waters of the Ease. The buildings and bridges that anchored the flotilla of vice together provided the district with a natural defense against harsh winds. Especially in the Ease. But they’re weren’t docking in the Ease. Not tonight.

Silkshore was abuzz with activity, mounting rumors of disappearances not withstanding. The vessels they passed by were a motley collection, one sufficient to match the exoticism of Silkshore’s vice. Rolin saw one man, a Skov, putting on airs about his smoked goats ribs from a rustic looking blackiron barge. Another, an Iruvian woman, yelled herself hoarse in pursuit of selling “the very best Iruvian wines” from a sort of floating glass structure. Jac let out a low whistle as they passed the Iruvian woman’s vessel. It was cause enough for an eye roll, but Rolin curbed the thought. Instead she kept her face placid and vacant looking. She’d never liked wine, and even if she had the trio’s destination would have better vintages. Rolin kept her face blank and tried not to stare as Jac clumsily maneuvered them past the source of her anxiety.

Rolin had seen hollows before. A woman of her travels was bound to encounter the odd oddity. But never one so maimed. The wretch bobbed down into the water, where it’s dull screeching was temporarily muted, only for the screaming to resume once again when the hollow clawed its way above the waterline’s surface. He-the hollow- was a big, skovish looking man clad in an eelsuit that would not have been out of place on a docker. Some sort of something had ripped flesh from the wretch’s right arm, though it did not appear to be slowing the hollow’s struggles. He had no eyes, but raw looking pits that had been bleached grey by Silkshore’s brine. Come to think of it he didn’t appear to have a tongue either. Two gondoliers circled the hollow. One held a lightning hook, the other some sort of suitably exotic-looking lantern-flail combination to match his stern countenance. Rolin turned away, tired of looking at the macabre scene. She could see the end of the canal, though most of her vision was occupied with a better view. If Quess was bothered by the hollow’s screaming she did not show it. She looked more interested in the Skov hawking the goats meat. Rolin stared past where Quess sat on the schooner.

The screams and bustle of Skilshore’s commerce fell behind her as Rolin noted Tangletown on the horizon. Jac gestured to Quess that it would be her turn in a moment. “M’am. Have you given any thought as to whether or not we’re crossing through the Foot?” Rolin turned and kept her face conservative. She’d been giving it some thought. Passing through Crow’s Foot would take them past Charterhall. Charterhall was safe. Safer than the alternative. But the Foot was a warzone where idiots devoured coin as much as they ate blades to the gut, and it didn’t look like Lyssa was going to be running it any better if she had her way. In all likelihood it meant getting caught in the middle of whatever imagined conflict had been conjured into existence by Klev and Baz. Stupid. Years of warfare with the Skovs and everyone seemed just as intent on killing each other as before. Something about the thought must have registered concern on her face, because Jac shot her a reassuring smile. Or maybe he was trying to reassure himself. It certainly wasn’t Quess. A woman that frigid struck Rolin as immune to reassurances. “So. Past Ironhook then?”

Rolin offered a stiff nod. “Yes, but closer to Charhollow I should think.” They were past Tangletown now, sluicing ever closer through the water to the great metal canker that was Ironhook Prison. It was hard not to see it. The great slab of metal cast it’s own shadow across the river to Charhollow’s shores, across it’s own docks, across the radiant energy farm that flanked it’s left. As they drew closer, Rolin could make out the various blues and greens that the eels emanated. It was a far cry from Silkshore’s vibrancy, in no small part owing to the fields proximity to Ironhook. True to his word, Jac kept them closer to Charhollow, where the shadows of Ironhook were subsumed by the bridge that lead from Charhollow to Dunslough. A fleeting appeared on Quess’ face as they passed by Kellens. Everyone knew it was one of the oldest pubs in the city. Not everyone supported a Skov bar being active across from Dunslough’s ziggurat to captivity. For Rolin’s part she’d always though that Kellens would have made for a solid investment, should it ever see new management.

“Everybody ready?” Rolin nodded and dawned her mask. Calling the strip of silk cloth a mask was a bit generous but it was needed for what came next. Ash began to fall onto the boat’s deck as they rounded Charhollow’s corner, into the estuary that separated the workers of Coalridge from their homes. Rolin shuffled from where she sat and joined Quess at the bow to look back, down the Dusk river towards the docks of the Ironworks. The patrons and customers of Nightmarket did not like Coalridge’s runoff being dumped in their waters. As a result, the waste that did not occluded Coalridge’s skies was loaded onto ships by the people of Dunslough, though Rolin it thought it acted more the exception than the rule. Usually it was just pumped into the Dunslough waters. Rolin blinked as a few of the emissions from the factories made her eyes water. Anything for some rations. She tentatively raised a hand to her face, almost tracing the trio of scars hood under her eye, then fought back the reflex and blinked the tears from her eyes. She hated Coalridge. At least Six Towers had some remarkably spectrological phenomenon. Coalridge had aught but dirt and smog for people to hide in and kill from. Rolin found its stimuli and the notion of getting shanked in a smog cloud disagreeable. Still, the products manufactured in the district had merit. The nobility profited from it. One need only find their own way to join in.

They cut through the intersection of Charhollow, Coalridge and Charterhall in silence. Rolin used to the time to check on her gift for the rest of the crew. Saftey trumped hunger, though given how rare the food she’d found was it would have been a shame for it to be covered in ash. Ironhook disappeared as they turned right, with Charterhall above them and Coalridge below. Rolin felt secure in knowing that a few economically proportioned structures separated her and the familiarity of Dalmore Lane. It was where her office was located. Well. Where the quarters that were supposed to be her office were located. One desk, one filing cabinet, a swivel chair and a dried up inkwell barely qualified for an office. Still, it could have been worse. The office could have looked out over Strangford House instead of Nightmarket.

The site of the nobility’s vice had always struck Rolin as trying-and failing-to keep up with Silkshore’s innovation. Or maybe it was Silkshore trying to keep up. Customs and pleasures would osmolate from one district to the other until both claimed credit yet contained nothing but cheap fancies masquerading as the original cause for conflict. At least that’s how it had seemed on Rolin’s last visit to the Dusk. Things were more permanent now, with less of the wanderlust taken out of her. Rolin licked her lips and listened to the tittering and hearty laughter that emanated from Nightmarket’s shores. It mingled with some of the wafting smog from Coalridge, creating a curious scent of spices and burnt smoke that Rolin knew she would need to smell again sometime. Jac turned the tattooed Rolin first, then Quess. “Ms. Wotts. Ms. Xabat. We’re here.” Wotts looked to her left. Typically, when the ministries railcars were damaged to the point of being decomisioned, they were shipped piecemeal back along the railways. It was a rare care indeed that was shipped back in it’s entirety, and overtime a small series of damaged or uneuthanized cars had been taken a refurbished by the purveyors of Nightmarket. The Ministry hadn’t minded. Selling damaged traincars at full price meant a recoup on investments that Dalmore just couldn’t ignore. The enterprising business person skirted this avarice completely by simply stealing one for themselves, much as Firelight had done.

With the boat moored properly, Rolin signaled to Quess that she should take the food into the car with them. Wotts’ backed burned as she hobbled her way up the beech to the railcar, and for a moment her eyes watered independently of Coalridge’s emissions. She knocked once, then let Jac and Quess enter before she shuffled in behind them. Each of the pair had brought their own food for the table. Quess, ever the lady, had brought some sort of gamefowl that had remained cooked yet unplucked. It smelled like garlics and tomatoes. Probably packed with the stuff. Jac’s had brought something of his own making, a brandy that supposedly used pre-cataclysm fermentation techniques. The way the bottle was sealed did little to dispel such notions: some sort of brass demon head occupied the top of the cork. Rolin was quite proud of her find: seven peacock mantis shrimps for a main, completely intact and candied with an expensive alchemical paste that preserved the cephalopod’s scintillating chitin while also reducing said chitin’s hardness to an edible confectionary. Jac and Quess had helped her come up with the marinade that the shrimp had been stewing in for an entire week. They entered the dining area.

“Ladies, ladies. Please. Seat yourselves, I’ll get everything ready for everyone.” Quess snorted, then smacked his hand as he reached for napkins. “Wrong napkin type. You pour your brandy. Let someone familiar with cutlery set the table.” Jac rolled his eyes. “Right. Trust a Skov to have better table manners than me.” Quess snorted, though to Rolin’s ears it sounded a bit more standoffish than usual. Usually she wasn’t so open about being a bitch. “Not the point.” Quess held a fork up for emphasis, but Jac was already looking for glassware to poor his concoction into. “Uh. Tumblers?” Roling whispered. “Out.”
“Flutes?”
“Out”
“Highball?”
“Out.”
Jac let out an irritated grunt. “Hmph. Highball would be the wrong sort of thing to drink this out of anyways. Do we have any ****ing glassware to speak of?”
“There is chamberpot out back.” Quess jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, in the direction they’d come from. “But it’s made of metal.”
“Hm. Well. Drinking right from the bottle is as small price to pay for not having to eat with our fingers. ‘Leastways I think so.”
Quess held up a spotty looking fork. She held the others, the clean ones, in her free fist. All of them were wooden. ”Think again. Only enough passible cutlery for five. We eat with our hands.”
“You know, for a second there I almost forgot your from Blackvale…”

Rolin listend to the pair carry on then rested her back against the smallest chair at the table. The magistrate closed her eyes, waited, and wondered on whether anyone else would bring something to eat.


Alright everyone, welcome to the IC! Feel free to describe how your character gets to the car (or how they got to the car/maybe what they've been doing while waiting if they're already here). I'll post the first question here for everyone to answer before moving over to the discord to ask any future questions. My first question for all of you is: What, if anything, did your character bring for the crew to eat/drink.

[Ramsus]

Calilica exited the estate without so much as having to say where she was off to. There was always some event or another a young lady could attend and nobody in the household, except her mother who wasn't the prying sort anyhow, really cared much what exactly she was up to of if she was around the majority of the time.
In the seat besides her in the carriage was a modestly sized copper box. As the carriage wheels rattled along on the cobblestones of Charterhall, so too did the ice in the bottom of the box. As they past she looked out upon the University, wondering briefly what it would have been like to attend. Alas, such was not her lot in life. It would surely have been a more interesting life that the one she lived but, she thought to herself, not as interesting as the one she was on her way now to begin living.
A few blocks after entering Nightmarket she asked the driver to let her out. Remarking she saw an interesting shop of silks she would like to look at and would be traveling on foot from there.
She then made a brief show of window shopping to allow the carriage to pass on out of sight. When it was gone she made her way to her destination, having to cut through a few back alleys that weren't the dead ends they seemed, the ensure she could enter the current lair of Firelight so as not to be seen by those on the busier streets. Though before she did, she changed her attire and makeup in a shrouded little spot hidden from sight by a sheet of dangling vines.

Her change complete, she entered the old rail car. Noting that others had already arrived she gave them a smile and a "Good day." and placed her copper box on a nearby surface. Opening it she revealed it contained a shelf of strawberries in a rainbow of colors and a second shelf of clementines, both chilled by the now mostly melted ice sitting in the bottom.
Briefly examining the other items, her eyes lingered on the mantis shrimp with clear surprise. She had seen many fine foods in her life so far, but this was certainly new. She had expected to be the one surprising the others with foods new to them and so she was delighted someone had taken the effort to do the same for her.

[CosmicOccurence]

Syra had been hunched over in the workshop for hours, surrounded by tools, cranks, a small forge, and a more than a few tangled heaps of sparkwork wire. She didn't mind the clutter, for she was too focused on her work to much care whether anyone would bother to pop their head into her little sanctuary and comment about its lack of tidiness. Everyone always seemed concerned that they'd kill themselves if they touched a hammer the wrong way. So Quess and the others left her mostly alone until they needed her.

These days Syra practically lived in her workshop. She didn't sleep here of course, but it had been ages since she'd had proper equipment, though her hands always ached for the tools that she'd had on The Harbringer. Leviathan Ships didn't have the best gear around, but it was dusking close to it.

She ignored the sounds coming from the main room for a while, avoiding the small talk that inevitably came when everyone gathered. And while she'd been a nice, prompt, neat, perfect little sparkcraft worker for her time in the service, she'd quickly fallen out of those habits. Her work was precise, but her workshop and habits certainly weren't. She'd arrive when she arrived and if Rolin had something to say about it, she should take it up with the several vials of Fire Oil Syra kept stashed in a fireproof box. She may be messy, but she wasn't stupid.

Eventually however, Syra couldn't avoid heading in any longer. It sounded like there was at least a bit of booze, and she'd bet half her money, which was a pittance at the moment, that they couldn't agree on anything. Still, she picked up the beat up box of eel and carried it to the group. When she smelled the shrimp, she felt a bit embarrassed, but she'd had better things to do than go shopping for something fancy. Eel never hurt anybody, and it would do them good to get some food on their bones. Syra was under the impression that many of the crew were far too thin for their own good.

Evening all, Syra said, unceremoniously plucking a strawberry from the box and dumping it into her mouth whole. I think the designs for the Mister are pretty much finished. I'll have a prototype done in no time. Even though she wasn't with the ship anymore and she'd gotten sloppy, old habits were hard to break. Reporting was of a second nature to her by now.

[1ring42]

It had been a long and trying day, especially near the end when he had to deal with some especially vicious haggling from what he took as a Skov footman for some minor akarosi noble. But soon enough it was over with and Arkash was finally able to close down his humble market stall for the night.

After ensuring his protective wards were in place, He adjusted his bag and looked them over one last time. The swirls and runes looked impressive enough, though they were naught but chalk etchings; and the mysterious air coupled with the rumours that swirled about the "humble purveyor of fine Iruvian goods" kept the more superstitious urchins from attempting a break in. And a chain and padlock seemed to suffice for the bolder youths.

Arkash walked several blocks before slipping into an alley. A few minutes later Shimmer emerged, cloaked and masked, walking purposefully towards the abandoned street car.

The travel took several minutes, especially with him hugging the edges of buildings and avoiding more public spaces, but he finally reached the deserted cars, which he entered after giving a furtive knock.

Apologies if I'm late. Business had me tied up a bit. I hope some Ixisi brandy can make up for it. They say the burn and the smokey after taste come from minor manifestations of Ixis itself, conjured during the aging process.

Though his face was hidden his thick Iruvian accent carried the mirth in his voice like smoke on a desert wind.

He casually produced a bottle out of his bag and began wiping of the faint coating of dust that covered it.
That being said, I sincerely hope I did not miss anything.

[Elbeyon]

Ley pulls her oiled leather boots up to near her knee over her thick wool pants. A thick full coat of tanned sheepskin, which covered her arms, and descended below her chin and her knee clothed her. A brightly colored knitted hat dyed many colors covers her head. She tightens her gloves and the apron around her front. The old sea air smacks her cheeks as she wanders out into the dark. The dock is in her morning groans as she stirs awake with a dark life.

She walks past some hurry folk, fishermen, judging by their similar attire. An air followed them which seemed to agree in every sense. Today promises an important day. She had a big catch waiting. A crusty old man and a few coins meant she had a seat and rod for the better part of the morning, at least until the boat moored. She shouts up at the old fellow by name and gets permission to board. Familial routine follows from there, and they shove off into the dark waters.

The steady beat of knife chopping on wood echos through the car. A sharp knife under Ley's hand separates fish tails from their red bodies. The fins get pushed off to the side as they build up. Their heads get sliced from top and bottom and pulled off with their guts still attached. They're Flatete, blood fish, by their looks. A small anchovy-like fish nicknamed after their color. They almost make a wonderfully salty sauce. Ley prepares the fish and dumps them in a pot. Another pot boils and prepares rice. If there is one thing in this world that'll make you rich, it's being rich. Her coin purse is going to draw tighter and her stomach louder the next few days, but a good impression is worth the price paid.

Ley comes out of the back, dressed in a light shirt and pants, with two thick hot bowls in her hands. A mound of rice holds thinly chopped fried seasoned carrots, bean sprouts, covered by a salty red sauce that has started to bleed into the rice, and a fried over easy egg on top.

She returns the smile to Calilica. "Good day," She softly repeats. Her eyes wonder over the copper box. The contents were genuinely impressive. Strawberries and clementines would have fetched a pretty few slugs to the right buyer. She has never tasted the merchandise herself. She serves a complement, "They look wonderful."

She puts a bowl down in front of Rolin and holds the other for the next person that takes a seat. The rooks are invited to the table with a hand gesture.

Ley nods at Syra. She says a little rougher than her greeting to Calilica, "Evening. All those long hours are finely paying off. Good work."

She says to Arkash, "Business has a bad habit of doing that. You didn't miss much. An Ixisi brandy would remove any of my worries." She smiles at him behind her glasses. The group brought a tonnage of delicious food. She will have to struggle to eat it all.

[n0ble]

“Nyaha!” Jac jabs a waggling finger into the air just as the last of you arrive. With a small flourish and a modicum of fuss, he turns, hands full with a tray of five baroque looking glasses. “Knew we had something suitable ‘nough for folk of our disposi-“ His eyes take in the burgeoning feasts on the table. “Woah. Nice eels!” The former glass-blower hurries the tray, five glasses and all, over to the table before helping himself to the eels. For a moment he pauses to lick his fingers of the grease, then snatches up the Ixisi brandy in one hand, his own concoction in the other. For a moment he examines, and theres something in his gaze that might pass for the old glass blower. “Hmph.” He tosses his contribution over a shoulder with a lackadaisical uppperhand, only for Quess to snag it out from the air as she walks to the table with a handful of forks and plates in one hand. The Skov woman sets the bottle down between herself and Jacs. She follows the glassware down into a seat of her own, then uncorks the ambrosia and gives it a good sniff. Her eyes have not left Shimmers “face” since the whisperer’s arrival. Its not malice in her eyes.

“Smells like goat piss.”
“Goats. And I question how you-wait. Nevermind. And if you must know it’s a desert wine.”
“Dole out the brandy. Keeping everyone waiting from tasting the reason for Cataclysm.”
For a moment Jacs looks almost proud of at the mention of his brew and the Cataclysm in one sentence. Then his face lightens even more, in spite of the harried quality of his response. “Quite the complement.”
“Not a complement.”
“Ah. A failure to communicate then, hm? As I recall that was a tried and true feature of Skovish military endeavours.” The glass blower’s smile widens into an almost feral grin, then returns to a medium placidity. "Heh. Let me get the good stuff served. Then we can resume sparring.”
“Sparring. Hah. Because of Skovland, ja?”
“No. Really Xabat I'm surprised. Everyone knows Skovs don't spar. Though I suppose if we were to find one dumb enough to use a wooden blade he might be able to send me to the inky depths..."

“That’s not a bad idea you know.” Both of the rooks cease there bickering as Rolin speaks. Quess sets to doleing out food onto the cheap-tin plates to everyone while Jacs pours out the brandy into the glasses he’s exhumed. There are noticeably less eels on his plate. Rolin continues, though not without readjusting her posture against the chair. Burnishe's fruits are left alone, perhaps out of some sort of reverence the rakes hold for having actual fruit on the table. Then again. They could also just be setting it aside for desert. “Reminds me of a case that landed on my desk the other day. An Ink Rake had gotten caught for smuggling product through the printing liquids used at the Eclipse. Quite the scandal from what I understand, though it would explain how something so sensationalist as the Eclipse would sells so well.” Her face droops in a little bit of disappointment before returning to an eerily passive state.

“Though it would be a lie to say that is why I’ve called you all here tonight. That would be the Wraiths.” She withdraws a modestly sized folder that errs on the slide of slim. She places it on the tray with the Ixisi brandy before helping herself to a glass. The rest, dossier and all, are slid into the center.
“They want someone to arrange a sale for them. Some extra pairs of hands for the product to go through to throw off those in pursuit.” Quess speaks up. “Don’t blame them. Lot of attention for product like a leviathan hunter's map.”
“Lot o’ coin too, if they weren’t getting chased around by half the Dusk for an item hotter than a Tycherosi whorehouse. How much?”
“Half.”


So. As is common knowledge in the Dusk, the Wraiths have stolen a map of leviathan hunter hunting grounds.It was a big job. They're looking for a group of fences/middlemen/someone to dispel a bit of the heat from the job by way off helping them offload the map. They're offering half the monetary value of the map, which after Rolin and the rook's cut comes out to [6 coin]

[Ramsus]

Calilica eats a bit of everything, delighting in the finer things and politely keeping in mind to enjoy the lesser offerings as still tasty enough and what those who brought them could best afford. She however doesn't touch any of the fruit as she's been previously made away that they are not an everyday luxury for most residents of the city. She doesn't overindulge in drink, but doesn't refrain either as she's a rather athletic lady and her tolerance for spirits is at least decent, though she certainly doesn't want to get intoxicated at this meeting.

Hearing the offer she says rather honestly, "I must say, I am quite surprised our first real job would be one so adventurous and lucrative. And that they offered such a fair cut of the profits. They must really want it off their hands quite desperately.... or are they just making sure to build favor with us for future dealings?"

[CosmicOccurence]

Syra tensed up as the conversation headed into dangerous waters. She didn't particularly like the idea of the wraiths getting involved in her new home crew, especially since she was trying to lay low. Fencing a Leviathan Hunting Grounds map was exactly the kind of heat Syra didn't want in her life.

But still, the money was good, and Dusk knows that she could use some money to start producing her inventions now that she was away from the near-limitless resources of her pest.

But best to not give her companions any suspicions about her, so she remained silent, stoically eating shrimp with little regard for how much they were actually worth.

[1ring42]

Shimmer paused with his hand halfway up to his mask. "Burning night! Sounds good but real risky. Forgive the ignorance of a humble foreigner, but I assume such an item would be highly confidential?"

His tone was cautiously guarded but definitely held a knife's edge of interest.

[Elbeyon]

Once the two rooks start going at each other, Ley returns back to what remains of the kitchen and grabs two more bowls to distribute. It'd be hard to miss any conversation with those two talking. Upon returning, she lets Quess know, "There are more bowls in back, enough for everyone," since she has decided to serve the table.

An under piece of fowl gets ripped off the bird before it disappears among the group and sets in her bowl. She pours some of shimmer's brandy into a glass. The fruit is left alone when she starts eating, but she won't let the night escape without eating some. The eels are a welcomed sight. The slimy face eaters were more what she was used to eating over anything fancy brought to pot. The shrimp look vibrantly poisonous by her eye. She heard they didn't taste as bad as they looked so everything will eventually get sampled. She plucks small quantities of food into her bowl and eats them from there.

Rumors of the Eclipse had been floating around. Ley keeps quiet. A possibility for their future that they may want to arrange outside Rolin's purview.

Lumi sips from her glass as the true reason for the meeting comes to a gloomy illumination. She feels free to answer Shimmer. "Any Leviathan Hunter map is worth something if you find the right person. A partially useless map to the Hunters would still make for an interesting curio to someone with slugs." She clarifies, "A freshly inked map is better than any secret treasure map. There is a lot of prestige to gain for a noble or foreign house in leviathan hunting. They all have their impressive boats and pride on the line out there as they fight for the life of the empire. A noble or leviathan hunter wouldn't want rumors floating around that someone else has their private hunting grounds. The idea that the Wraiths are getting their door banged on by half the city says to me they got their hands on something genuinely worthwhile."

She takes the offered papers and starts flipping through them at her own interest. Six coins cause her to nod. That much silver could do a lot for the group.

[n0ble]

Rolin lets Lumi speak for her, nodding along as she digs into her shrimp and rice with an almost pensive attitude. “Correct, I would imagine it’s hard enough for them to find a buyer, let alone protect themselves from those with a less…diplomatic eye towards the map’s acquirement. It would certainly explain the sense in your words.” Rolin looks to Burnish and offers a polite nod, the very image of an Iruvian dignitary. “I’m of the same mind with regards to where they stand. Still, I suppose thieves need fences like sailors needs a port. Heh. ” Jacs looks as though he’s about to roll his eyes at the analogy before a frigid stare from Quess freezes him. He grumbles, then returns to eating his portion of food. For their part, the rook’s mastication is one of the few things similar about them. Both eat with a politeness that’s at odds with the past bickering, though perhaps Quess is a bit more reserved. Rolin helps herself to another glass of Ixisi brandy.

“With the sort of attention that’s on the map we’d probably be better offloading it somewhere in Silkshore, or perhaps one of the poorer districts that can still offer up what we want while keeping uninvited guests away.” Rolin pauses, and for a moment her hand almost goes up to the trio of scars that hook under her eye. It’s a taut gesture, one that makes her discomfort all the more apparent. She winces, withdraws the gesture, and then reasserts her posture over the chair. "It does seem we’re good at organizing dinner. All we’d need do is dangle the bait then reel in a buyer. It would give us a good excuse to network while selling it off.” As if on cue, Jacs stifles a baritonal burp, which draws another glare from Quess.

“That’s a fact, though please no more sea-analogies. I doubt my digestion can take it.” He compliments his barb with a bit of a grimace at his mantis shrimp’s one remaining eye. And its claws. Quess looks on, then returns to her own meal by way of spooning out an orange slice. “If your not eating your shrimp, I will.”

“The Dusk you will, im just saving it for later. Though that does raise the question,” he turns to Rolin, “Where would sell it? Also what’s to stop us from having the same problem as the Wraiths? I rather like my skin attached to my body where it belongs, not flayed by the likes of Ulf Ironborn or Coran’s boys.”

For the first time since she’s arrived Rolin looks a tad annoyed. Or maybe its confusion at not understanding the grifter’s thought process. “Well, in my experience relatively new criminal enterprises enjoy a fair degree of anonymity. At least, from a magisterial perspective. That’s one element in our favour I like to think that between the six of us we could select a better venue than the Wraiths chose for their heist.” A small smile graces her face.


Alright, so Rolin is suggesting some sort of Social approach for the score,with the social connection being some sort of dinner to get a bunch of potential buyers/future clients together, but thats just her opinion on what to do. Feel free to weigh in on the chat with opinions as I'd like to hear from everyone. Also, questions should be posted in the appropriate chat. Feel free to answer the one you've been tagged in or not, I just thought they'd be helpful tools for sensing out where people want to take the narrative :smallsmile:

[CosmicOccurence]

Syra coughed a bit to get the others to glance her way. She wasn't use to having a real voice at the table, so being part of something like this was new to her. Usually if the captain asked you to jump you asked 'how high?' and didn't get to let them know that they could stuff it. Word among some of the Leviathan Hunter Sparkwrights I know tell me that the crew of the Harbringer had a recent defection. Could be the Wraiths used this as an opportunity to steal Captain Helios's map. Not many Tycheros captains out there, but when you eyes burn brighter than any dusking lamp you've seen, not many people have a mind to argue with them about it. Didn't hurt that the crew did damn fine work either.

It could also be from the Hunter's Spear, a Leviathan ship that was lost from the Ankhuset fleet. They said there were no survivors but ... well when an entire ship goes down I have trouble thinking that it wasn't an inside job. And with the conflict between fleets in Iruvia, there's plenty of space for backstabbing and backroom deals. Heck, if we can get members of the Ankhuset or Ankhayat to the table, we'd be golden, since they'd pay out the nose for this. Just have to make sure it isn't from one of their ships first, savvy?


She sucked in a breath. Now came the less rosy news. Let me just be clear about one thing clear off the bat. The magistrates are the least of our worries here. If the captain of this map gets wind of who we are, then we are in deeper trouble than a these eels were. There's a reason the coin is so dusking good.

[Ramsus]

Calilica takes a sip of her drink as she thinks things over and then suggests, "Well, if we would like to avoid attempting to sell the map to who it originally belonged to, I can think of a few parties that might be interested. The noble houses of the Bowmores, Clellands, and Rowans would be interested in anything that gives them an edge over the Strangfords. The Ministry of Preservation would also be interested in another bargaining chip in their power struggle with the Leviathan Hunters. I am sure any other number of noble houses would be interested, though I doubt I would know which ones even after I got a look at the map as I am not expert in them and I hear they can be quite complicated. The last idea that comes to mind is we could try to sell it to Doskvol Academy itself or one of their up and coming students who would appreciate a jump start to their career. Perhaps someone in line to be an officer on a Leviathan Hunter?"

While she awaits the reply of the others, she focuses on enjoying the last of her delectable mantis shrimp.

[1ring42]

Shimmer methodically moved his mask to the side, making sure his face remained hidden in the shadow of his hood. He pensively and methodically placed shrimp and pieces of eel into his mouth as he mulled his thoughts over. After he had chased his meal with a berry and brandy, he replaced the mask.

Well, most prospective clients from my circles either won't have the coin to pay for such an item up front. After all we all know how expensive genuine occult items can be. Most of the others don't exactly pay in coin. That being said I can think of a couple.

Flint is one of the bigger purveyors of occult items given the power that comes from leviathan blood, he'd definitely be interested in a reliable source.

Anton Skova, rich and fascinated with the weird, I've consulted with him on demonology a couple of times.

As for the last potential client, are we keeping our options to the living?"

[Ramsus]

Calilica just raises a curious eyebrow at Shimmer.

[1ring42]

"I do have a touch and go business relationship with a vampire known as Scurlock. He may be interested in the item, but it is a much less certain bet than the other two options I previously mentioned."

[Ramsus]

Calilica looks at Shimmer with a good deal of surprise and asks, "Do you mean Lord Scurlock?"

[1ring42]

"Indeed. Though i didnt know he was titled. It didnt come up in our discussions as our topics kept towards the more esoteric topics."

[Ramsus]

"Well, if you did not know he was titled maybe it was not the same person? If they are one and the same though......" Calilica muses and just trails off thinking about what the impact of that is and how plausible it is.

[Elbeyon]

Lumi didn't care for conversation's direction in front of their guest. Lord Scurlock is a mysterious individual. There are rumors about his arcane abilities. He is a very capable person. Him being a vampire is surely a deeply guarded secret. A dangerous secret not spoken with a light tongue. She sips her drink, samples the shrimp, and digs into her salty rice.

"The Flame propagates deeply into the city. They would make prospect buyers. They have many powerful patrons that move behind the scenes and manipulate the more known aspects of the society. Well connected individuals whom may take a personal interest in our acquisition. Coin is rarely an issue for them when it comes to information or curiosities, and they even an ardor for maps of a sort."

"The Hive comprises a great deal many individuals. The merchants connect to all, including captains and a vast fleet of boats. They aren't a superstitions lot. Perhaps, they would be interested in adding new stocks to their warehouses."

Lumi looks at Syra. "The Ministry of Preservation struggles with others controlling what they consider vital to the city. They've had run ins with the Leviathan Hunters in the past over blood. The Ministry is ruthless yet they are very effective at their jobs and keeping the city running. They do what needs done in the way it needs done. Anything that would give them leverage or possibly even allow them to bypass the Leviathan Hunters would be of great value to them."

[CosmicOccurence]

Sounds like we could have quite the bidding war if we'd like, Syra said, But unless we want to attract attention, so it really comes down to ... money, or safety?

[n0ble]

Rolin’s smile falters as the list of big figures grows, though her face hardens at the mention of the Leviathan Hunter houses. “I would rather not bring the Leviathan Hunter’s conflicts to our doorstep.” She pauses to take a conservative sip of the Ixisi brandy,”<Even if it is in service to the Homelands. The Circle?>.” She slips back into Akorosi. “Perhaps. They are no friends of the Hive’s Management. But as far as I’m concerned dealing with a Lord, <vampire> or no, is just in the same as dealing with the Leviathan Hunters. Dangerous. Though I suppose it stands to reason that they may not all be nobility.” Her smile finally deflates.

Jacs finishes his mantis shrimp with another stifled burp. He plucks a strawberry from Burnish’s box and squashes it in between his jaws. A thin trickle of red juice sluices out from his mouth and down his chin before it's wiped away with a white-gloved hand. “I would press for coin. Bowmore has his buildings. Clelland has his thugs. Dalmore-”

“-Has a long dusking memory.” Quess finishes the saying, then shoots back a glass of Jac’s concoction. She gives her delicate lips a smack, then wrinkles up her face in a polite sneer that is aimed directly at the demonhead on the bottle’s cork. She takes another gulp of the stuff before offering it about. “Powerful parties tend to act through…how do you say? ” She breaks off into a jagged string of curt Skovish.“<Go-betweens?> May spare us the trouble of dealing with <****> heel Leviathan Hunters.”

Jacs groans. “Somehow not a sea-life analogy and yet worse to my ears. I was going to say Dalmore would also pay top coin, something to go towards cultivating future relation’s what with his long ****ing memory. And,” He holds up a hand to forestall any arguments from Quess, “Don’t you go lecturing me on powerful parties.” He waggles the pointer finger on her hand before drawing it to his forehead to point at the baroque tattoos that cover half his face. A moment passes. “What say you Rolin?”

For a moment, Rolin looks at Jacs’ finger and the tattoos it points to. For a moment the barest flicker of something-apprehension? Comprehension? Confusion? Whatever it meaning, its buried under enough guardedness to make Saltford’s look tame. Then it passes just as fast as it’s there. “I do not think it should be a dinner. We should make it some sort of banquet or, perhaps a potluck in the spirit of unity. And I think it should be a masquerade.”

[1ring42]

I say we go for it. After all those mad enough to dance with demons often profit the most if they don't perish."

[CosmicOccurence]

As long as I don't have to dance, I'm fine with it. Syra grumbled. If we're having it for some elevated guests or their servants we should probably get somewhere nice to host, she glanced at the crew's resident noble.

Any chance you know a place?

[Ramsus]

"I think I could arrange for a suitable location in Silkshore, yes. I do agree that this sounds like a good plan, though it does mean I will be taking on a more supportive role than an active one as it would not be unlikely for someone to be in attendance who would recognize me in formal attire." Calilica replies with an affirmative nod.

[n0ble]

The Food Chain

The Easy Keel is not one of the best buildings Silkshore has to offer. The building is squat, its two floors and a basement grinding up against one another so that the average party-goer would be afforded an equal view from first to second floor and second to third floor. Well. If there was a second floor. What passes for the Keel’s top layer is more of a vacant space, perimeterd by a modest balcony that affords those on the second floor a wonderful view downwards. Thin films of dirt would cover the surfaces as individuals met amongst the rented social space to conspire and conglomerate their goals. Such ventures were buoyed by the lack of electric lightings, an indicator of the owner’s distaste for modernity. Modest emplacements on the walls allowed for torches by which the accumulated guests could see one another. And if they found such sights undesirable there was always the view of Ankhayat park that one could always turn towards. It did little to dispel the dirt or the aged, nae archaic nature of the Easy Keel, but then again building’s ownership has always possessed an eye towards the past. And yet, for such a dingy place, the Easy Keel more than makes up for any deficit of style for the simple fact that it is one of the most venerable venue-spaces in Silkshore.

Tonight the Easy Keel is much changed from the past. Rolin’s position has afforded the space a fine cleaning, so much so that one can actually see the floors underneath. It’s made all the more apparent by a few electrolights that have been strategically placed about the Keel’s dimensions, casting the whole inner Keel in a glow that’s halfway between soothing and baleful. Perhaps the largest light fixture has been set in the middle of the first floor, amidst the table of foods that the upper crust of the Dusk has seen fit to bring, each more delectable than the last. A man with a golden mask brings a large kholodet, within which reside a series of model ships. Each ship is made from what appears to be different meats. All of them chase each other in a neat circle. The man’s face catches and reflects the blue light of the electrolamps strewn about the Keel. His mask, a plain golden disk that has more in common with a dinner plate than disguise, glows with an incandescent white light whenever it catches the rays. And yet, his dish maybe the smallest of those that are brought. A butchered dunkleosteus competes for space next to the kholodets, vomiting forth smaller capers and snappers that are no less dead for having escaped the great fish’s maw. The predator was set down onto the table by a young woman wearing a simple grey domino mask, utterly without blemishes. Their contributions are soon joined by others, to the point where it seems the great table set in the middle of the first floor will collapse from all the food set upon it.

A man with a golden hornet pin sets down a loaf of simple bread and a clay pot that has honey. A woman whose mask contains a small lightning storm brings a ring of grilled vegetables, arranged in a series of outwardly folding geometric configurations. The woman wearing a mask of sharks teeth has the servants-each wearing their own featurless white masks-bring a tray containing every sort of birdmeat available on it. The raptors have been taxidermied to appear in flight, diving for the edible meats on the tray below them. And yet it all somehow pales to the humble pot of mushroom soup brought by a man in a plain black suit and plain black mask. The bowl is made of real tree-wood.

Others and their entourages file in: a couple in white Brightsone masks and a woman who wear what looks like cloth dyed to appear as another’s face. Even a few individuals wearing trident-bearing masks appear, though they do so without food. Afterall, Lord Strangford and his hunters do not give. They take. Still, things seem to be going rather swimmingly for such an assemblage of the Dusk’s finest, in spite of the few servants of the Weeping Lady that protest the social function outside the building opposite the Keel.

Perhaps it makes it all the more surprising then, when the I’Yalim arrives.


Flare

Sometimes it can be lonely behind the bar. The woman whose mask contains a lightning storm doesn’t seem to acknowledge the old idiom. She looks like she doesn’t belong here, in the Keel. At least, not if the standards of everyone around her are something to judge by. She’s not soft. Not like the man in the marble mask or the woman who wears another’s face. Her hands, rough and callused over with evidence of labor, are bare-absent rings or sigils that might identify who she is. It’s hard not to pay attention to her mask. Little bits of static flit and spark from it into the air. Maybe they even do so in time with the emanations from the electrolights. Given the sort of people you have experience with perhaps its best her face is obscured so much. Wouldn’t want the nobility catching a view of someone whose face maybe rank with sparkcraft burns. Still, she has the figure one would expect from a life of sparkcrafting: lean, sinewy and clad in a dress that leaves little else of her body to imagination. Pretty, after a fashion.

The pieces that interlock and make up the woman’s mask brace and fold on themselves as she observes the lighting that suffuses the venue. Her voice is low, and would be hard to hear were it not for her mask amplifying the audio. “Mm. When Flint told me there would be oppourtunity at the Keel I thought his mind gone.” Her eyes flit from the lighting, to the servants to you. “Imagine my surprise then, when I found you had more than one piece of bait in the water.” Her smile creases upwards a little bit more as a servant passes by and offers both of you a fizzy confectionary. He takes a moment to pass you by to whisper in your ear. “Trouble at the front uh…m’am.”

Shimmer

“-ver been to Tycheros myself, though I hear the Blue Sands rival even the Tower of Stars for sheer beauty.” The woman in the grey mask may well be the prettiest woman in the entirety of the Keel. Pale skin, high cheek bones, blonde hair and a figure that would put Helene of the Silver Stage to shame mark her out as a classical beauty. She handles the stem of her champagne flute like a dagger, gesturing and jabbing at the minor guests assembled about you, each thrust drawing forth smiles and the odd gasp of contained laughter. Naturally, it’s all a bit offset by the fact that the dress she’s wearing in at least three or four years behind current Duskwall fashion trends, though she seems to be making up for with the sheer amount of peppiness on display.
She turns to you and her eyes wander to the mask your wearing. As it does he smile verges from conservatively polite to a full smile. With her teeth exposed she looks a bit more predatory, a bit more fierce. Definitely has some Tycherosi in her. “With a mask like that you look a sufficiently travelled individual. Where would I get such an occludent of the fac-“ Her attention is suddenly drawn from the conversation to the entrance of the Easy Keel. For a moment, as her eyes take in the raptor perched on the I’Yalim’s shoulder, a flicker of distaste manifests on her face. Then it oozes into a predatory leer that somehow looks cheerful. “Oh dear, I hope this doesn’t mean violence, I simply cannot stand that sort of rudeness…” It occurs to you that this woman has arrived alone, absent a retinue.

Lumi

“You know, I’ve always been curious, what’s a legitimate merchants guild like the Hive’s stance on pleasures of the flesh, hmm? Must cut deep, making all that money while the Faithful scorn the very thing that saw you rise above your peers, heh. ” The golden-masked man is an ass, from his slicked back hair to orange pocket square, to the lithe cut of his charcoal-colored suit. Up close its easy to see that there’s an elaborate scrimshaw-trim bordering the outer circumference of his mask. His eyes secretly laugh at anyone who tries to meet them. Who wouldn’t be with peepers that gold.

The man he trades barbs with, the one whose retinue brought the honey and breads, wears a simple pinstripe suit. Each member of his retinue wears the same golden-bee pin, though they’ve all made sure to wear different formal wear that is no less tasteful for being unique amongst to each individual. Their leader’s eyes narrow. He speaks with a Dagger Islander’s accent. “Management is of the opinion that if your works were actually worth something we’d have found avenues to procure them, Artist. As is, we’re more than familiar with the one true faith. All aspects of it. Come to Nightmarket sometime should you desire an education.” The small brigade of syncopates that surround the man in the golden mask shrink back from the insult. One even lets out a low his. “Mm. Maybe I’ll speak to your Management about it. I’m sure she could use fewer words to express twice as mu-Oh dear.” First the Artist, then his crowd of admirers, then the bee-pin clad men and woman turn to look to the entrance of the Easy keel. The Golden-faced artist lets out an exaggerated groan as he sees the Falconer, while his opponent seems to be holding onto the last few pieces of what decorum he had. Their eyes turn to you. “Who invited the Inspector?”

Burnish

It’s a Dusk-damned wonder why Strangford’s crew hasn’t started tearing into Iruvian woman and the people that accompany her. It’s a wonder still that none of them have recognized you or what family you’re from. And then it clicks. The upper levels of the Dusk might have a bigger pond, but everyone lives in the same ocean. Even apex predators like the Leviathan Hunters have their enemies, be it the pair of Brightstone garbed architects of the Foundation up above that constantly leer and titter whenever the Iruvian captain looks to them, or the flesh-faced woman that observes Strangford’s men and women with scorn. Mutual destruction appears to be ample motivation for pretended civility. It’s certainly been enough for them to treat you like a hostess and not a relative of the Bluecoat’s Commander. Or maybe their just ignorant of you in their hatred of each other.

The one man who seems unconcerned by all the posturing and silent communications is opposite from you, languishing at the bar that Flare is working. It’s the same man who brought the bowl of mushroom soup. While others may have a glass of wine or a dark, ooze like flute of spirits in hand, the man in the domino mask drinks only water, and even then from a simple piece of glassware. The water he drinks is startlingly clear for stuff from Silkshore. A small group of people has crowded around the man but he seems unconcerned with them. Instead he stares at you for a moment, smiles conservatively, then raises his glass of water to you in a toast that is echoed by the people around him. No one else seems to clue in that it’s meant for you, not them. Then a few startled gasps from the crowd draw his eye to the entrance. He observes the Falconer’s entrance with a nonchalant, analytical gaze, as though calculating something. Then it’s back to sipping from the glass of water while contentedly listening to the gossips of those around him.

[Ramsus]

Calilica was all the more surprised to have someone lift a glass to her as her attire was perhaps some of the least remarkable here. She was wearing the kind of dress of the classic "never is out of style" type but certainly not whatever is specifically in stye, so it hardly spoke to being someone worthy of note as it could as easily been made for her last week as it could have been made ten years ago for someone else. It was a long red dress with black embroidery of what might have been stylized dead trees. Paired with matching long gloves, red gold and black diamond earrings, and a simple red domino mask. She had her hair in a braided up-do so as not to have it blend in with the dress (as her hair is so red it's almost an exact match for the red of the dress despite that being a rather unusually deep red for hair, unless you're Tycherosi). Then again, his attire was as simple as hers was for people of their station.

She raised an eyebrow in response to the man and then her glass in return. She probably would have considered doing more if it were not for the sudden distracting occurrence at the door. While she considered how she should respond in a useful way to her crew, she noticed that the event had as a side effect caused there to be an opening near the bowl of mushroom soup. She'd heard that real wood enhanced the flavors. And so with that, all thought of doing anything else leapt from her mind and she made her way over to enjoy yet another fine meal of a kind she had yet to experience. As she enjoyed her food, it occurred to her that joining this crew had already brought some of the enjoyment in life she'd been seeking a lot quicker than she'd expected.

[1ring42]

Well I hope you'll allow a minor indiscretion so we can avoid such unpleasantness. If it will make it up to you I'll give you hints about how exactly this effect was achieved, but I doubt you'd like to go through such an ordeal.

Shimmer bowed out and made his way to the falconer, greeting him in Iruvian. < Peace be upon you and a thousand pardons for my inevitable crassness but by the Pit it is good to see a slice of home, albeit one that can inspire such apprehension.

May I ask what brings you to such darkened shores, particularly to this humble gathering?" >

He did his best to keep his tone casual and business like, especially since his employers didn't necessarily get along with the falconers, though hopefully his position as an agent of house Anixis wouldn't be known by the surprise guest.

[CosmicOccurence]

After confirming that Shimmer had started taking care of the problem the server mentioned, Syra turned her full attention to the woman in front of her. Well that's the interesting thing about bait, Syra says as she sips her drink. Sometimes you don't even fish up anything worth serving, and sometimes you just might find yourself with a Leviathan on the hook. The mask and physique of the woman had immediately caught Syra's attention. What on earth was a practitioner of sparkcraft doing here?

I must admit that I was surprised to see someone like you here, she continued. Didn't think this was the kind of place where people who work for a living show up. Which bait in particular are you looking to gobble up tonight? Syra was being wary. If this woman pegged her as a fellow practitioner, it might be a good place to get her feet on the ground again within the community. Of course, it could also be a trap. So she'd keep her cards close to her chest for now.

[EarthenRite]

The man known to the others as Spark cut a cultivatedly dashing appearance as he came in to the party. He was wearing a fantastically crisp white shirt under a deep brocade gold vest. A tailed suit jacket covered the entire ensemble. At the door, he swept his greatcoat off and his top hat, passing it to the attendant. He kept his cane. Of course.

His mask was that of a long-nosed dog in deep black, accentuated with golden lines around the eyes. His cane was of a similar material, reminiscent of Ancient Iruvian iconography.

Though he was stone sober, he passed his affected air of middling intoxication off with aplomb. He flitted from guest to guest, greeting each as bosom companions, whether they knew him or not. In his wake, various stories were concocted as to who that “must have been.” At each member of the crew as he passed,’he discretely smiled. It was a great idea to begin this as a party: his natural ground.

He made a point of frequenting the bar, building up the pool of his so-called intoxication. When the falconer entered, he made it a point to be nearby, watching for information that could be put to use.

[n0ble]

Flare

The interlocking plates that segment the woman's face grind together and over one another, merging into as polite a smile one can manage while wearing a mask that contains a lightning storm. She takes a seat and half-turns to you, little licks of lighting flitting across her eyes. For a moment, her gaze turns to the woman who Shimmer has just left. It's an odd thing, seeing the metal of her mask crease into a bout of confusion. Then a slight smile hooks at the right side of her face and the gaze and smile are gone, replaced by a flat line as her grey eyes take in a new figure: the man in the golden mask, surrounded as he is by a crowd of synchopants. The number of flatterers has only swollen in the face of a particularly witty barb thats sent the Hivemen retreating to the upper levels.

The woman whose mask has a lightning storm looks to you, and you can see that while her mouth remains tight lipped her eyes are abuzz with the same lightning that dances from her mask to her hair. Like some sort of spark craft-powered predator. "The only bait that matters when light is suffusing a space." Her smile returns a little. "Something thats the shiniest."

Shimmer & The Slide

The Falconer is a lean man, narrow-faced man, one who's ascetic lifestyle has left little room on his frame for fat. His skin is chestnut coloured, made all the more dull for the grey longboat and plain black slacks he wears. A pair of spectacles rest on a beak-like nose, giving him a slightly, well, hawkish appearance whenever he frowns. And then there's the swords. A scimitar on the right, an akorosi longsword on the left, both with birds of prey heads for the pommels. Still, despite the glamour that comes with his weapons the I'Yalim is plain looking man, utterly at odds with his station.

His bird is much in the same, with a simple grey-bronze plumage and rather hairless legs. It's beak is not unlike that of the pig iron used to lash ship to dock. It shares the same purple eye coloration as it's owner, all the easier to tell since the thing hasn't blinked once since you've looked at it's eyes. Come to think of it neither has the Falconer. Despite the hullabaloo and hubbub at your backs the Investigator does not speak. If anything he whispers. In Iruvian, naturally. "<It is rare that my duties twin so well, even in such a canker as this city. And yet here I stand, fulfilling the duties of both my offices. As for your apprehensions, brother-> The Flaconer reaches out a gloved hand and grasps Shimmer's shoulder with a hand far too thin for that kind of strength. Like an iron vice. <-I wouldn't worry. Just as smoke rises from flame so too do I expect apprehension to rise in the face of tonight's truth.> Then, with a quick clasp on the shoulder the I'Yalim has pulled himself past the both of you, beginning to thread his way through the outskirts of the burgeoning crowd.

Straight towards the Iruvian with the shark-toothed mask.

Burnish

If only the man with the mask was as bold as the flavours in his soup. Maybe its the wooden bowl after all. Strange that such a plain fellow would have something like that. Expensive, real wood. As is he seems rather disinterested with everything going on about him, as though the floozies and hangers on are just afterthoughts to whatever burdens his mind. He orders another glass of water, makes good time in drinking it, then has another, only eating from a heartily stacked plate the entire time. "-ast time I get stood up by an Iruvian. Really, it's one thing to be strange and mysterious but I hardly think the appearance of an honest man is a valid-oh. Hello."

The grey-masked lady has ploughed a swath through the crowd, evidently having found an appetite for something for more corporeal in the wake of Shimmer's departure for the Falconer. And yet for all her forward momentum in getting to the centre table she's a remarkably efficient eater. One has to wonder where it all goes, given the slightness of her frame. Her dress is a simple one-shade, remarkable only inasmuch as it's still white. Her smile is all rictus, with perhaps a hint of mischievous discovery about it. "Where does one get hair like that?"

[CosmicOccurence]

Well that doesn't clear anything up, Flare thought. She made a few drinks for the patrons surrounding the man with the golden mask before returning to the woman.

Your mask, I must say, is perhaps the most spectacular one here. It must have taken quite a bit of distilled leviathan blood to create. The crafter is quite skilled. As someone familiar with the arts myself, I assure you that I haven't seen its like. Who is the Sparkwright responsible for such a marvel?

[Ramsus]

Calilica eyes the woman up and down at her comment. She's heard these exact same words before, but this time it doesn't seem to be coming from a place of malice or derision. She doesn't hide the fact that she's considering how to respond, as that attempt of subtlety seems a pointless response to so blunt a question.
As she does this she also notes that she's somehow attracted the attention of the only two people she's noticed at this party so far that were confident or apathetic enough to show up in attire that stands out less than hers. This makes her wonder if she's already slipped up in some way to reveal herself as more than she meant to appear to be, if these two are just unusually well informed or perceptive, or if they saw something kindred in her take on how they needed to present themselves here. She completely rules out "meaningless coincidence" too fast to even consider that as an option.

"Proper grooming." she replies a bit slowly and with a clearly sardonic grin as she mimes the brushing of one's hair. She assumes her conversation partner will pick up on the pun relating to hair care and being "raised well" and the joke at the general attitudes the nobility tend to have in regards to those of skovish descent. As she's assuming the lady in white isn't somehow oblivious to red hair being a (not common but not exceedingly rare) skovish trait. Though she is a bit sad she couldn't work into her reply for a reason why her hair is so unusually red. Then again, it's not like she has an answer for that question anyway other than that her mother had it.

As her conversation partner clearly has no issue with talking and eating, she decides not to hold herself back either and grabs a morsel for herself.

[1ring42]

Shimmer followed after the falconer. <You called this city a canker, when it is more skin to a gangrenous pustule. Now brother, would you risk jarring the hands of the surgeon preparing to lance it, before its poisonous tendrils infect healthier more beautiful regions?

I beg of you stay your hand, until after the embers of the bonfire have died at least. Perhaps if you deign to share some information with me I can aid you in the pursuit of your quarry?">

Once again shimmer did his best to keep his tone as emotionless as the mask that covered his face, though internally he was sweating bullets while mentally chiding himself for his reaction. After all he had consorted with demons without breaking a sweat, though their was a much more visceral danger about confronting someone who held the power of summary execution. Though that power really only extended as far as Iruvian law did... Either way he mentally fought to maintain his unconcerned facade as he attempted to engage the attention of the falconer.

[EarthenRite]

Wisp’s face spreads into a warm grin below his mask. He bows to the falconer, hoping to aid Shimmer’s interactions.

“How delightful! I have never been privy to an *investigation* before. Perhaps we might be of assistance? Yes...I quite fancy playing the detective this fine evening. Where do we begin this delicious opportunity?”

[n0ble]

Flare
The metal of the woman's mask locks up into another smile, even as the electricity about the top of her head dances into oddly uniform patterns. The images blink their way across quickly. Its a testament to your experience with spark-craft that your able to parse the images as no one else seems to. Still, there's a deliberateness to the way the images play out that makes them bound to attract attention, even your the only one who can make out what the lightning actually coalesces into. First a series of emissions that look like waves, crashing back onto the mask. Then a pair of shark's jaws chewing a bird feather. Then the little lightnings wheel themselves into a glowing blue circle, then halo, then back to circle again. All like a giant electrolight lure. A Dusking lure. The whole spectacle casts a few static crackles about the bar, scattering the last few syncopates back to the Man with the Golden Mask.

For his part, the man whose face glows looks...jealous? It's hard to tell with all the light reflecting from his mask but even with the radiance pouring from it you can see his eyes narrow amidst the controlled display. It's not the only pair of eyes on you or the woman. Others have taken note of the sharp sounds coming from her mask. The syncopates of Golden Mask's entourage are beginning to fan out some awed, some less so. The lightning begins to calm down, albeit gradually but it doesnt seem like its calming down fast enough. "I'm glad you like it, though I'd thought you more than just bluntness based on the look of your hands. Some hidden mien, beneath the surface. It does make one wonder:" A quick, economically glance back to the Man in the Golden Mask, then back to you. Might it be that I'm simply fishing for the wrong thing?"


Shimmer & Wisp

The inspector, the hawk and their advance are stymied in the face of your words. Even if Wisp's introduction is a little bit too bold, the I'Yalim is clearly more focused on his native countryman than said countryman's friend. The Falconer's gaze is like steel, unwavering and matched by naught anyone else at the get together. Well. Maybe the girl in the grey mask. And his bird, as far as birds count. He clears his throat. "Hm. <I suppose I could, especially for one of my countrymen so alone amidst this sea> of sharks. <Confiendtiallity would be of the most import in that regard. Something was stolen from my house. As a preventative measure I-" He stops for a moment to liberate a passing glass of water from a servant tray, turning to nod to it's bearer in genuine thanks. "- Thank you. <Have been tasked with pre-emptively arresting the buyer most suspected.>" His eyes turn to the person with the shark tooth mask and any sympathies his gaze may have had while holding the servant are vanished. All the iron is back in his eyes as he looks to the individual wearing shark teeth.

"<I'm sure you and your>" He looks to Wisp and nods his head in a modicum of respect. "<-Acquaintance? Can respect the nature of this enough to know whose beak truly belongs in it.>" He gives both of you a curt, respectful nod, then moves to resume walking.

Burnish

The girl bears her teeth in amusement, smiling wide enough to push the edges of her mask up a little. She moves past you, slopping a bit of the soup from the bowl before taking a hearty sniff of it. "Hm. Not bad. No accents of anything Northern, either." Her chewing is noisy, verging on what might be considered rude if she wasnt that much more appealing for the honesty of her mastications. A thoughtful look passes through her eyes. She finishes chewing before speaking. "Though truly, at my age I must admit I really do lack the patience for such banter as this. That would be more Master Raffello's wheelhouse." The girl jabs a thumb at the Man in the Golden Mask. Not around him or past him or at one of his cronies. At him. Then she glugs down more of the soup.

"Ahh. Pleasant. I heard he just recently came back from Severin with the most interesting of works. An epics-worth of Severosian poems, each written on the cured-hide of a different horse!" Her voice gets a bit louder and bit more excited as the stature of Raffello's plunder grows "-each of which the poet had owned! Fascinating no?"


Flare
So as per the devil's bargain there is now an active clock that cannot be resisted: 1/6 The Old Crew Comes calling
The consequence of failing to consort is that people notice the lightning storm playing above the woman's head as you talk to her, not in the least because of what it features but also because the Man in the Golden Mask/Rafello
Consequence no. 1: +2 heat (you can resist this).
Shimmer
As per the devil's bargain that was made, there is now an active clock that cannot be resisted: 1/8 Shimmer is found out
Everyone else got sixes or was part of group actions that got a 6, so no other consequences.

[CosmicOccurence]

Ah, but the elegance of sparkcraft is not the same as that of a conversation. The subtlety of my craft takes time and consideration. Sadly I was never one to be of any use at a function like this, hence my spending time mixing drinks. Speaking of which, I fear I must attend to my duties for now, never fear, for I shall be back, and with a hurried swiftness, Flare went to mix drinks for the gaggle around the man with the glowing mask.

Is there anything I can get you? Flare asked the man after pointedly ignoring requests for seconds and thirds from those who simply dashed perfectly good alcohol down their throats without savoring it. Aside from perhaps a quieter place to sit and chat away from the hustle and bustle. Unless of course, you prefer the eyes on you? Would the man take her up on an offer to chat with a member of the crew away from prying ears, or was he the type to desire attention? And on this job, attention was the worst thing they could ask for.

[1ring42]

Once again Shimmer struggled to mask his emotions as he kept his own face just as equally masked. He turned to wisp and murmured. I don't know how much of that you got, <pretender> but it seems as if we've settled the mystery of this maps origin. Which means it may be safer to try and make sure it is sold as a curio. In the meantime make your way among the guests, let our compatriots know this map is from the spear, but keep it as obfuscated as the mechanisms behind your child's tricks."

With that he nodded to his compatriot and made his way to the man with the shark tooth mask, making sure to pick up a couple glasses of strong drink on the way. <Peace be upon you countryman, perhaps you'd like to join me in a drink celebrating good fortune? Or what scrap of fortune can shine through in this lesion of a city. I'd rather be in Uduasha, but despite all their other faults the insatiable Akarosi appetitie for distraction does allow for the easiest way to a comfortable living.>

[EarthenRite]

Wisp stands up from Shimmer, straightening his impeccable clothing, and taking up his cane. With a tip of an imaginary hat, he begins to move away.

“Oh fear not, I know my role. Off to draw eyes to me, and away from you.”

At that point the night’s adventure begins in earnest for Wisp. He begins to filter from group to group, playing up on the introductions he made earlier. He disseminates the information about the providence of the map, all the while making sure that everything is couched in veils of secrecy and social deniability.

I assume a roll of some sort is called for. Consort?

[Ramsus]

Calilica raises an eyebrow at the lady's tale and says, "Indeed." After a moment she politely excuses herself to go to another item of food that interested her and from there begins mingling a bit here and there. When she comes across Wisp she passes on the information that Raffello might be an able and interested buyer. Then she continues on. As she travels the room she tries to determine if any of the Clellands (aside from herself) are present and if they'd be interested. Finding out who the Falconer is looking for is one thing, but if she can arrange for both her crew and her family to profit that would be ideal.

[n0ble]

Flare

"Fear? Heh." The woman moves with you along the outside lip of the bar, following you just enough that she could be considered too close to the Golden Masked Man. For his part, the man seems to regard you with a causal, appraising glance that makes no secret of what he thinks of you. He punctuates the look with a dismissive wave at your suggestion of leisure. "Mm? Something heavy I should think. After all, not all of us can handle the attention our actions bring to light, wouldn't you agree?" The question is not directed to you, but the woman, clearly a jab at her sparkshow. "I would think such a display would be more appropriate for the Spark Grounds or Pharros' guild halls, no?" He smiles under his mask and lets his followers laugh for him. The light from his mask is incandescent, brighter than any pale lightning put out by the woman's mask.

Something shifts in the woman amidst all the tittering, from the now nascent sparks that crest her hair to the cheap boots her outfit barely contains. "Master Raffelo, really I'm surprised your able to place the Spark Grounds on a map, let alone evoke familiarity with them. It must have escaped my notice that Tesslyn's strumpets have graced such a hallowed performance area."

"Ah! Your familiar with Madame Tesslyn then? Clearly I should be the one surprised. I was unaware of her hiring such...comely employees." More tittering and laughs follow, as the man's entourage fans out into a half-circle that envelopes the artificer. "Perhaps she showed you pity and took you in as recompense for whatever gizmo you invented for her, mm? Perhaps some sort of motorized-masturbater perhaps? I'd wager its the only pleasurable thing you've ever done. Or enacted." The man's face turns upwards into a crescent smile as the woman, and the lightning storm that suffuses her head both wilt and shrink in the face of the insult. Her eyes search furtively about in a squint that is half-anger, half wanting to avoid the light emanating from the man's mask. They find you for the barest of moments, perhaps lingering for a bit too long in their search for sympathy, then steel themselves and turn to face the glare of the golden mask.

"Perhaps the ways of pleasure are unknown to me. Perhaps not. But at least what I create is original." Her return, while clever, does little to impede Raffello's posturing. Instead, his retinue is mad for him, uttering a series of low hisses and gasps at what is clearly a step too far. A few of them order another more drinks. The rest simply titter and move to close more of the half circle.

"Heh. You preach of originality while using the very same slanders that have dogged me my entire career. I'd hoped you could do better, Irelen. You can imagine my disappointment at finding you so Dim."

Shimmer

Theres a visible look of relief on your fellow countryman's face as you speak to him. <A port in any storm, mm? I must admit, the tedium of these affairs has always bothered but when I heard there was blood in the water, well...what sort of adherent to the Shark would I be if I didn't get my feet wet?"> For all the difference and crowd between them, you can see that his smile is much like that of the Falconer's: pleasant and relaxed, though perhaps a bit more erudite in how it takes everything in. <I couldnt agree more with you with regards to the> Akorosi. <A nobleman builds a few rail roads and suddenly they think themselves first in all things. Though I think you judge this city unfairly, friend. After all were it not for the processing of my House's livelihood I'd have to make berth in> Lockport." He takes a conservative sip of the tonic in his glass. A few of the teeth that make up his mask buckle and scrape against themselves as he grimaces, no doubt at the thought of making port in Skovland. "<No cause for indigestion mind, you. I suppose it's better than docking at the Blue Sands>" His gaze becomes a bit more thoughtful at the mention of Tycheros' primary harbour. "<You know, my mother claims to have ventured there once on some sort of trade mission...>" He prattles on stepping in between you and the men who wear tridents on their mask's. Stranfords men. It fits. Despite an odd nostalgia for his mother's past, sharks lack necks. They cannot look back or behind them. Better then, that you see what comes next.

Like orcas to a weakened grey wale, the men from Strangfords crew begin to converge upon you and the man in the shark-toothed mask and, like any good predator they do so efficiently and slowly, biding their time. Ambling to and from conversations though never straying far from their pod. The one in the lead, clearly some sort of leader or other wears a mask with only one whole for vision. Each of his footsteps echoes loud as a kettledrum in the Ghost Field, as sure a sign as any of the Strangfords approach.

Wisp

With all the drama and excitement of the the Falconer's arrival, its easy to slip from group to servant to individual as you do. People seem most captivated by such a sharply dressed man. But clothes don't make the individual. Well. Not just clothing. Words clearly speak louder than action amidst the guests who have come to your party. It's not long before a burgeoning crowd has coalesced about you.

Theres the woman who brought the dunkleosteus, digesting your words even as she tries not to get any honey on her mask or gown. The plain looking man, the one who brought the wooden bowl, has added his crowd to your own, no doubt enraptured by whatever fanciful rumours your deining to spread about the place. There's even a few leftover Hivemen and women, no doubt motivated less by your dissemblings and more so by possible kernels of truth that might lead to a windfall. The waifish woman, the one who brought the dunkleosteous, clears her mouth with a loud smack of her lips before opening her mouth again to speak. "I do love a good caper and this one smells positively rank with mystery. But surely we can do better than talk of our comrades misfortunes. Tell me friend," she pauses a moment to suck a little bit of errant honey from her thumb, "-whatever brings such an erudite as yourself here tonight?"

Burnish

There certainly are a lot of people here tonight. It's perhaps all the more fortunate then that your able to find the familiarity of family on the upper balcony. Your family member wears a simple, crisp suit that smells of freshly pressed laundry. Blue, naturally. A few tufts of auburn hair poke out from under his mask: a stylized series of interlocking manacles, all polished to a most excellent sheen. He stands like he's at attention and who wouldn't be talking to a woman whose mask makes her face looks flayed. Both hold bowls of the soup in their hands, though neithers mask seems fogged up or tarnished for being caught in the steam that rises into their faces. For a moment they both turn from their conversation and look out across the empty space of where the second floor would be before their gaze descends to the more populated first floor that the food and majority of guests occupy. His eyes scan the crowd, and for a moment the two curved manacle bits that make up the mask's eyebrows rise as he takes in the Strangfords. Then its back to conversation with the woman that looks as though she wears another's face, perhaps a bit more cautious or guarded in their conversation then they were before.

Enraptured as he is in conversation, the other Clelland that attends this party doesnt seem to notice you.


Flare
You did nothing, but thats ok, sometimes being a good pretend-bartender means listening to peoples problems and boy-oh-boy does the woman in the metal mask now have a problem on her hands. The woman with the metal mask, Irelen, is now very clearly on the back foot against Raffelo. This is because her fortune roll was good, but not good enough to beat his 6. No consequences! (yet).

Shimmer
You did it! You've successfully broken the ice with the man in the shark toothed mask! Let's start a clock called, "The Khayats sink their teeth into some prime real-estate" at 1/8. When full you can consider them ready to buy the map from the crew. Unfortunately in the process of schmoozing you've attracted the attention of the men women and assorted Leviathan Hunters who mark themselves as part of Strangford's crew. Let's start a clock called "A Strangford Intercession" at 3/6 (I wasnt sure how much to tick it up, so I made a fortune roll. They got a 6, which means 3 segments marked.) You can resist this consequence to reduce it, making it 2/6 on the clock.

Wisp
You did it! People are paying attention to you and want to know more about this man thats so good at explaining why the Law (foreign law at that) just rolled up to the party they're all attending. No consequences (yet!)

Burnish
You did it! You found some family amidst all of these investigators, spark craft enthusiast and Strangfords! Be sure to tell us who he might be or could be. Are they an uncle? Brother (older younger, the same age)? Dad? What sort of connections might they have with the family? You turned some heads during your survey of the place, just like what was agreed upon for the Devil's Bargain. +1 heat (irresistible), for a total of 3/9 so far!

As a note to everyone please keep track of your stress (I've found it helpful to keep a running tally from post to post in the past, that way I don't forget anything).

Feel free to shoot me a message or voice concerns on the discord.

[CosmicOccurence]

A part of Flare wanted to immediately try to diffuse the situation, but another part of her saw this conflict and wondered if it might be an opportunity to pit the two against each other. As the fight continued to ramp up, she watched carefully, looking for any opportunity to turn the conversation to their potential desire for the Map. After all, if rivalry could induce them to compete out of spite, then why pass up such a golden opportunity? Auctions were about emotions at their core anyways, and their emotions were massive.

Study Check. I'm taking two stress to add 1D to my roll. [roll0]

Total Stress, 2.

[EarthenRite]

Wisp smiled good naturedly at the woman consuming the honey and moved next to her, draping an arm around her shoulder and speaking in what amounted to little less than a stage whisper, making it clear that others around them would hear. Almost as if he wanted to show off, which of course, he did. All eyes and ears on the arrogant fop.

“Ah, madame, would that I could tell you all that I might. Suffice to say, I am here on...business, rather than pleasure. I could say no more.”

He removed himself from her person and looked to the crowd of onlookers. He looked back now more conspiratorially, lowering his voice once he sensed their appetites were whetted.

“Of course, I do have a weakness for beautiful women. If you have heard of...say...a map being purveyed here this evening, I could take your bid to the Principal first. Get your foot in the door, hmm? Control some pricing? The choice is yours of course.”

[1ring42]

Wheels turned within wheels within his mind as Shimmer eyed the circling crew men, trying his best to calculate a way out of this predicament. Shall he approach this as merchant or mystic? Finally he made his decision. Either way he could definitely use some r and r after this caper.

<It seems our casual conversation has attracted some unsavory attention for some reason. Perhaps because of the rumors circulating regards to the key to more profitable waters being on offer by some person in this crowd. Though some also say this is merely useful as a curio. But given the arrival of a less welcome reminder of home and these others I'd give the estimates of great value more weight. Perhaps I could assist in conveying your interest as a purveyor such as myself cannot fully realize its potential.>
"I hope this will aid in your meditations. Feel free to contact me again if your spirit troubles continue. "

With the seed planted he worked his way back towards the woman with the mirrored mask he had originally been talking with. After all he needed to lay his smoke screen. "A thousand pardons, I sincerely hope you didn't take offense by my diversion necessitated by my duties to my countrymen. If I remember correctly you were interested in the nature of my mask?"

[Ramsus]

Calilica finds a moment to catch the attention of her cousin and discreetly asks him if he's here on behalf of the family for this secret auction for a leviathan hunter map she's heard rumors about or if that's nothing more than a rumor afterall.

After that discussion, probably kept brief as her cousin probably doesn't want to spend his time on the red haired sheep of the family, she makes similar inquiries with others who she believes would be interested that she doesn't spot the others chatting up.

[roll0]

[n0ble]

Flare

"You'd certainly know what it means to be dim, artist. Nothing original in reproducing that which is long since lost." Irelen sounds like she's spitting the words, but her mask gives them a slightly static quality. It does little to dimish the radiance of Raffelo's mask, though the artificer gains more mettle as she finds the right words.

"I doubt what you could create could illuminate a Dunslough hovel, let alone the dingy catastrophe you call home." Somehow, Raffleo is able to sneer through the tinsel and flimsy that makes up his mask.

"Heh. I doubt you could even spell Dunslough, wattwitts. A wonder that your not blind from the excess that your mask betrays you to." A few boos and hisses sound off from Raffelo's entourage, who move to put themselves in between the artist and Irelen. A new round drinks time just right breaks up the enclosure that defends him. Just in time for Burnish to should her way through the syncopates and inform the artist of the true stakes at play in the party. It must be the red hair that takes his attention away from Irelen, giving you all the time needed to send a servant complete with note and drink over to the tinkerer to inform her of what she stands to gain.

Burnish

"Aheh" Cousin Clelland has all the leanness of a death lands jackal. His uniform is neatly pressed and does not rumple as he disentangles himself from the flesh-faced woman. "Both naturally, though I'd wager the summation of the two would be much in our interest. I've not found myself appraised of anything at the precinct, so really I'm here as family, less so a constable. And that means keeping an eye out for foreign investment as much as anything. Now," he turns back to the flesh-faced woman and a bit of the buiness fades from the placidness of his stare. "If you'll excuse me. I have a "witness interview" to continue. He returns back to the woman whose attentions he courted earlier, perhaps drawn to something about her mask.

Compared to family, Raffelo its positively glowing with attention towards you, words and red hair all. "Mmm. Quite an interesting artistic work your proposing. "Mmm. I admit rumours of such esoterica was ample motivation for an appearance, even if it means have to put shrews like Irelen in her place. Though I'd daresay with a red streak like that you've stolen much attention, mmm? Have you ever been drawn before? No doubt you'd find it breathtaking. Aheh." The sneer the artist had previously worn has been replaced by an experienced smile, composed of whatever thin metal and makes up his mask and some idle flirtations. "Perhaps you could allay concerns that I have when it comes to purchasing such a work. My safety, for example. Afterall, artists need their hands. It would be a shame to hold something so pretty and be rendered able to eclipse it."

Wisp
The woman with the Grey mask yawns, ending it in a bored smile. She gobbles with a hearty chunk of honeyed bread, licking her fingers clean with a dejected look, as though there's something missing from the content of what you've said. "Personally I've found theres no pleasure to be found in business so blunt as the words your purveying. It appears to be leaving a bitter taste in my mouth, though the more I think on it the less I'm finding any pleasure to be had in dealing with your business. Hmph." She turns to leave, white dress twirling in an apt gesture of what could be termed as "affronted scorn". Evidently pleasure comes before business for the people who lack entourages. Then she runs into Shimmer.

Shimmer
"<Ah, yes.>" The Captain's attention to the past is interrupted by your words, all thoughts of the far north banished from his thoughts. You'd do well to keep me appraised of the situation. Ever since the Spear wrecked, said livelihood has been...precarious. Iruvia cannot afford to have a weakened fleet. It must rest with those who are strong.Not rust and failure.> I shall attempt to the same. Keep an eye on the Trident, yes? Thats a statement worthy of any apex predator. A bit of the captain's mirth dissipates, replaced by a bit of contemplation that turns his face neutral. Could be its the way He clasps his hands behind his back, mindful of the Strangford men that seem to have taken up positions at conversations around you. The man in with one eye pauses, his attention snagged on the growing conversation coming from Raffelo and Irelen. It's as good a time as to dip. The echo of the one eyed man's footfalls are muted by the distance to the Wisp and the Grey-masked woman. Just as well.

Your mask is as good as any intercession on behalf of the tongue lashing that Wisp has received it. The woman's features soften somewhat in the face of familiarity. But not too much. There still a sort of hunger that no amount of Hive-yielded honey seems to satiate. The equal of any Ankhuset captain. "Very much, depths forbid I'm swaddled by anymore inadequate flirtations. Please." There's a small speck of white light in her eyes as she speaks, hinting at the excitement of a good story. "I'm very much of the opinion that arts like your mask can transcend petty nationalities."


Alright, by a slim margin of one 6, you do it (it being the group action to drum up interest in the map)! Wisp is going to take 1 stress from rolling the double 3s.

Some clocks that got started by it:
Raffelo buy 3/8 (owing to the setup from Flare)
Irelen buy 3/8 (owing to setup from Flare)
Collem Clelland buys 1/8
Grey-Masked Lady buys 1/6
The Khayats sink their teeth into some prime real-estate at 2/8.

Clocks that didn't change or were resisted
A Strangford intercession was resisted and is now at 2/6
The Old Crew Comes calling 1/6
Flame found Out 1/8

[CosmicOccurence]

Syra scans the room, carefully watching to see who's here for the potential purchase, who's just here to show off, and who's going to be trouble for the crew. She uses some careful hand signals to help the waiters point her crewmates in the right direction. Still though, her head hurt from trying to focus on so many things at once!

Study, using 2 stress to up me to 2 dice (4 stress total) [roll0]

[EarthenRite]

Wisp focuses on moving towards the heaviest hitters in the bidding, very carefully stroking their respective egos for their good business acumen in bidding on the map.

When they begin to slow, he moves to the next,’making sure to keep everyone in the game. When he needed to, he was by turns fawning, browbeating, flirting, or cajoling the various parties into a fervour where each saw the map as their own personal ticket out of the darkness. When the pitch was fevered finally...he vanished.

Not literally of course, but he receded into the outskirts of the conversation, waiting for the next move he was called upon to make.

[Ramsus]

Calilica continues talking with Raffelo for a bit, pretending to be surprised at him considering the possible dangers of something she is just remarking on the rumors about. "If it is real and there is danger, then surely it must be something worth having no?" she suggest as if the prospect of said danger is alluring to her. She makes some more small talk, coyly not answering his question about being drawn and implying she might be up for it if one were to suitably pique her interest in some way.

Then she excuses herself and tries to drum up interest in the map in those the crew has determined are potentially interested buyers by way of conversations that get around to subject like who such a map would help them get one over on and the like.

Group Consort. I think we're at Risky Great Effect.
[roll0]

[1ring42]

"And of course I would caution against trying to make such a mask yourself. After all only the insane and the ambitious hold court for demons, and even the ambitious don't do so lightly. That being said the spiritual landscape her is refreshingly novel. He took a thoughtful sip at his drink before continuing.
"That being said I've heard of a more interesting curiosity that may be available for those interested, in the interest of fostering the spread of knowledge over petty nationalities of course."

[roll0]