[DH] A Wretched Hive (IC)

[Thragka]

Nuala, Lyra, Titia

Lem nodded. "See you there." He exchanged a wordless glance with Sid and Genya. Stubbing out the end of his lho-stick, he slipped back inside the kitchen – closing the door behind him.

Sid laid the jumble of weapons in his arm out on the alley floor as gracefully as he could. "Mmhm," he said, and with that he turned and walked away. Genya said nothing as she followed him. Lyra couldn't help but notice the woman kept turning to look back at them – or was it specifically to look back at her? – before she reached the mouth of the alley and disappeared into the wider street.

Spoiler: OOC

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You get all your weapons back, they've not kept anything.

It's mid- to late evening now for these three PCs – crowds are dying down as people prepare for the resumption of the working week tomorrow morning. Let me know if there's anything left to do today or if they have an immediate next move.

~

Nathias and Carys

Goldengate was the eastern end of one of the main avenues that ran from the Cathedral district all the way into the illustrious trading floors at the centre of the Goldenhand complex. Rather than the gigantic convoys of goods and machinery that Carys had seen earlier from her tram, this was a thoroughfare for the affluent and the aspirant classes. Sleek towncars conveyed the wealthy and powerful, whose daily routine took them from the hub of the Calixis sector's trade to the environs of its most important spiritual see; vast megabuses and clunky, noisy, fuel-inefficient personal tractor cabs were the domain of the office-workers and engineers, bleeding from this spinal column into the network of midhive roads threading the forests of middle-class habtowers where the educated adepts and specialised labourers kept indistinguishable households. Thankfully, from the Diocesan house, Nathias's cab was going against the prevailing commute. At times, Carys could watch through the window as they passed thousands of vehicles a minute, frozen in standstill on the opposite levels of the thirty-two-lane highway.

The cab trundled to a halt alongside a sprawling commercial plaza in the shadow of the highway, the human hubbub staging a brave defence against the meteorological roar of the road tens of metres above. The bar was opposite a stone statue of a figure in priestly vestments, with a tall mitre surmounting a partially destroyed head. The only facial feature surviving whatever vandalism or desecration had been visited upon the statue was a single carved ear. The atmosphere inside the bar was taciturn, almost morose. Neither bright lighting nor cleanliness could be very high on the patrons' priorities for a drinking establishment. Nathias and Carys seemed to be among the youngest of the present clientele.

The flagship libation was a tankard of rotgut, tasting a bit like soap but otherwise fairly inoffensive. The bartender was a man with uneven shoulders. His left arm ended in a crude mechanical claw of three equilaterally-placed talons, which handled the drinkware with a deftness speaking to long practice.

"I know the woman you mean," he said, when Carys mentioned the description Timon had given her of the skulker Sola. "Can't tell you much more than I've said to others who came asking after her, though. Haven't seen her in a few weeks now." There was a resigned sadness to his tone. "Clients of hers, were you?"