Junktown Princes

[potatocubed]

Junktown Princes: In Living Colour

Junktown. A prosaic name for a place so far removed from the everyday world that one can only find it by getting lost. A place that stands an uncertain distance from everywhere. A place populated by cast-offs and leavings and the people no one missed. A place with troubles.

The first is a mystery. In a brownstone apartment a woman lies dead at the centre of a clock face, dial and hands painted in her own blood, twelve spaces neatly picked out in her organs, a four-petalled lotus flower cradled in her hands. What passes for a chancel police force stand around uncertain, knowing this is one to kick upstairs. The macabre timepiece says one o'clock.

The second is direct. A woman in a scarlet gown and a crimson shawl stands by a fountain in bright sunlight, brushing improbable snow from her clothes. The chancelfolk nearby grind to a halt, mouths open and staring. She is phenomenally, impossibly beautiful, all alabaster skin and long auburn hair, but her eyes are nothing but a starry void. Unconcerned, she removes her shawl to better clean it, confident that her simple presence will bring the attention she seeks.

---

OOC: The sudden arrival of the woman in red is obvious - the chancel is quite unhappy about her presence and lets everyone know. News of the murder reaches you through more mundane channels. React as you see fit.

[Maerok]

Cade finds himself behind a large crowd of people who fail to get out his way; pushing through them, he makes his way to see what the matter is. "C'mon people, I'm sure it's nothing you haven't seen before! Now get back to whatever you were doing or I'm going to..."

He breaches the barricade of people around the fountain and approaches what seems to have their attention. "Oh Hell no. What are you doing here, starry eyed one?"

[ArlEammon]

"A murder here, in our own Chancel." He said. Jakob was disturbed. "I had just learned recently I was some kind of wizard or something and now this...."

"Cade, how important exactly is this?"

[Maerok]

(He's at the fountain, not the crime scene unless you've been following him through the crowd.)

[ArlEammon]

(He's at the fountain, not the crime scene unless you've been following him through the crowd.)

(Just imagine that he's heard all the murmering of the crowd behind you and he hasn't seen the actual body.)

[Maerok]

(Ack, I didn't word that right. He's investigating the lady in red at the fountain.)

[rubakhin]

The speakeasy had been beautiful at some point. Still is, really. The frescoes on the ceiling keep on being elegant, even if the plaster is cracked. The art deco railings only wobble if you try to use them. And the lights everywhere are on the fritz - one of these days, God willing, a good electrical engineer'll get lost in a snowstorm or something and fix the infrastructure.

It's just that the place has fallen out of use. Or maybe it hasn't. Hard to tell in Junktown. The city breeds dust. The scent of neglect and age is more natural here than fresh air. One imagines that the building itself pulls the sheets over the tables and the grand piano when no one's around to see. Still, there's something homey about the place, something comforting - it feels preserved rather than decayed. Like the museums kids go on field trips to, or like your grandparents' house every Christmas.

Marek sits at the edge of the stage, feet dangling off the sides. The spotlight - so much dirt on the lens that the stage has freckles - hisses and pops. He shifts his guitar from his lap to his arms. The wooden stage creaks at this slightest of movements.

Twang.

He can't think of much to play these days. He runs his fingers up and down the neck, finding the familiar frets - the regular chord progression for twelve bar blues. Nothing special comes to mind.

I got to keep movin'
I got to keep movin'
Blues fallin' down like hail,
blues fallin' down like hail.

Nobody's ever asked him what a little teenage white boy is doing playing the blues. (And a European at that, although since being Ennobled he speaks English just as well as the rest of the family, and it isn't the chancelfolk's business where he came from.) Marek Pokorny, young and attractive as he is, looks like twenty-five miles of bad road.


And the days keeps on worryin' me
There's a hellhound on my trail
Hellhound on my trail.

Well, if absolutely nothing else good comes out of this Estate business, at least he's nailed Mississippi Delta English.

Footsteps; high heels. Marek's ears prick up.

"Gio! Gio! You best not have brought that boy in here! Ceiling's fixin' to fall on both of your fool heads! Markie honey, where have you gone?"

"No one in here but me, Rosalee." He doesn't look up from his guitar.

The door swings open with a shuddering groan. One of the chancelfolk appears in the threshold. Light streams in from the outside, casting her into silhouette. It suits her, in her shift dress and elegant hat. There's something not quite right about her - a little too slender, a little too tall, like a bad cartoon. A native-born.

"Lord, child, you look a mess. Half the town's out lookin' for you, baby. Something," she said, lowering her voice, "something heavy going down." She pauses for dramatic impact.

Marek squints at her for a moment, then goes back to his guitar.

"Mark!"

"I know," he says, slowly. "There's something, uh ... something not quite right here ... Showed up a few minutes ago." He coughs a little.

Rosalee sighs. "Then why, pray tell, aren't you out there doing something about it?"

Waiting for the cocaine to kick in. Whatever it is, he hadn't wanted to deal with it without a fresh line.

"I thought Cade would take care of it."

Marek isn't a very good liar.

To avoid argument more than anything else, he sets down the guitar, pulls on his beaten-up bomber jacket, and makes for the door, dodging Rosalee's red kiss on his way out. He isn't in the mood for a pecked cheek.

He goes left; she goes right.

"Wait," he says, "It's that way, whatever it is. Yes?"

Rosalee clacks to a halt. "What are you talking about? There was a murder, Markie boy. Down by the brownstones. C'mon."

Fantastic. Two problems.

[pingcode20]

Soon enough, the scene was interrupted by a man dressed in rags and a big beard storming down the street. His trademark bottle of brandy was clutched tight enough that it seemed to be on the verge of shattering, and chancelfolk on the streets wisely took a step back as he passed, dismissing any thoughts of

"Right, everybody move along, nothing to see here." he called, as he forged his way through the crowd. He was close enough to the Chancel to feel the woman's presence immediately, and, being the second most attuned thing to the Chancel (Emishetra was, of course, the most, and had shot him a look from across the Chancel) was as angry as the Chancel was.

When the crowd failed to disperse immediately, Kipple made his annoyance more obvious.

"Everybody move along or I shall make you move along!" he shouted. This time it seemed to have the desired effect, fear quickly dispersing the crowd, knowing the myriad ways in which Emishetra's second could make their life a pain.

The congestion issue having been cleared up, Kipple turned to the woman who had appeared.

"Right, as for you, what business do you have in Junktown?"

[potatocubed]

The woman takes in the Nobles confronting her as the chancelfolk slowly filter away, her spell on them broken by the arrival of their lords and champions. Her expression is impossible to read without the clues her eyes might give away.

"I am here to deliver a warning and to offer my assistance," she says. Her voice is steady despite the obvious danger she is in. "Oreute Bryde has made a Breakthrough. I know because I am part of it, and of her. As I speak, my six sisters busy themselves attacking the fabric of the world. They do not share their plans with me, and I am cut off from most of my power, but with your help I may yet be able to thwart them."

She looks like she is about to continue, but another arrival interrupts her. Lord Richard Bingham, the last Earl of Lucan and the current Erus of Junktown, marches into the square with two of his personal defenders - lumbering machines of cast-off stone and metal, animated by his will and magic.

"What are you doing?" Bingham splutters. "She is the enemy! Destroy her!" The defenders advance, heavy footfalls cracking the cobbles.

[Maerok]

"Hmm, dear Lord Bingham? We are trying to handle this civilly. She doesn't seem to have gutted half the populace just yet, nor does it seem like she intends to in the next ten seconds." He begins to walk towards the machines, intended to intercept them. He turns back to the visitor briefly, "Seven of you, you say? That's quite a few. And from what particular flavor of invader do you all hail?"

[pingcode20]

Kipple holds out a palm to the blustering Bingham, with the simple admonition "Hold."

He turns his gaze back to the excrucian, who had now made no attempt to hide her identity. Every inch of his soul was rebelling against the creature, and while he did not show it, he too wished to take the approach of Lord Bingham.

"So you bring offerings of knowledge and aid to the lost. You speak of thwarting designs, appealing to our duty to battle your masters." repeats Kipple. "Lies before poison." intones the warden slowly and deliberately.

"A shard does not turn easily, and to welcome a shard into the chancel is to invite a dagger to linger near the heart. You may state your case before us, and we shall determine if you may stay."

Though Kipple was younger than some powers to the role, he had adapted quickly and gained an authoritative demeanour to accompany his duty as warden of the chancel. The influence of Emishetra often made her imperators well versed in the codes of this bizarre divine comedy. Still, at this point in time Kipple was called upon in his professional capacity, becoming stern and authoritarian in this careful game between the Excrucian-shard and the Nobilis.

"For the time being, Lord Bingham, you are to observe the excrucian-shard, and watch her carefully for signs of suspicious behaviour. Do not forget the chestnut law."

[Maerok]

"As if appearing in the middle of our domain isn't suspicious enough, esteemed brother?"

[pingcode20]

"No, suspicion alone is not enough. So sayeth the chestnut law."

[Maerok]

"Bah! The Chestnut Law... Well I for one wasn't going to try and beat its brains in like some among our ranks. I agree that we should try and discern any lies it may have brought; this could be a useful ally, if what it says is true."

[potatocubed]

"For the time being, Lord Bingham, you are to observe the excrucian-shard, and watch her carefully for signs of suspicious behaviour. Do not forget the chestnut law."

"The chestnut law applies only to your kind," Bingham says. "I am still human." Nevertheless, the automata stop their advance. Despite his words it would seem Bingham is not completely certain of his interpretation of the Code Fidelitatis.

The corner of the shard's mouth quirks upward in a rapid smile, there and gone in an eyeblink. The irony of her situation does not go unappreciated.

"You are right. A shard does not turn easily. I do not know what devastation damaged Oreute in such a way as to produce me, only that I exist. The eternal flaw in her plans. Her failure and weakness given life. My sole purpose is the ruination of everything she attempts."

She pauses to consider her next words. "Oreute is what you know as a Strategist. She is highly skilled at breaking into this world and whenever she does so she produces seven shards. The Assassin wears violet, and acts with stealth. The Brute wears indigo, and uses violence to achieve her goals. The Knight wears blue and acts with honour. The Judge wears green and prefers to arrange fitting fates. The Thief wears yellow and enacts plans with guile and cleverness. The Diplomat wears orange and manipulates with words and promises. I am the Healer. I wear, as you can see, red. I defend and repair the world as best I can."

"As a separate entity from my sisters I have no privileged access to their plans. I volunteer what little I know as a show of good faith: that the breakthrough occurred in Moscow, and that a corruption of purity was uppermost in Oreute's mind as the breakthrough occurred. I came here looking for the Power of Purity to warn him - with prompt action you might be able to put an end to the breakthrough before any real damage is done."

[ArlEammon]

"This is all very interesting. I just wish that I wasn't necessarily in a world that is not as rationalistic as I thought it was." Jake mumbles to himself. "So, Healer, are you a creature with genuine concern for sentient life? Or do you just try to stop bad things do to your nature?"

[rubakhin]

What bothers Marek about it is the intimacy.

He remembers seeing this before - something like this, anyway. He had had to identify the body. Michal, one of his boys. They had murdered him.

Marek didn't quite know what he meant by "they." Especially since, more likely than not, the murder had been committed by a solitary person. And if anyone ever asked him about it, he probably would have said "Maybe the Germans," or something like it. But a better response would have been "the people who aren't in my circle, the people I can't trust." In other words, the clients.

Marek isn't likely to forget the way Michal looked that night, lying on the autopsy table with his arms curled up like an infant's. There wasn't any blood on them, not even a bruise. White arms, pale arms. He was beautiful even in death, Michal Le Bel, the best-looking boy Marek had probably ever seen on the streets.

"They" had gutted him from the tip of his chin to the bottom of his split navel, peeled back his flesh and removed some of his organs. Someone had been careful with him, had been gentle and delicate. Had made sure he had done it the right way.

The "right" way, Marek had thought, and laughed inwardly, uneasily. To think that there was a margin of error when it came to mutilation! But it was true. There had been meaning there. Some symbolism, maybe, some act of love that nobody but the murderer could hope to understand. It had been a gesture of worship. A work of art.

Looking back on it, Marek realizes that if he had had his powers then as he did now, God forbid, he could have seen it. He would have seen whatever drove that man to do it, what allure there was in Michal that had made killing and cutting him impossible to resist. Did he fight back against this, against these urges that he couldn't control? Or did he want it so much, and never think for a moment that it was wrong? All Marek knows was that in the end, desire won out.

It makes him nervous. He lights a Marlboro, hangs back behind Rosalee. She pushes him towards one of the cops. The feeling of her hand between his shoulderblades is strangely comforting - she's a harlot, sure, but it's a mother's touch, somehow.

"Someone tell me what's going on," he says. Not very authoritatively. He's mumbling, and his face is pointed towards the ground.

[potatocubed]

The woman would seem peacefully at rest if not for the wide gash across her stomach and the odd 'collapsed' appearance she has taken on since having her organs removed. She is naked, her clothes heaped in one distant corner of the room. Her hands are cupped at the base of her breastbone, a four-petalled lotus flower resting between them. The symbol of human potential in the hands of someone who will never be anything again.

It takes a moment for the investigator to notice Marek approach. He glances sidelong at the boy, then performs a surprised double-take.

"My lord," he says, sketching a bow. He is a tall man, grey-haired, with a waxed moustache. Behind wire-framed glasses his left eye resembles molten gold - a legacy of some spirit or other in his family tree. He flips open his notepad.

"She was found maybe an hour ago. Probably wasn't dead much longer than that; the rats haven't touched her yet. Whoever did it knew the human body inside and out. A surgeon." He heaves a deep sigh. "The symbolism makes bad, worse. At best, it'd be a serial kiler, but the lotus... flowers mean Noble trouble. I, uh... I was hoping one of you would show up to take it off my hands."

[Maerok]

"Well I guess that would be a matter of my estate. I am the keeper of Purity, Cade Goodwell. And what are you called? Simply Healer?"

[potatocubed]

"Yes, 'Healer' is my name. Do you feel anything? Any intimation that all is not well with your particular piece of reality?"


"So, Healer, are you a creature with genuine concern for sentient life? Or do you just try to stop bad things do to your nature?"

The woman raises a finger to her lips, brow furrowing ever so slightly in thought. "An interesting question. I believe it is the latter. I find within myself a general desire for the world to persist and a specific interest in defeating my sisters, but little concern for individual lives."

[Maerok]

"Well let me check... I'm not as tuned to my estate as well as some of the others but it'll give us a clue of where to start. I prefer to have a more personal hand in such matters."

He grins before stepping aside and calling up a Lesser Divination of Purity, focusing in on Moscow. "This is if all others here have come to an agreement to pursue this with at least a grain of salt? I for one am rather sold on the idea."

(Lesser Divination; DMP 3 = 2 and one more for long-distance)

[pingcode20]

"Salt is never uncalled for." replies Kipple, with a sideways smile. He turns his attentions back to 'Healer'.

"I'm afraid we'll have to look into this and verify your claims first. Hold on a moment." Kipple looks over at Cade, waiting for his word on the divination, hopefully only a few seconds away.

[potatocubed]

Cade concentrates for a moment. There is little purity in Moscow, everything a tangled mess of greed and duty and hope and filth. The usual glimmers are present, but there... there is something unusual. Khlebnoye Vodka, the sign outside the distillery reads, Purity Like No Other. A company that has cloaked itself, for now, in the mantle of Cade's estate. Not normally a cause for concern - such things happen in the prosaic world all the time - yet something feels faintly wrong, like the sensation of an intruder in one's home. Nothing nameable or placeable, just a sense of unease.

--

OOC: No need to spend miracle points for distance - a divination works at range kind of by definition. Also, apologies in advance to rubakhin, since you're probably going to Russia and my knowledge of Russia is cribbed largely from Wikipedia, Night Watch, and the backs of cereal boxes.

[Maerok]

(Woo Nightwatch, and Daywatch. :smallbiggrin: It wasn't what I expected, but I got the Nobilis vibe I had intended to out of it.)

"Hmm. Well it looks like there's a distillery out there, Khlebnoye Vodka. I can't tell what's up exactly, but I'm getting the feeling that if we don't get going, I'm going to start swearing ad infinitum. And I'm not sure that would be conducive to having company over. Shall we find our honored brothers Marek and Jacob? We'll have to explain this all to them..." He gestures to the Excrucian with a regal flourish.

[pingcode20]

Kipple nods, and turns back to the Excrucian.

"It seems as though your tale checks out." The chancel still didn't like the excrucian, and neither did Kipple. "However, unless Lord Bingham is prepared to mind you, I am afraid we can't allow you to remain in this chancel, until we can investigate further. You will have to come with us, or leave this place until seven days' time, when we have had a chance to look into this matter."

[Maerok]

(Where'd everyone go? :smallfrown:)

[pingcode20]

((Oh gods, not again. Please tell me this one will at least get off the ground first...))

[ArlEammon]

(Come looking for me.)

[potatocubed]

OOC: Hey, the game's hardly over yet. Go places, do stuff. Rubakhin's out of touch, sorta kinda, for the time being, so move on and Marek can catch up when he gets back.

--

"She will stay here," announces Bingham. "If I cannot destroy her I can at least keep her on a short lead. You." He points at the Healer. "The chancel borders are closed to you. You will remain within my manor until further notice."

The Healer shrugs and wraps her shawl around her shoulders. "At least you will know where to find me, should it become necessary. I am sure the Earl's hospitality will be more than sufficient." She turns to look at Bingham, who meets her stare without flinching. After a moment, he offers her his arm to escort her away.

[Maerok]

"Alright, I am sure that our trusted Lord Bingham can keep a hold on our guest while we prepare. Shall we go find the others? I heard rumors on my way over here."

[pingcode20]

"Very well, Bingham. I shall check on you when I return. Come, let's be off. Excrucians sicken me."

[rubakhin]

((Hah, well - Night Watch isn't the worst introduction to the Motherland, I suppose. And I love writing about Moscow so I'll be adding atmosphere ad nauseum.))

Marek stands there and smokes at him, mustering up the entire body of his knowledge on criminology (which isn't much, considering that he got most of it from watching bad American crime dramas when there was nothing better on). He feels like telling the cop to dust for fingerprints or something, but decides against it. Better to let the son of a gun go. He has no great love for the police, so it's not so much out of sympathy for the poor bastard (he's not particularly looking forward to tangling with whoever did this either), but that his general experience with cops has taught him that they range from ineffectual to actively malicious, and are therefore unlikely to add much to a serious investigation.

"Yeah, I get it. We can take care of it ourselves. You're dismissed," he says, and tries to give the cop an understanding look, but only succeeds in looking exhausted. More so than usual, anyway. "Only, can you identify the victim? Is she from the chancel?"

He glances at the body - looking at the dead face makes his heart jump a bit every time. The face of a corpse just doesn't look right. To Marek, there would be no mistaking her for asleep.

He thinks of Michal again. If it had been a serial killer, then he'd probably be able to divine some sort of motive - see what drove him to do it - what if it had been a paid hit, or some requirement for a ritual? He contemplates whether or not these obligations would fall within the realms of his Estate. Maybe, he decides, but it might take some work, and it's not going to be pleasant. So for the time being Marek puts it out of his mind. Better to get everyone else in on it first. See what they can find out.

[Maerok]

"Eh. I find them to be rather interesting. The whole 'destroy us' part about them is a damn shame. At least we seem to have found one that may be of some use in sorting this all out."

He cuts to a new thought. "This vodka, I saw that it was labeled as some of the purest. If I were to despoil my own Estate, that would be a likely starting point. Perhaps poison it, then ship it out? Curious..."

[potatocubed]

The investigator nods and instructs his men to leave. "Her name was Celeste. A human as far as I can see. According to the people we questioned she's been living here for almost seven months."

OOC: So... who's going where? Moscow for everybody? A bit more CSI?

[rubakhin]

Marek nods. No reason to ask whether she had enemies, or any of the other standard questions. Certainly it was the act of a Noble. Or worse. And as for her life - well, he was about to find out more about her than any cop could tell him.

Somehow, he doesn't want to leave yet. Not without doing this for her.

"All right. Thanks. I'll let you and your men know if we can use any more information. I need to be alone with - with Celeste." He finishes the sentence awkwardly, realizing that he should have said "with the body" or something like it. Something less personal.

He sits as close to her as he dares, without disturbing the crime scene - no, the scene of the ritual, whatever it had been. He wonders if he should touch her, take her hand.

((I think I'll have a Major Divination here. Probably be best to get it done now if Marek plans to do it in the future. After that he's going to catch up with the rest of the group and off to Moscow. Poor dear doesn't have much impetus of his own.))

[Maerok]

(I assume Cade and Kipple are going to find the others first.)

[potatocubed]

Marek's mind fills with visions. Everything that Celeste was tied to, everything that gave her a place, a context, in the world. He knows the subtle blend of wonder and uncertainty that kept her in the chancel when she might have just walked free, the bonds of habit that formed over the days - casual hellos in the street, breakfast at the cafe down the road that reminded her of the one she had frequented before she had become Lost, taking any opportunity to glimpse the gods that walked the streets and defined her new life.

But there it is... the chain that dragged her into her current state. An anemic young man with sandy hair and one hand pressed to his chest. A poet, soft-voiced and intense. David Kline. Short scenes from Celeste's life replay with chilling clarity in Marek's head. David... he made her love him, and then he killed her. But he was not always himself. When he spoke the words that shattered her heart, he was someone else. An opaque presence sits behind his eyes, choosing every word to maximise her despair. When he broke her neck with implacable strength, she welcomed the release.

A moment's thought shifts the focus of the divination. David... new to the chancel, he has no strong ties here. Instead, he is linked to a single distant patron by a bond of unique and shining force. He is here because this master wishes him to be here. David's awe and gratitude to this personage are unspeakable, but to Marek's divination it is no more than 'a presence'.

OOC: I had no idea how difficult a major divination of chains would be to work out. Yeesh. =P Anyway, russia tomorrow or perhaps later this evening morning. If you feel like 'meeting up' somewhere in the chancel and having a quick chat, go ahead.

[pingcode20]

((Kipple doesn't have much to do at the moment - he'd just be examining the crime scene, and hunting down the others.))

[Maerok]

Cade eventually enters the scene of the murder after the divination. He looks at the others and walks up to the grim clock, waving away any unpleasant odors. "Mmm. Nice work..." He sticks his hands into pockets beneath his cloak and crouches down.

"Four petaled lotus... Lovely little thing, isn't it? Any of you familiar in the ways of chakra? A lotus with four petals is said to signify the base chakra. As in 'one', maybe?" He casts his vision over into the Mythic realm, hoping to find something that's out of out-of-ordinary.

[rubakhin]

Marek is still shocked. It's not easy to deal with this power. Seeing this, knowing this. Knowing her. But he rubs the tears from his eyes with a grubby palm, trying to be businesslike about the whole situation. He's not going to cry in front of Cade.

"I know who did it," he says flatly. And after a moment's pause, he adds, "No. Not even close. But I know where to start looking for whoever really did."

Briefly, he fills in the details.

[Maerok]

He walks the perimeter of the clockface a few times. "Interesting. Brother Kipple and I found an Excrucian Strategist-shard by the fountain. It is one of seven belonging to Oreute Bryde. This one is friendly, as far as we can tell. Our dearest friend Lord Bingham has her now." Cade goes on to relay the finer details of the situation. "And what of our absent brother Jacob?"

[rubakhin]

Marek lifts his eyebrows. "Seriously?! Well, damn."

"Jacob? I don't know what he's up to. We haven't talked in a while. Let's go get him."

[ArlEammon]

(Sorry I haven't been on in so long. I didn't know this was still alive.)

[Maerok]

(blasphemy!)

[potatocubed]

OOC: Nothing out of the ordinary going on in the mythic realm at the crime scene. I'm going to assume you collect Jacob and scoot off to Moscow at this point.

--

It is night time in Moscow. A gentle but implacable snow is falling, covering the grime with a veneer of purity. This alley was the rear exit to someone's home until another building was constructed across its mouth, sealing it off from the rest of the world. Accumulated detritus - an old bike, rusting; dead birds; empty bottles of various shapes, sizes and colours - is covered by a blanket of untouched snow.

The door at the end of the alley, the final border between the chancel and the Earth, is stiff from long disuse. The homeowner has long since died or moved on. The bare interior is choked with dust. No squatters stay here - the presence of the chancel lends the entire house an eerie, forgotten air.

Through cracks in the boarded windows you can see the neon sign of the Khlebnye distillery not far off. Apart from the distant sounds of traffic everything is still.

[rubakhin]

(Quick question - what time of the year is it? Is it snowing also in Moscow? This time of year in Moscow it's going to be roughly 45-60 degrees Fahrenheit [10-15 degrees Celsius I guess], and it'll hit seventy within the next couple of weeks at most.)

[potatocubed]

OOC: It's... whatever time of year it snows in Moscow? Early spring, maybe? I'm guessing the chancel has different weather to the rest of the world anyway.

[Maerok]

Cade works at prying out the window boards without disturbing as much of the scene as he can.

[rubakhin]

Somewhere beyond the silence is the pulse of life. Moscow, sin capital of the world, city that never sleeps, and Marek is devoting a good half of his mental energy towards figuring out where he could take everyone afterwards without problems from face control. Slava keeps telling him that he can get anyone in anywhere, apparently he even knew the bouncer Pasha before Diaghilev Project burnt down, but he's probably full of it, and Zhenya said that ...

The other half, of course, is keeping an eye out for thugs or cops. It looks sealed off, sure, but that element wouldn't be nearly as menacing without the traditional ability to materialize out of thin air. The little pockets of silence are what really scares him in a place like Moskva.

"It's sort of beautiful here," he says, to no one in particular, his voice hushed.

[Maerok]

"So this is Moscow? I had been meaning to take a trip here someday, but not under these circumstances. To the distillery? And let's be sure to look out for an ambush... Strategists."

[ArlEammon]

"Hm... This is interesting. I've never been to Russia. I wonder if they do well with Americans here."

[rubakhin]

"Oh, sure," says Marek earnestly. "Only, you need to stay away from the skinheads, and the cops, people who look sleazy or like novyi russkiy, more so than in other countries, because Russian people can tell you're foreign just by looking at you, and they'll decide they hate foreigners just to have a reason to pick a fight. And some of the older folks might not like you, but people around my age ... You just go to the club and tell the girls you're from New York, and their jaws will drop, and they'll be ready to use them. You still have some women out looking for green cards, and I guess if you want you can use this to your advantage, but don't make anybody any promises and you'll be fine.

"Damn, that reminds me," he adds, "if someone catches us here, doing a weird thing. You have to have papers in Russia, it's illegal not to carry them and the cops will definitely ask. Nobody brought passports, right?"

[ArlEammon]

You just go to the club and tell the girls you're from New York, and their jaws will drop, and they'll be ready to use them.

"Uh. What exactly do you mean by that, son?" Jakob asked sincerely. He never found out what Marek's proffession was. Fortunately for him. Jakob was somewhat of an easily shockable person. Unfortunately. This is why he was unable to discover much of what being a Nobilis was about.

[rubakhin]

Marek blinks. Maybe the Gift of Tongues isn't working too well (although it isn't like he hadn't studied English in school, and so he has at least a vague idea of what he had been saying). "Well, it's like ... " he says patiently, " ... it's easy to impress some girls just by being foreign. They think you're exotic or they think you have money. Like, you know, if you're out partying, and you make the decision you want to ... " He pauses to search for a euphemism, doesn't find any that would translate particularly well, and skips forward to, " ... with a pretty girl."

[Maerok]

Cade mutters a tune under his breath as he scouts the area, drawing his cloak around him tightly. "Well I ain't sayin she a gold digga..."

[ArlEammon]

"Eh.... Marek. Thank you for filling me in." He smiled good naturedly. "Uh, I didn't catch what profession you were in. You said you worked for Hustler magazine?" Interested in what he was missing. "Perhaps we could learn more about eachother a little bit later, or during coffee breaks."

[rubakhin]

"Hustler? Like with women? No! I have done porn, though!" he adds. "See, everybody comes down to Prague looking for boys because we have a good reputation, work cheap and don't insist on using protection. It's okay because we're all safe in our professional lives, I guess. I got hired by this director who was making films for the adult market in I think Germany or Holland, and it was hard work, I mean, you can't just set up the camera and go, the companies are very demanding and there'll be standards like, the money shot has to last for more than ten seconds or else the director doesn't get paid, and ... "

A few minutes later everyone within earshot knows far more about the Eastern European adult entertainment industry than they ever would have cared to.

[Maerok]

"You are... well-traveled Marek. You never fail to surprise me. I was more the sort of lab-type than a free spirit. And yet we've all come into the service of our noble Imperator just the same..."

[rubakhin]

"Yeah. It's incredible. None of us seem to have anything in common ... "

Pause.

"Um, speaking of "service," what were we supposed to be doing again?"

[Maerok]

"Saving my Estate from the hands of bastard Strategists. The vodka distillery isn't too far off. Perhaps we should look it over."

[ArlEammon]

"Uh. Yeah. I don't know how one would attack my estate in any special way."

[rubakhin]

The Khlebnoe vodka distillery looks like nothing so much as a miniature industrial park. Marek tries to figure out the best place to start looking for ... well, whatever it is they're looking for. There would be someplace to process the water, sugar, and grain, he guesses, and also a place to bottle it. It's hard to tell which is which from the outside.

And, of course, there are going to be guards, so they're going to have to be careful figuring out how to get inside.