Exalted 3e - Welcome to Thorns (IC)

[Inspector Valin]

Shroudvant
Hollyhock's Quarters (And the Palace Library), Palace of the Autocrat
A few disappointed sighs come from the ghosts at Hollyhock's words, but a glance from Yi is enough to stop them pressing the issue. Dancer is readily released, and soon enough is back in her room. Her little island of seclusion is indeed peaceful today - there's little foot traffic outside; with various 'affairs of state' going on across the building, most of her fellows of the court are quite thoroughly occupied. Really, this is the perfect time to do a little reading.

The library had been a wonderful place, once. Thorns has always relished its reputation as a home of romance and culture, and the Autocrat's Library held tales of heroism and passion said to date back millennia ago. The main area is a two tiered room - a central circle where the most common books are kept, with ladders to join it to the bottom floor. Many a love story began with a furtive meeting in one of those secluded corners, and the pair reading some legendary book together. Today however, the library is largely dusty, its shelves desiccated. While there is still a worthy selection of literature and classical texts, a large portion of the histories and more detailed records have been 'sequestered' by the Mask for the newly built Manderlay House and Westirian archives: both under the tyrant's thumb. Today the palace's shelves are largely farrow; the few well stocked shelves replete with new works penned following the city's fall. They sit here, largely unread, more a statement of the author's loyalty than something to be enjoyed. The Court as a whole avoids this place now, leaving the old librarian Soto to mutter to himself as he struggles to rebuild his plundered collection.

It's a nice spot for some privacy though. As such, upon walking into her little hideaway, Dancer is a little surprised to find that she is not alone. There are footsteps coming from behind a shelf on the far side of the room: a hard clunk of leather against fine wood, slowly repeating as the unseen figure paces forward. Not Soto - too hefty a tread, and too firm. From a few feet behind that point however, a second stranger is talking. The voice is smooth, an Islander's drawl of a kind Dancer seldom hears in Thorns' court. And yet rather than Low Realm, High or even Dragontongue, this person is speaking in flowing, flawless Old Realm.

"Your problem, Itto my boy, is that you're stuck on this commonly accepted notion..."

Spoiler

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Dancer can continue eavesdropping from close to the entryway fairly cleanly, but they're out of sight and somewhat removed - I'm gonna call for Dex+Stealth if you want to get a better look at the pair, and Perception + Awareness regardless, please.

Legacy
The Sign of the Shield, Old Rhiannan
"Heh. Hehe *hic*"

The laughter isn't quite enough to stop the child's sobbing, but it's enough for what Granny needed. With a final misplaced movement on the hidden youth's part, the barrel falls to the ground with a crash, and a bundle of messy red hair and half-torn rags tumbles out in front of Granny Taya. It takes the girl a second to catch her breath, but soon enough she pulls himself upright on the rim of her former hiding spot, looking up at the old woman with a relieved smile. "Thank you. You're... not a monster, are you?"

It's not really a question - anyone actually threatening would've probably done something by now. Besides, there's no pallor to Granny's cheeks and she's not in the Thornguard's threatening black. As such, the young lass starts to tense as she realizes how odd it is for someone else to be wandering these little-traveled streets. "What are you doing out here, ma'am? It's... it's dangerous!" She reaches down to her belt, retrieving a knife and scanning the surrounding area fretfully. Granny can see her trying not to look at the cast iron statue of the Mask that lies down the street. Some folk are saying now that if you look at the Mask's image, he knows. And he can look back at you.

[Eurus]

Granny doesn't look directly at the statue either. There's courage, and then there's tempting fate. And the girl's question isn't entirely absurd, either; it's not as if Thorns doesn't have plenty of monsters, these days. But Granny chuckles and shakes her head.

"It's alright. Monsters don't want old ladies like me; too chewy! And I can scare 'em off with magic, if I have to."

She holds up her hand, tapping into the faintest current of sorcery, and a little spark of flame dances through her wiggling fingers. That being said, a sturdy knife is what she'd recommend to most people, and she nods appreciatively at the girl's.

"Looks like you've got a good head on your shoulders, at least. Can't be very comfortable out here, though. What's got you so spooked?"

[Sticks]

The Dancer thinks quickly. Whatever she does, she doesn't want these men to notice Pyrefly, not yet. She whispers a command, and directs the little sprite into a dark velvet satchel she'd brought from her room for him. She could try to eavesdrop, but it's all too likely the two men conversing will notice her. Besides, sneaking around isn't exactly her style. Instead she takes a book from the shelf, a famous old work of courtly love she'd read long ago, and came about the shelf, feigning surprise as she takes in the strangers. "Oh! Excuse me." She doesn't have a large pair of spectacles, nor is she wearing clothes that are both fussy and flattering, but she does have her hair tied back in a practical ponytail and she is clutching a large book, paper and a travel-box of pens and ink. In every important way she is the fetching young lady just out for a quiet read at the library that anyone would be pleasantly surprised to meet in the stacks.

Spoiler: OOC

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Dancer is trying to get a look at the people talking without making it obvious, take note of their dress, bearing, notable physical features and anything else she can find without it being obvious that she's doing more than noticing them for the first time. If they don't pay her much mind, she'll move past them and out of the room...then the spying will commence!

She's making a Manipulation+Socialize roll and leveraging her Thorns Society specialty to size up the strangers without appearing to do so. Spending 4m from Personal on Loquacious Courtier Technique to add 2 Successes.

Spoiler: Rolls

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(10d10)[4][3][7][7][6][10][3][3][10][7](60) +2

[Ascension]

Aspir Haven:

It's hardly worth Rivers' time to speculate as to whether Aves' invitation is a trap or not. It probably is, of course, but that's all but irrelevant to their consideration of how to respond to the invitation. They can wriggle out of a trap, if need be; the real question is what message Waters would send by refusing, or by accepting.

In case of her refusal: An impression of wisdom, cunning, or mystery could be valuable; an impression of caution or mistrust might cut either way; an impression of cowardice could be devastating (unless quickly turned to bait a hostile Aves into an overreach).

In case of her acceptance... well, there, the message sent would depend on the sincerity of the invitation, but Rivers' judges that the worst case would be an impression of gullibility, which they judge less likely to become a liability than an impression of cowardice. An ally could likely find some respect for a bold fool; an enemy would almost certainly underestimate one.

Refusal seems too great a social risk to occasion simply out of concern for safety. There is always danger inherent in any business dealings, and that's especially true of business done in Thorns. The correct response is to plan for it, not to flee from it.

Waters fills her quill with ink and pens a gracious acceptance of Aves' invitation.

[Inspector Valin]

Shroudvant
Palace of the Autocrat - Library
The two men look up at Dancer, both evidently surprised at the interruption in the seemingly abandoned library. Neither seems truly shocked by her arrival however: if they've been caught in some illegitimate rendezvous, they both have nerves of steel.

Itto is an older man, black hair starting to gray and face weatherbeaten by years on the trail, wearing Thornguard chestplate above lighter leathers. Dancer can recall seeing him in the palace a few times previously, usually standing behind General Bianca Mezaros, the ostensible leader of Thorns' armed forces, as she presented the army's recent undertakings to Queen Lillia's court. The epaulets on Itto's shoulders mark him as a Captain, as does the sheathed daiklave at his back. That puts him en par with the man she dueled in the airship, though the political power amidst the Thornguard's Captains is uneven - some of their leaders are significantly more experienced than others. Indeed, his frequent position at Mezaros' right hand suggests that Itto is not someone to trifle with, on the battlefield or in polite discussion. The Thornguard make a show of reporting to the Queen for politeness' sake, but their master is the Mask and if he is favored by the General, Itto stands only one step below her in his service to Thorns' dread tyrant.

That said... Dancer's only ever known him attend the palace with Mezaros before now. Other Thornguard Captains tend to make more use of their authority, put on a show, build a little clique amidst the courtiers to flaunt their prestige and position when off duty. Captain Itto seemingly isn't a man interested in exercising the considerable power he wields: a fact that becomes clear with the pointed look he gives his companion. The old man doesn't want to be here: this is duty to him. Not painful, but perhaps more irritating than he'd admit to his superior.

His companion is a ghost and an elder one at that - his corpus far more distinct and firmly set than the near colourless shades who flock around Minister Yi, the faint twinge of green upon his skin a mark of one dead to the Great Contagion of the distant past. He's dressed in long woolen robes that would've been more common back in the Shogunate's day, practical shades of dark brown marred with a few deep stains, with a hefty looking satchel worn over his shoulder. Humble by the norms of the palace but ghosts hold themselves to a different standard - plus he's well groomed, with a neatly trimmed goatee and his long brown hair fastened up in a topknot.

Dancer can't recall meeting him at court before, but that's fairly common - only a handful of ghosts visit the Palace of the Autocrat regularly. Most stop by briefly to appreciate the spectacle and ritual of events, a real mortal palace with real mortal aristocrats, but it's just a fleeting interest and they stick to the court proper: a band of gawking spectators to Queen Lillia's reign (such as it is). The few ghostly regulars of the court are those like Yi who found some investment in it, or the coterie of minor spirits looking for power that tend to flock around the Unrepentant Soldier, hoping the Mask's 'envoy' can curry some favor for them. Those who actually have some degree of importance within Thorns' new order usually attend the Mask's court on Juggernaut instead.

The ghost steps forward swiftly, offering a hand to Dancer. There's a joyful tenor to his voice, a certain ease in the moment. "Good afternoon, young lady. What brings you here?" Dancer can see his eyes dart to the spine of the tome she'd picked up. This man is as curious of new arrivals as she is.

The Petricorum - Memorial Courtyard
It's strange, to step back into the safe mundanity of education after something so bold and daring as yesterday's raiding mission. Yet it is something Marrow and his friends are forced to do - balancing their lives as students and revolutionaries as best they can. It's not the worst day of classes; the curriculum is the very one set for the Roots Untouched By Frost after all, covering engaging topics such as the history of siege warfare, urban small unit tactics, and there's even some time dedicated to combat training. But it's hard for people to get the memory of a life and death struggle out of their minds. Try as Marrow might, he spends his morning distracted.

Come midday, and for once as he walks the halls of his all too familiar school, Marrow of the Root is... alone. It takes a moment to realize that he's in such an unusual situation - while the day is underway, the Petricorum is usually abuzz with students going this way and that. Marrow himself is a respected, popular figure here - a member of the elite and never without a member or two of his cureva to watch his back. Yet currently they have all drifted away from him. Is some event going on, perhaps? Some strange emergency announcement?

The school is quiet as Marrow walks into the central courtyard. The Petricorum's artistic sensibilities demanded symmetry and beauty alike, and so at the heart of the academy, surrounded on all sides by the halls and towers of the Petricorum stands a small courtyard garden - replete with classical statuary, a paved path with a rose petal pattern, a handful of still blooming flower beds and at the heart of it all a giant old apple tree whose branches blossom white perpetually. (The work of one of the school's former Dragon Blooded teachers, so rumor goes). The school's current administration have yet to make a move to deface the courtyard - most are too busy fighting over the handful of offices that receive a windowed view of it. As such, this little piece of Thorns that Was has largely been untouched by the fall, even at the heart of the new perverted Petricorum.

It's a calming place, especially quiet as it seems to be today. Marrow steps out, the sights all to himself for a second, two, three...

KRAK-thoom!

It's a surprisingly sedate sound - akin to a muffled firecracker somewhere in the sky above him. Were it not for the unnatural silence of his environs, Marrow might not have caught it. But what happens next is far less subtle. From that same point over the courtyard, it looks as though a flock of birds is slowly swooping down towards the Petricorum - wings flapping in the noontime breeze. As they draw closer, however, Marrow can see what has actually fallen upon his school. They're sheets of thin paper. A lot of them. Enough to blanket the courtyard - and far too many for the Petricorum's staff to clean without the students hearing something about it.

Marrow squints upwards. He can't make out most of the text, between the distance and the movement, but the top half of each sheet is dominated by four words writ large.

Find the Quiet Mouse.

"Hey boss!"

Stone Thrown and Lilac Crescent emerge from the door behind Marrow. The pair are smiling at first, relieved to find their captain, but as they look up at the slowly descending storm of paper their faces change to bewilderment. "What... is this?"

[Sticks]

The Dancer adopts a look of deference appropriate to a courtier, but summons up a small blush at the attention being given. She has a reputation as a demure shrinking violet to maintain off the stage, after all. "Hello sirs, I...I'm sorry to disturb you. I was...just reading...the sunlight is best by the window..." She looks down, clutching the book to her chest but allowing enough of the title to show. "Dances in Sunlight and Shadows" is not her favorite book. It is over-long, the drama is occasionally overwrought and the principle characters have no real chemistry, but the book did cause a stir some hundred years ago for a rather explicit romantic sequence that ruffled some feathers in the relatively stodgy and moralistic high society of Thorns, and as such the book had enjoyed a degree of notoriety ever since. "I...begging your pardon, sirs, but if I may?" She looks hopefully towards the doorway, as though she cannot wait to escape any embarrassment. Maiden Hollyhock is not the type to linger in the company of strange men, after all.

[pfm1995]

"The principle concerns of a Marukani campaign are thus not tactical, but strategic." Marrow said, half-seated on a rickety wooden desk at the front of one of the Petricorum's more out-of-the-way lecture halls. As he spoke, the susurration of quills on parchment followed a step behind like an obedient dog. It was a well-attended lecture; there were over thirty students here, almost all of them in their first year at the school. That alone wasn't a surprise - exams were coming up, and if you were on the Legions track one of yours was guaranteed to be on the 'theoretical' invasion of one of Thorns' neighbors. The Marukani were a particularly popular choice among the more sadistic examiners; an invasion of the horse-people's homelands was considered a fools errand. It'd been Marrow's exam in his first year, so the topic was no surprise either. What was a surprise was the sheer breadth of cuervae represented. He saw signs for over a dozen, and wasn't sure whether it boded good or ill - good, that the school was beginning to recover, or ill, that all this talent would be at the disposal of the Mask. He tried not to let his concern show as he shifted in his seat and kept talking.

"Strategically, the Marukani are strongly Wood aspected with a secondary focus in Air - their small family units and ability to live off the land make them ideal raiders and harassers, while their speed allow them to reposition and draw out our own forces. These are not advantages which, at the beginning of the campaign, we will be able to match. So, we need to negate those advantages." He stood up, moving to a rough map of Thorns and its environs pinned to the wall behind him. With an outstretched hand he tapped one of the larger dots on the map. "Celeren." He tapped a few more. "The larger range towns. An acceptable initial thrust would be the capturing of these strongholds and the establishment, through ritual means, of shadowlands in these areas. By connecting with the Underworld, we secure our supply lines from harassment and establish a series of fortified strong-points. From there, talons of skirmishing undead can be sent out to harass the enemy while we fortify" He took a moment to glare at any student who looked to be nodding along a little too enthusiastically - he didn't welcome suck-ups, besides the papered-over horror of 'creating shadowlands' there were other flaws to this plan. "Note that there are significant weaknesses to this that you will be asked to address, should you propose this. First, you are deploying Thorns' mage contingent - our most precious resource, save for the Chosen - as part of your vanguard. Second, you are splitting your forces; if the Marukani are able to concentrate themselves on any one of your redoubts you will lose it, as well as any assets inside. And finally, the advantage of the Underworld is a temporary one - you must have a contingency in place for when that access is cut off." He smiled, all teeth. "I'll leave those contingencies as exercise, I've already passed this exam after all. We might call this plan the primary-Earth approach; a decisive move to establish defensive strong points from which to apply unrelenting pressure. Fire I will leave for you all to discover - though if any of you even so much as consider outright extermination, you will be failed and rightly so -but I do want to highlight the Water approach."

Marrow sighed, sitting back down. This was important, the real meet of the lesson, and he pitched his voice to draw them in. He wanted them to remember this. "The reason the Marukani are such a popular exam topic is because they're a yen piece dropped in a briar patch. Most students, especially in their first year, become so focused on the problem, the yen piece, that they lose sight of the briar patch. The real trick, is to look at the question in context." He pointed back up at the board again. "The Marukani are a small peoples living in the borderlands between ourselves and Lookshy. There are cities with larger populations than their lands in total. Lookshy offers at best left-handed support, while their divine support is limited to a single terrestrial god. And yet..." he whet his lips, thinking back to the young woman at the tower last night, "And yet they are a hard people, and they pride themselves on their hardness. They will not bow, they will not bend, until we have committed such atrocities as to almost wipe them out. And maybe not even then. Removing them would take effort far, far in excess of the value gained - we would be trading a body covered in scratches for a single yen piece while on our way to great and difficult duels. Not only that," he gestured at the map again, "our actions would force Lookshy to begin supporting them more openly. It may even drag in Sijan, or the other Scavenger Kingdoms. So, how do we conquer the Marukan Alliance?"

He paused.

"By not fighting at all. This is the Water approach - let the diplomats and the spies handle this, let them slowly but surely spin the Marukani away from Lookshy and towards Thorns. And if that proves impossible? Then let them encourage feuds, let brother kill brother until we march on a land already broken. Sometimes, the best way to fight is not to fight at all. Of course," and now his voice was up and booming again, a last burst of energy to finish things off, "the examiners won't let you get away with that. They'll say "but suppose we ordered you to attack anyway?" or "suppose diplomatic options have been exhausted?" And they're right to do this. You will, in your time, be given orders that seem downright moronic. And you'll say "This would be better solved diplomatically" and they will tell you to do it anyway. And you will, because you are training to be soldiers. Your job is to find the best route with the orders you've been given. That's all, thank you for coming."

A brief smattering of applause followed, and Marrow took a half-hearted bow. He was already sagging; he was still exhausted and, though he'd had it looked at by one of the more medically-inclined students under the excuse of having tried to breathe fire with some liquor, his throat was still more than a little sore. A few students came up with questions, but he begged off answering them for now - he'd meet up with them later. Connections were important too, after all. Instead he left the stuffy hall and wandered wherever his feet took him, thoughts flowing freely. Thinking about the night before, mistakes made and battles won, and that Marukani girl and the other prisoners who's names he hadn't learned. It was the lack of sound that broke him out of it. On a day like today there should be students nearby - hurrying from class to class, sparring, finding private nooks, something. Instead there was no-one, and a jolt of panic went through him. He put a hand on Quiet and stepped cautiously into the center courtyard.

KRAK-thoom!

Marrow starts at the sound, drawing Quiet in a single smooth motion and sighting the strange thing flying closer. He's moments away from pulling the trigger when he realizes what's coming towards him and relents - for the moment. His mind is already whirling. There'd been something like this in one of his books... Sesus Myun, On The Liberation of the Chyrgit Satrapy. Propaganda, marked with sorcerous impulses to open gates and slaughter commanders. The sound of approaching footsteps had him whirling again, before lowering the barrel when he recognized his friends. "I don't know, but I certainly don't like it. Recall everyone, now - classes and exercises are cancelled, get everyone inside. Find out if there were any more of these, quarantine anyone who read one until we can reach out to one of the other Cuervae and get some sorcerous support."

After they left, Marrow went to do the same - but not before grabbing one of the pieces of paper, folding it up, and putting it in his pocket unread.

[Inspector Valin]

Shroudvaunt
Royal Library
Her new friend takes a second, as though searching his memory for some point, before his smile returns in force. "Of course! Far be it from me to keep you from a good tale, miss. I hope you... enjoy it." The dapper ghost offers a wink to Miss Hollyhock, before chuckling and bidding her farewell with a more polite bow and wave. Social niceties attended to, he turns back towards Captain Itto. "Always nice to see the young taking an interest in the classics. Now, where were we?"

"You learning what the word no means?" Itto mutters. His ghostly companion chuckles, “Ah yes, your intransigent...”

Spoiler

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Err... yeah, your move Sticks. Is Dancer heading off, or is she planning to spy further? If the former, how's she planning to position herself to hear? Find a spot to 'read' in the library? Back to the door outside? Going off their reaction, the pair really don't seem too bothered by Hollyhock discovering their meeting but outright intervening in their discussion (or eavesdropping too blatantly) might damage her cover.

Petricorum
Marrow's eyes are sharp, and his nerve is steady. After pocketing the note, he takes a final glance up - and meets the distant gaze of a figure standing on the rooftop of the school, looking down at the courtyard.

She's quite the sight, really. Her outfit's darkened lace blends surprisingly smoothly into the roof-tiles of the Petricorum. She's leaning on one of those war-scythes some younger duelists fight with - this one standing taller than the stranger herself, with a worked blade of some kind. She's young enough to be a student, pale skin, short black hair tied up in pigtails behind her. Her eyes gleam blue as they meet the distant gaze of the figure on the ground, her lips twisting upward. Marrow can make out recognition in that grin. She knows who he is.

The Maiden tips her head to her Dragon Blooded observer, placing two fingers to her crown as if doffing an unseen hat to the wood aspect. In that instant, dark red lines form across her forehead, as though an injury were drawing itself over her brow in faded blood. A circle, with eight lines formed radial across its outer edge.

Dusk Caste.

And with that, she vaults from the roof, scythe in hand - away from the courtyard and out of sight of Marrow. Her task for the day is seemingly now complete. While the still descending scraps of paper, and the raised voices of approaching staff make it clear that Marrow's is only just beginning.

Spoiler

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Your Cureva have snapped to. The school is just starting to react. The ball... is in your court?

Legacy
Old Rihannon
"I..."

Even now she's starting to feel a little more at ease, that question is a tough one for the girl. She takes a second, looking from side to side before muttering. "G... guard." She sounds guilty for admitting that. Guilty at it happening? At having run away? It's hard to tell - she's looking down at the ground and sniffling. "They said we were smugglers. Mum and dad argued, but they didn't listen. They... said they were taking them to the Maw."

Oh moon. The Shackle Maw Penitentiary. The place is the stuff of nightmares for enemies of the Mask - it might act the part of a jail, but its prisoners never leave and common rumour amongst the resistance is that it's a glorified charnel pit. On cold nights however, aching desperate cries echo across the surrounding streets. Bloody thing's a pointy iron eyesore that chills you to the bone just to walk past. Looking up, Granny can just about make out its spires in the distance.

The girl is shivering at the thought of her parents falling into such a place. “I ran, but Bro said that was the right thing. He said he’d get them back. He told me to hide, and wait for him and his friends.” She looks up at Granny, hoping for validation and assurance.

Unfortunately, this rescue is probably not going to go well. The Shackle Maw is one of the most secure locations in Thorns - fortified and well defended by the Mask's best. 'Bro' would have an easier time breaking into the Palace of the Autocrat. And that's before you get to...

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Has Granny investigated the Shackle Maw before? ;) If so, I’m happy to share a bit more information about the place. We can even go to a flashback of her checking it out if you want. Mask's security is good, but even he has some difficulty stopping a Lunar going where she wants to. Of course, doing stuff like that makes it a bit more likely the Mask's forces are aware of her...

Aspir Haven
Seven Tiered Sanctuary
Whisper and Rivers may have expected tonight to prove... loud, as they head towards the den of debauchery known to house Thorns' premier Phantom Thief. The Seven Tiered Sanctuary is famous as a party hall themed around full indulgence in every vice forbidden by the Immaculate Philosophy - it is the home of those who choose to flout the dogma of the ancient faith and revel in their freedom. Drunken sailors have already encircled the hall's exterior by the time the two arrive, and the sound of loud music can be heard within

And yet, upon reaching the entryway, the doorman seems to recognize the pair. He exchanges a look with his partner, before nodding. "Silken Laughter is expecting you. Come with me, please."

The two Chosen are escorted swiftly into the building - and past the communal area, to a rather plain spiral staircase. It's a long descent with the faint sound of music in the distance, but before too long they alight at the base of the structure.

To... what appears to be a disused floor of the illustrious Sanctuary. A few candles have been lit, enough to provide the outline of a bar, a stage and dancefloor, but Rivers and Whisper have seemingly been left alone to their own devices. Their escort has swiftly withdrawn, and there's no other signs of life on this level of the dance hall. There's a faint sound of horns, a powerful voice and stomping from above them, but nothing here suggests this floor of the club has seen foot traffic for years. Cloths have been hung over statues, the paintings adorning the walls have grown dusty over time...

“Aha! Welcome!”

From somewhere in the shadows, a friendly tenor echoes out into the room unprompted. “Come in, come in the pair of you. I’ve been hearing some rather creative stories about what happened to my star performer. I’m hoping you can… clear things up for me.” A light flickers to life upon a set table, right in front of the bar, a bouquet of fresh lilac in a vase to set the mood, and two glasses of fresh water already poured for the honored guests.

[Sticks]

Dancer leaves the sunlit side-room on light feet and shuts the door behind her. In the dark corridor, she pauses, checks to ensure she is alone, then gently places her palm against the door-frame, curious what conversation she'd just left. Whorls and tongues of essence course through her, from the delicate lobe of her ear to the tips of her fingers. She closes her eyes and listens.

Spoiler: OOC

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Dancer is activating Deep Listening Palm to overhear the conversation between the captain and the ghost.

[Ascension]

Rivers is in their Scarlet Rivers persona: hair in a tight bun, sneer on their lips, long dark coat cinched at their waist. Below the elbow, their arms are clad in the formidable Seven Aeons Gauntlets - the weapons are too useful to be discarded, despite their unsubtlety, and among Rivers' various personas, they seem best suited to Scarlet's militaristic air.

"Of course! How could we not oblige you, my friend, when you extend such gracious hospitality."

Scarlet's voice is deeper and rougher than Whisper has heard from Rivers before, but the gravel does little to disguise the sharp edge of his sarcasm. He takes a theatrical look around the disused bar.

"You've brought out the good cobwebs, haven't you? And..."

He strides over to the set table and takes up one of the glasses of water in one over-massive paw, making a show of wafting its aroma with a single finger of his other gauntlet.

"Ah! This vintage has such a fine bouquet. Do I detect..."

He twirls the one armored finger again.

"...floral notes?"

Scarlet lets his thinly-veiled insults towards the host hang in the air of the darkened bar for a moment, then punctures the tension with a good-hearted laugh. He shoves a chair back and sprawls into it, then takes a generous swig from the water glass and sets it back down - only a little harder than he intended to.

"But seriously, Laughter, thank you for having us. And your songbird's rescue is a tale worth telling!"

He waves the unseen voice closer.

"Come join us at the table, let's swap a few stories."

He grins invitingly.

"Bring over a bottle of the good stuff, too, why don't you? Kid's parents won't mind."

Spoiler: OOC

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I am, OOC, guessing Silken Laughter might be a ghost - I went back and double-checked the Gazetteer, but the mention I thought it made of the Seven-Tiered Sanctuary isn't there (anymore?), so I'm not sure. Rivers legitimately isn't trying to be rude past the point where they laugh, however, so if they should know IC that asking Laughter to step into the light and/or carry a physical object would offend, I'd like to have the chance to edit this.

If Laughter's a ghost but Rivers doesn't know, or they're not a ghost, then full speed ahead.

[Inspector Valin]

Shroudvaunt
Royal Library
It takes Dancer a moment for her essence to work its way through the closed door - but just a moment. Soon enough she can hear the pair again, loud and clear.

"...all we've done, you're still insistent on shutting this down?"

Dancer doesn't need line of sight to hear the irritation in Itto's voice at that. "Doctor, you came to us. Again. And again. We did not solicit your work, or that of your students. The Thornguard are operating perfectly well under our current combat doctrine - there's no 'weakness' for you to address."

"But you could be so much more!" The ghost is warming to his theme - there's a growing energy to his voice as he resumes his sales pitch, utterly inappropriate for his surroundings. Dancer can hear the rustle of paper - the speaker waving a book to emphasise his point. "Think of it! For all your training, and the specially forged gear you captains get, the Thornguard rank and file are still mortals and carrying mortal armaments. They deserve more, and we can give them more! Imagine - deploying to the field under a bonestrider's carapace, arrows clattering uselessly down around you. Garmarands charging ahead to rip your foes to shreads. The razor swarm, the ivory chamber, the ashwurm - just picture all of that at the disposal of the Thornguard!"

"And picture all the dinars such a contract would earn the distinguished Doctor Veritas and his team for creation and upkeep?" Itto was ready with that one, the captain's voice cutting in its dismissal of his would-be confidante. "The entire purpose of the Thornguard in the city's current strategic overview is to serve as a mobile force capable of operating without Lord Mask and his forces. Incorporating necroforms into our ranks undermines that. It ties our logistical train more firmly back to Thorns, back to extra personnel, additional resources, a stationary repair bay. I've seen your workshop and maintenance requests. It's a sizable bill, a nuisance in the field and it's unwarranted."

Spoiler

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This is going to continue, and there's more information you might want to hear, but this should be enough to give you the basis of what the two are here to discuss. There's enough in the voices here that I'd potentially permit a Read Intentions action, but it'd be at -3 since Dancer can't see them and they know they're being observed (by each other, if not by her)

Aspir Haven
Seven Tiered Sanctuary
"Heh. You've got some... spirit to make a request of your host like that." The voice chuckles, deep and echoing through the room, the water glasses upon the table shaking at the sound. "But then again. I am in your debt. If the price of that is to simply dance to your tune... then fair enough."

With that and a faint click, a figure resolves amidst the shadows behind the bar. Fingers briefly pass above the candle, intensifying its flame with their passing, to reveal... more a shape than a person, to be honest. A looming mound of a figure, wrapped in a fastened grey cloak that reaches far above where the shoulders must be. The only distinguishing feature is the head - marked by a white silk mask, with indentations for eyes but no holes and no mouth.

Silken Laughter bows politely to the pair, before turning back to the rack of drinks behind the bar. A hand snakes out from within the cloak; running a finger across the line of bottles, clinking as it touches each in turn. The errant digit glints golden in the candlelight. "Now. What would best serve the two of you? For Master Rivers... perhaps something Corelian? The Gerarde Black is a classic by all accounts: the strength of a biting wind with Siaka gnashing at the waves." It's also ludicrously rare - only a hundred bottles were ever made, to commemorate Gerarde's ascension to Sea Lord. Giving them time to consider the offer, Silken Laughter turns back to look at Whisper, tilting that featureless face quizzically at the waif. "And for you?"

[Sticks]

Dancer considers what she's overheard carefully. This is already valuable intelligence for the resistance. A confirmation of a major necrotech laboratory and its chief operator are valuable targets. Also useful is the confirmation that the Thornguard insists on remaining a conventional force, without the Mask's specialized equipment. Even so, she wants to be sure. She takes a quick glance around to confirm she is alone, picks a nearby reading chair to retreat to if the two debaters break off and approach her door, and closes her eyes. She pictures the captain, the ghost, and how they were talking. She matches their faces to the words she hears through her fingers, tries to see how they would pry at each others' weaknesses as is the norm in Thorns.

Spoiler: OOC & Rolls

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Dancer is making a read intentions roll at a -3 penalty, but she is countering that with 6m in Loquacious Courtier Technique (from Personal). Perception+Socialize+Specialty (Thorns Society)+Stunt-3 (penalty) +3 successes= 5 Dice +3 Successes.

(5d10)[9][2][5][1][2](19) +3

[Eurus]

Granny can't quite hide her wince when she hears the girl's story. She shakes her head and sighs, trying to figure out how to salvage this. If she's fast and lucky, maybe she can stop the girl's brother from getting himself killed, but she can't reasonably leave the child out here in the meanwhile. Asking around in the undercity also seems like a generally decent idea, since someone might know this foolhardy boy or his friends.

"Well, there's more comfortable places to wait than this. I know some people who might know your brother or his friends, too, and I'd like to ask 'em if they've heard anything. Will you come with me for a bit?"

[pfm1995]

Standing with the flurry of pamphlets dancing around his feet, Marrow's eyes narrowed at the exalt perched on the rooftops. Inwardly, he's trying desperately to slot this new information into his mental model of what's happening here. He doesn't recognize her, he things, and if she was one of the Mask's chosen she'd have better distribution methods than just... duping her work in a courtyard. Though he knew that there are other Deathlords out there in Creation, he didn't know much more than that - certainly not enough to recognize one of their servants. Was she one of theirs? If she was, this would be very, very dangerous business to be getting involved in.

Whoever she was, there were more immediate problems. He nods at her grin - putting aside that she seemed to recognize him, and wasn't that just the worst part of his day - before turning to the others. "Time to be just about anywhere else, I think - I can hear the administration coming, and I don't think I want to be answering question quite yet. Orders stand, but dither for a little while and watch for administrator activity before you start with the rounding people up. I don't want anyone to know that we were here, so we'll make it look like we were told by one of them. We'll meet back in the dorms." Of course, all that assumes that this wasn't the only drop point; something he rather doubted. "Time to move, my lovelies."

And then he was gone. Marrow hopped a decorative shrubbery with easy grace, moving from there to the loam to the open window behind it. The room was deserted but from the paraphernalia scattered about he could tell it belonged to one of the sorcery instructors - and a highly-ranked one, to have an office on the courtyard - so he was careful not to touch anything as he moved quickly through it. From there, it was just one corridor after another before he made it back to the dorms.

There, he had a choice. The pamphlet he'd picked up was burning a hole in his pocket, but if he was right and this was some kind of sorcerous attack then reading it himself was... stupid very stupid. Could he ask one of the other members to read it for him? Wait, wrong question, of course he could... but should he? Would that even help? Was the magic in the words, or in the writing? Either way, reading it himself just seemed a stupid risk to take. On the other hand, if the writing boiled your brain out your ears he'd have just thrown one of his men onto a sword in his place. He sighed. "Someone bring me a medical student!" He shouted into the hallway. They had a few kicking around the cuerva, it shouldn't take long to find one. He'd read it himself, and trust that his men would be able to handle the fallout.

[Ascension]

"I think the Gerarde Black would put me in your debt, Master Laughter," Scarlet Rivers replies, already running the calculations to appraise it and compare its value to the net worth of Rivers' entire operation. "Even here in the undercity, our books still have to balance at the end of the day."

Rivers takes a moment to appraise Laughter, too, now that their host has shown his shrouded face. What game is being played here? This isolated meeting space is an arena, chosen and staged for this conversation. Is Silken Laughter truly just eager to hear Rivers' recounting of the misadventures of his captured songbird, or is this another trap that they've walked into?

Their lips quirk just a fraction as they smile to themselves. It's probably both.

Spoiler: OOC and Roll

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Read Intentions, dropping 2m on Loquacious Courtier Technique for an auto-success:

Spoiler: Roll

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(11d10)[3][6][7][7][7][7][8][2][3][9][8](67)+1 success

[Inspector Valin]

Shroudvaunt
Royal Library
"If you're so confident in the value of your craft, what are you doing talking to me anyway?" Itto's chill aside, the captain sounds honestly curious with his question to Veritas. "Lord Mask always wants to expand his reserves. Why aren't you peddling your wears up on Juggernaut, or to one of the strategoi? Why the Thornguard?"

"Well. Our Lord doesn't exactly accept open solicitation. Even I have no easy way of acquiring an audience with him, believe it or not." The admission pains the doctor somewhat. He sighs, a rather theatrical gesture of self pity from the unbreathing ghost, before continuing. "Besides, he has his Abyssals now. The Physician and his pack. They've got laboratories, resources, entrenchment in the new bureaucracy at Manderlay. Leaving the master of moliation to fend for himself with what little flesh I can buy out of pocket."

And there it is, writ clear in venom and bile. Spite. Veritas truly doesn't care about the wealth such a contract would get him, but he cares about being ignored and passed over. He could probably do fine just working for ghosts who want to look beautiful, and those members of the upper class who find necromantic pets a delightful morbidity. But ghosts are creatures of passion and action: most are not inclined to 'settle'. The idea that Mask favors other servants now, that he has been supplanted, gnaws at the doctor. Hence this plan to restore himself to glory and validation.

"And whatever you might say, Itto, the General knows I'm right." The smug satisfaction Veritas lathers on that word is staggering. "She could've shut down this little game right from the start. But dear Bianca is a woman of vision! If she saw nothing in my work, she wouldn't have asked you to review my creations, would she?"

Captain Itto doesn't sound impressed. Dancer catches just a hint of a chuckle in his voice. "Did you consider she just didn't want to tell a respected ghost of the city no to his face?"

That wins a snort from Veritas. "I don't think so. I doubt she'd be so circumspect with the likes of me." There's a faint thump of books being replaced, the doctor fidgiting slightly. "She knows you better than I. Perhaps... for all your stonewalling, you see the possibilities here. Maybe if I rethink my offerings, find a way to show you the utility of my craft, you will change your tune."

There's a lengthy silence. Dancer doesn't need to see Itto's face to know how rocky it must look. Finally, the doctor chuckles. "Apologies. I spoke out of turn. You gave me your conclusion, and it was quite thorough. I should not read more into your assessment than that, should I?"

No, Veritas is right on the money and they both know it. Itto is reluctant to commit to this, but he's not as fully opposed as he's represented himself. He's a commander of the old school. a professional who won't lie to his commander no matter what biases he may hold. If he honestly thought that hiring Veritas and his production team would help the Thornguard, he'd approve it in a heartbeat, battle doctrine and resources be damned. Veritas might not have the angle he needs just yet for a successful pitch, but with time he seems likely to make that sale.

Petricorum
The others crowd around, looking on nervously as their leader takes his first look at the strange parchment. From a glance, Marrow could tell the papers were ultimately simple. Now reading one properly, it seems more like a carnival flier than some dastardly threat. The writing is rough, an ill-practiced hand, but they'd tried to be flowery both with their brush strokes and word choice. They even found a decent red ink - enough to make it almost look like they've been written in blood. How theatrical!

Find the Quiet Mouse!
Attention, students of the Petricorum! The notorious Nexan spy dubbed the Quiet Mouse has infiltrated these hallowed halls of learning! On behalf of our great lord, I hereby charge each member of the meritorious student body to find and apprehend this dastard of a trickster! Beware however; the Quiet Mouse is a mistress of disguise! She could be anyone - even someone you think you've known for years.

The one to successfully capture her will be assured of FABULOUS PRIZES! Wealth! Rare goods of Jade or Soulsteel! Private tuition! And if they so desire, a personal audience with the Mask of Winters! Such boldness is sure to impress our Lord and place you highly on his list of candidates to join the honourable Deathknights!

Good luck!

At the base of the page in place of signature is an official looking stamp baring the visage of the Mask in green, followed by what seems to be a very rough illustration of a smiling face.

Aspir Haven
Seven Tiered Sanctuary
"A gift freely offered implies no debt. You are hardly customers tonight, but friends! And friends deserve good treatment." Silken Laughter drifts towards the table, passing a new glass to Rivers before settling in his chosen seat. There's a faint clank as he does so, metal settling as the master thief slowly turns to look between his two guests. Strange. The chair doesn't creak as the masked head turns.

Even Rivers can find little to work with in Laughter's masked face, but they can follow their host's body language easily enough. This is an appraisal. While it might look dingy, this is a place completely removed from the regular flow of the Sanctuary's guests and performers, and thus where the three of them can be most assured of privacy. A side office on the upper floors would be theater - too easily overheard and your presence there observed. Down here? There's likely a thousand possible exits for you to leave from later, and there's no way some spy could climb those stairs in a hurry unobserved. It's a safe bet that as bad as it looks, this is the safest part of the Sanctuary. Laughter wants you able to speak freely. But if he thinks you're here to lie...

Well, he doesn't seem worried about disposal of the bodies, put it that way.

[Ascension]

"To friendship, then," Scarlet Rivers says, companionably, slipping his right hand out of its gauntlet to take the proffered glass.

If truthfulness is the cost of Laughter's good will this night, Rivers is willing to pay the price. They may be a creature of facades and manipulations, but they aren't opposed to straightforwardness when it serves a purpose.

"I don't know who your songbird offended, or how... or even if." Rivers pauses at that, brow knitting. "She may have just been in just the wrong place at just the wrong time. She would be far better positioned to tell you that side of the story than I. But I can tell you that she wasn't taken for her singing voice. And if I said they wanted her for her body, you'd get entirely the wrong idea."

Rivers takes a sip of the Gerarde Black, pacing the story. And, if they're completely honest, they're curious about the fabled wine, as well. It is a fine red, and as strong as Laughter indicated, but the taste alone isn't worth the price point. A status symbol, ultimately. And most of it will doubtless go to vinegar in the end, ever reckoned too valuable to uncork.

"She was taken to an offshore facility, not the Shackle Maw. They were assembling necrotech war machines out there, experimental. Your girl... to those technicians, she was just raw material."

Scarlet shakes his head.

"Not much of a story, really, I'm afraid. Just a waste of lives. Narrowly averted, in her case."

[Sticks]

Mentally, the Dancer jots down a flurry of new information. Rivalries between necrotech laboratories, the Physician at Manderlay, a shortage of raw materials...human materials. She suppresses a shudder at the thought, and continues in her mental list. A general by the name of Bianca, Itto's superior. A tentative future deal between the Thornguard and Veritas to outfit the troops with...something. It all bears further investigating and...she can hardly believe she's allowing herself to think this, potential sabotage. Five years being incommunicado, keeping her head down, living in her persona and now in a flurry she's making connections and contemplating action. Perhaps it's an effect of the Anathema, making her let her guard down but...can they really be so bad in the face of their mutual enemy? Whatever the case, this is information she can use.

The Dancer makes for the depleted shelves in the research section and locates a few books of interest, anthropologies, histories and tales of occultists on the far side of the world. The pickings are slim, but she thinks she has everything necessary. Taking the romance as well, she finds a cubicle and begins reading. She doesn't leave until the evening candles burn low.

Spoiler: OOC

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Dancer is spending the rest of her day in this manner. She's trying to see if she can find anything specific about ghosts and dragon-bloods, and she vaguely remembers talk of a family of Terrestrials in the far North-West who are master exorcists. She's hoping to learn what she can so she can be more effective if she finds herself opposing an enemy like Lacroix again.

[pfm1995]

Trying not to show his trepidation in front of the cuerva - he'd close the door, but what would be the point? - Marrow picked up the paper and began to read. Then, when he was done, he read it again. Years of dry histories and winding, seemingly-pointless stories had beaten good habits into him; names and numbers and all manner of details were sectioned off and jotted down on a nearby notepad. "The Quiet Mouse" - not a name he knew, though others might. Nexus - powerful economically, less so politically or militarily. Likely to resell whatever they find to a third party. That they were interested in the Petricorum, rather than Manderlay was surprising but made sense in a way, as their security was quite a bit looser. And the dangled bait, well - that might be the most interesting piece of all.

'Bait' he was sure was the right word - it was directed at the mortals among them, rather than the Exalts who might feasibly do this, and though the pamphlet called the Mask "our great lord" the Abyssal wasn't one he recognized. And this letter... if the Mask wanted a spy found, there'd be professional criers all done up in those gaudy ancient uniforms they preferred and Thornguard refusing any exit. This was someone's game. A test, maybe?

Given the theatrics, whoever they were seemed to have a sense of humor.

Marrow put his pen away before reading through the pamphlet one more time. It was important not to get too lost in the analysis and let the words speak for themselves. They claimed a spy, they wanted them caught. They promised a reward.

So the question was, what should his Cuerva do about it?

He wasn't fool enough to believe them all above temptation, or to believe that the powers-that-be didn't have plants among them. He looks up at his spectators. "Call off the alarm, everyone can go back to class. But keep an ear to the ground, and note any absences. Filter all that back up to me." He didn't expect them to actually find anything, but you never knew. Meanwhile, he had his own investigation to conduct. He'd talk to Rivers about all this tonight - they had a better mind for these kinds of puzzles than he did - and until then... until then he'd talk to the one person on campus who knew more about Abyssals than he did.

Standing and stretching, he made for the Iron Belltower.

[Inspector Valin]

Shroudvaunt
Palace of the Autocrat
Those candles take a while to burn. After so long spent in the company of others - the center of attention, the toast of the party, the quiet of the library seems almost like a different world to the flash and spectacle of the true Court. But, bar perhaps an occasional cold feeling that may hint at a nearby ghost, her time passes uninterrupted: undisturbed and without incident

Spoiler

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Okay... are you gonna roll anything for hitting the books? Either way, feel free to ask me questions. Just... you know. Mechanical success compels a little more honesty.

As a point of reference, Dancer has more IC knowledge on some of this stuff than you do. Like, Bianca Mezaros, the general of the Thornguard? Dancer has met her. She's a regular at the palace actually. She's seen Abyssals show up before - knows a few of them by name too. I was just trying not to dump a ton of exposition on everyone individually before the meeting with the Informant, so I could share this stuff with you the players while your characters can share notes and intel IC, so everyone's on a roughly even playing field. But that's taken longer to get to than I expected.

Feel free to ask questions though! Those last years might not have come with a clear breakthrough, but it's not like Dancer's been idle

Aspir Haven
Seven Tiered Sanctuary
"Oh come now, Master Rivers. 'Not much more to tell?'" Silken Laughter laughs, a low sound that shakes the room, a thin layer of dust falling from the walls. The strange thief clasps his claw hands together with a clang, tilting his head to study Rivers curiously "You missed out so many exciting details. Duels! Shipwreck! Monsters and magic, and a confrontation with an airship! I was told you had a flair for this, and when given all the material in Creation... there you sit, quiet as a mouse?"

He does sound oddly like a disappointed child in that moment: a young boy denied his sweet bun. Silken Laughter ultimately is more sanguine however: the thief leaning back in his chair and raising a glass of his own. "Ah well. Modesty becomes you, I suppose, but it's best recognized. My own expeditions have won me some small fame, and I savor that, but they are ultimately insignificant petty thefts, scratch marks upon the Mask's rusty iron visage. You and your friends landed a blow. Denied the tyrants, his Abyssals and his armies a powerful weapon. We haven't had a tale like that to celebrate in a long time. So celebrate I shall!"

He pours the sparkling white wine straight against his mask, the liquid fading with an odd, gargling sound, as though it were falling down a drainpipe. Laughter drains his glass before returning it to the floor, his featureless attention once more on the pair before him. "Now. Am I too hopeful, or... might there be more to come from this little band of yours?"

Legacy
Old Rihannon
The young girl shivers in the wind. Trusting strangers in Thorns is a bad idea as a rule, but the old lady is special. She's kind, friendly, even magical. And... if she'd wanted to hurt her, there isn't very much a knife could really do. She hangs her head, but tries to force a smile for her new friend. "Okay. It... is kinda cold out here."

Spoiler

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Feel free to introduce us to the people you leave the girl with. Buuuut I'm gonna skip ahead a little here - scene pacing, my fault and my apologies. But I don't feel the detective work is the most interesting question to pose to Granny right now. So assuming she simply gives the surrounding area a quick once over...

The Maw is a familiar sight to Granny, and a bleak one. She can remember the old Hoshin Hospice - she trod its halls in brighter days. It was a magnificent house of healing: standing tall and proud as part of the city's skyline. The doors were always open, and you could hear music lilting from high windows as you drew close. The physicians were a merry bunch: she can recall the master of the place, bushy bearded Doctor Polybius preferring to meet with patients in the flower garden outside, saying it lent their job a more cheery atmosphere. There were Immaculates and heathens under one roof, living and working together to heal the sick and make the world a better place without judgement or condemnation. Hoshin had always been inviting - with bright painted walls, open doors and smiling faces from the staff. It was a place of compassion and good cheer in Thorns, even as the city struggled to deal with its losses in the war against the Scavenger Lands, and discontent begun to grew.

Now, though, under the shadow of the Mask? Now it looms. The ground floor has been remodeled extensively, every door and window covered over by freshly quarried lime and a solid coating of black paint, arches of pilaster jutting out into the desolate streets. The upper windows, of course, are barred to a one - and have been partially bricked up to ensure only a sliver of light ever makes it inside. The garden has been uprooted and paved over to form a stone courtyard, enclosed behind a curtain wall and gatehouse. The slapdash wooden barns within the curtain handle the processing of new arrivals, hidden from any prying eyes who lack a good vantage point. The one remaining entryway lies on what had been the second floor - a grand wrought iron and ash doorway with the roses of Thorns worked into it, at the top of a set of marble stairs, big enough to admit arrivals five at a time with space for a Thornguard on either side.

That new door was theater on the Mask's part - ensuring that every prisoner marched into the depths of this hell was carried through in full view of the outside world. That had been the root of the Hospice's new name - the Shackle Maw.

The area nearby is usually deserted, the houses burned and abandoned, save a few that'd been converted into Thornguard billets. Today however, Granny finds a small group of young men and women assembled on the roof of a desolate three story block that overlooks the courtyard, while having enough of a balcony left to give them cover. They've been working at something quite diligently - Granny can make out a collection of bronze cylinders, a set of wooden poles and some kind of fabric set between them. One of the group - a lad with blue spiky hair, a tattered crimson cloak and rippling pectorals looks down somberly as the Thornguard in the courtyard bark and strut. The guardsmen lining up a disheveled looking band of prisoners, freshly clad in rags and scrubbed down, ready for a final inspection prior to them officially being taken into the Maw.

As Granny draws closer to the overlook, she can make out a few final words the spiky lad is sharing with his friends. "...'re on the gateguard. Soon as we're go, cosh 'em hard, make sure they're down, then run before the others reach you. Oaky, Sedge, you're on escort. Once they're out, lead 'em round the back way down Mariner's Lane, then Guilder, then Karamihas - ain't no way they're going through that in armor. Okay? Okay!" With a final pat to the shoulders and an encouraging look, the four youths scamper off, getting into position. Their leader takes a long breath as their footsteps fade away. "You can do this. You can do this."

He looks like your typical young buck at first glance - all fire, muscle and confidence. But now, away from his men, Granny can see his eyes dilating, darting across the courtyard. He is scared. He's worried that he's missed something. But that's not going to stop him going ahead with this plan. He bends down, starting to check the brass cylinders one by one before fastening them to his belt. It looks like the show is about to begin - assuming no meddlesome old lady puts a spanner in the works.

[Inspector Valin]

Shroudvaunt
Iron Belltower - The Petricorum
As he crosses the familiar path the main housing block, Marrow's eyes spy something that was at once expected, and yet quite surprising. He sees a vision of ethereal beauty, with long raven black hair braided behind her, clad in a flowing chiffon-silk gown of dark red that billows in the...

In short, he witnesses the Dweller in the Iron Belltower leaving her titular domicile, and making her way towards the main building.

A couple of students in the colors of her cureva bow to her as she passes, but bar a nod the young Abyssal pays them no mind, continuing towards the main building alone. It's far from unheard of for such a luminary to desire some privacy, but going somewhere without any company, so soon after the 'Quiet Mouse' papers is certainly... suggestive. And besides, the heart of the Petricorum isn't known for offering peace and quiet. A glance is enough to tell Marrow that the Dweller is far from happy: her expression is carefully guarded, but her movements are too brisk, too tense for a feeling of control. Something has happened, something that has left her ready to parcel out swift and vicious retribution to anyone foolish enough to cross her path.

He could simply ask her what was the matter. Technically. They are equals on paper, as fellow leaders of their respective cuerva, and Exalted luminaries of the school. But is it wise to try and engage with an agitated Daughter of Oblivion? A few well chosen words might ingratiate himself to her... or perhaps rub salt in an open wound. Without context, it's hard to be sure.

[Sticks]

While the library is busy, Dancer spends her time outwardly mooning over the romantic epic and sighing prettily. It's easy enough to keep up this facade, she's been doing so for years without issue, but now she can occupy her mind with new information, and the means to put it to use. She stays this way for some time, until the reading rooms are deserted, the clerks at the distant desks have nodded off or gone to their homes, and she is truly alone. Then the real work can begin.

Uninterrupted, Dancer can give her time over to research. She finds herself drawn to old treatise on aberrant sorceries, quite unlike those taught in the Petricorum, or for that matter the Heptagram or Lookshy. This far-off family of dragon-blooded exorcists, the Wanasaan, are difficult to research, a blessing and a curse. Their obscurity and their associations with death and the undead made them unlikely to have been purged when the Mask's censors swept through the libraries, but that still made them difficult to research. Many books merely noted their existence, casually dismissing them as outcastes and barbarians. Other sources treated them as an anthropological curiosity, like a distant tribe of beastmen with insights into celestial divination, curious, but not important. From these tidbits, the Dancer can begin to assemble a picture of these unique terrestrials and most importantly, their insights into the undead, perhaps even the root of their unique sorcery.

She sighs for a moment, thinking wistfully of the potential uses she could put such sorceries to use. Infallible messengers, stronger wardings against ghostly intrusion, being able to see that damnable ghost back on the island and plunge a flaming blade right into his smug immaterial face...the candles about her flare and dance, reminding her to keep calm. Glancing about, she sees that she is alone and releases pyrefly from her sleeve. The little sprite darts about, taking in the surroundings and illuminating her work far better than any candle. "Well little fellow, I don't suppose you have any insights?"

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Dancer is trying to research Wanasaan sorceries with a hope to duplicating their sorcerous initiation. She's decided that right now, she has little to offer to her group. The court isn't what it used to be, her position is stagnent, and she's still cut off from the high command. She has a problem, and sorcery seems to be the solution, and sorcery directed against the undead could be most useful.

Sadly, she doesn't have the best dice-pool for this. She'll probably need to look elsewhere, but this seems like a good starting point. Perhaps she could talk to her new fellow exalts, like the two lunars who show some aptitude for the occult? For now, Int+Lore+Stunt.

(5d10)[10][2][8][1][2](23)

[Eurus]

A scraggly cat, its fur mottled black and grey, sits quietly on a corner of the roof. Listening to the "plan", all she hears is desperation. The point at which common sense isn't telling you what you want to hear, so you toss it out and make up your own reality.

The funny thing about transforming is that most people don't pay all that much attention to their surroundings, and fewer still can trust their eyes if they do see something truly strange. One moment that corner is empty save for a cat diligently grooming itself, the next moment an old woman in a patched grey dress is standing up from where she had been crouching. Did she just climb up? Has she been there the whole time? Who cares, really.

"The only thing stupider than one young man... a group of 'em."

Granny makes no secret of the fact that she's heard their plan, as she crosses the roof with a shambling, slow gait. She looks Chest Muscles up and down, then shakes her head and scoffs. Her assessment of the other men is more discreet. Once, it would have seemed impossible to her that the living would betray each other to the Mask of Winters, but she's seen it happen too many times to maintain that denial; it's entirely possible that someone here is already a plant.

"So where's the part of the plan where a dozen ten-foot-tall juggernauts of flesh and metal stomp out and tie your friends in a knot?"

[Inspector Valin]

Shroudvaunt
Palace Library
The day's search has proven largely disappointing: inference and possibility over arcane fact or a solid starting point. Pyrefly buzzes around before his mistress at first, the little ember trying to think. They say spirits know things mortals have forgotten, but Dancer knows enough of spirits to understand that mostly applies to gods who have endured for centuries rather than young creatures like her little friend. He likely doesn't have much to add.

But... then Pyrefly's off, glowing a merry looking yellow as it zips through the library. Off at quite a pace too! Needless to say Dancer can keep up, but it's all she can do to match the little spirit as it bobs through the shelves without making a commotion.

The two duck through a door, towards a staircase downwards, taking the spiral two steps at a time, and as Dancer comes face to face with far dustier shelves she begins to realize what Pyrefly's idea is. While the main collection of texts have not proven fulfilling, the Royal Library's basement complex contains an extensive series of memoirs, correspondence and journal writing assembled by Thorns' nobility of generations past. It's a disorganized mess, largely neglected and written off as amateurish next to the finely bound tomes of the library proper, and it's not a place most would go to for reliable information. But if you knew the right historical figure.

And yes! Pyrefly ducks through several dusty hallways, thinking as fast as his mistress as he leads her towards an excellent starting point. The Tepelin Archive - Lady Ino Tepelin was an Outcaste sorceress and traveler, a favored courtier of Autocrat Varonius II back in RY472. She'd traveled the North for years, fought Ajni Marama and her ghost legions at the side of Peleps herself. She was disfavoured by Varonius' successor, and to this day many consider her a charlatan, but that's an ahistorical viewpoint. If anyone had an encounter with the Wanasaan, it would be her!

However, as they reach the door to the Tepelin archive, the pair run into an unexpected complication. The door is already open, and a faint orange light emerges from it. The lamps here have been lit. Peaking into the room, Dancer can make out a cloaked and hooded figure in the process of loading the works of Lady Tepelin into a large bag, humming to themselves and clacking shoe-leather against stone as they proceed down the shelves. Behind the stranger shuffles a taller, muscular figure: a matching back slung over its shoulder. Dancer can smell a faint sweet odor wafting from it even at this distance, a cinnamon scented perfume she's quite familiar with. It's Ophis number four: popular amongst the aristocracy for disguising the scent of a zombie servant.

Thus far perhaps half the collection has been secreted by this stranger and their pet corpse. The rest will follow swiftly if Dancer doesn't intervene.

Legacy
Old Tower - Shackle Maw Periphery
It's hard to be sure at a glance, but Granny is fairly confident that the assembled band are genuine in intent. The group have that strange manner of being at ease with each other, even when the situation they're currently in is tense for everyone. That, coupled with easy glances and quick movements makes it clear that the five youths aren't strangers to one another. They might not have done anything as bold as this before, but they've been surviving together in Legacy for years now. Plus, getting a better look at them, she sees their ragged clothes - the scraped, rusty knives at their belts. These aren't the sort of people Mask pays off. They're not even approaching an actual threat to his hegemony or personnel. They're scavengers, roaches, nobodies.

At least... they should be. The lad with blue hair has a glint in his eyes, something Granny knows well. A wretched, infuriating alloy of idealism and guilt. This is his chance to do something heroic, and is needed to save people close to him. The combination is enough to push him past the fear the Shackle Maw evokes in most sensible folk.

Which is not to say that fear is gone. He almost jumps out of his skin when he hears Granny chime in. Still, he's fairly quick to rally - pulling himself upright and trying his best to look proud and tall under the old lady's withering gaze. "S... see? That's what everyone thinks! That just because they can make the dead rise, these cold bastards can do anything!"

He waves a hand down towards the area beyond the curtain wall, where the last few prisoners are currently being dragged into place. "They can't. They have to make the zombies first. And there's none in the courtyard. It's just Thornguard. They're not even carrying bows! They're not expecting trouble. If something did happen, they'd just close the gate." Granny takes a look. He's not wrong. The wall around the paved over garden is stone, but it's thin - lacking a wall walk for archers, and none of the Thornguard inside the area are carrying bows.

They're all standing to attention now as some official looking bald man walks out in front of the square. Blue spikes looks at Granny, his eyes gleaming. "This right here is our chance, the inspection. I've heard 'em over the wall. There's this stuck up pig who takes charge - he keeps speeching on and on about crazy sh*t. 'The understanding of bone' this, 'legend of the concordat' that: you know the type. It takes 'im a while too - the gateguards watch it happen in case the prisoners get bright ideas, and they get bored. as. Malfeas!" Chuckling, the young hero pulls up another of his little cylinders from the ground, showing it to Granny before fastening it to his belt. He pats the wooden frame with pride written all over his face. "We were putting this together for a raid on the grain silo, but it'll work perfectly here. I buzz the courtyard with the glider, drop these beauties, the whole place is covered with smoke. My guys club the doorguards, call out, and the crowd runs for it!"

He looks towards the building's actual entryway, and for the first time, Granny sees the musclebound clown actually look somber. "I know we can't get inside. There's probably all kinds of screwy magic traps and junk right past that door. But they can't have stuff like that in the courtyard - the spike-heads march through it every day: they'd trip their own traps. They're relying on that little curtain wall, and on nobody here having the guts to fight back. We strike now, we can snatch these people right out of the jaws of the frecking Maw!"

That... feels wrong, stupid and optimistic, but there's nothing clearly false in what the youth has outlined thus far. He did apply some thought towards this plan. Blue grins, crossing his fists in echo of a salute popular among Nexan mercenaries. "You know, you're really lucky, granny. You get a front row seat to the one and only Yuki Muro as he makes history! Try not to get so excited you faint."

Spoiler

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The group members don't have any plans of treachery - each of them has a major positive tie towards the scavenger band. Yuki has a minor tie of fear towards the Mask, but a Major tie of love towards his family and a Defining Principle of Justice Must Be Done. He's had to act against that many times to survive, but he doesn't see a flaw in his plan just yet. Convincing him to stop would be a significant task - it might not have come up yet, but you know you're asking Yuki to essentially let his parents die. Granny needs either a Major or better intimacy or some strong evidence that this plan isn't as good as Yuki thinks it is, and a way to shut down any intimacy Yuki might use in a Decision Point.

Aaand because NPCs don't sit idle, it's Yuki's turn for an action. He's gonna try and Inspire some positive feelings in Granny, trying to make her feel optimistic by laying out how his plan makes actual sense. And I'm gonna play this straight as social mechanics. If he succeeds, you're welcome to interpret the positive feelings however you like, you choose the context of the emotion, but social mechanics being a thing that can affect PCs in spite of themselves is something I kinda want to play with a bit.

Spoiler: Roll

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[dice=Inspire]8d10[/dice]

[Eurus]

Granny doesn't try to interrupt. In fact, she's... more interested than she should be. He may be starry-eyed and wet behind the ears, but innocence has a power of its own. In the face of that sheer stubborn defiance, she feels like a moth in front of a flame. Even though she's seen this play out too many times, she wants to believe that it could be different this time. It's not a completely unreasonable plan, after all, and they're keeping their goals reasonable...

...The memory of the ominous presence she felt around the Maw on her last scouting expedition, even just flitting around the perimeter, is the only thing that stops her. The truth is, they don't know what's in there. And, considering that the last facility she saw the inside of had a leviathan and a siege engine that throws lightning, the upper bound for how bad it could be is very.

On the other hand, when she looks down at those prisoners, and at the Maw's titular gate, she feels her stomach clench. Once they go through that door, they're lost. If there was ever a time, it would be now. This is the sort of stupidity that might work, once. They'd change their security routines, maybe install some sort of horror in the courtyard to discourage future attempts, but they'd have saved at least a few.

In the few moments of silence while she pulls at the threads, it's obvious to anyone watching that Muro's speech had an impact on her. She could try to talk him down, still -- she has a good idea of how to do it, even. His parents would surely want him to protect his sister rather than risk leaving her completely alone, and if she twists that knife hard enough, she thinks she could make him falter. Walking away might break him, but he'd be alive, and isn't that a victory in itself?

When she looks at the Maw, it doesn't feel like one.

"...This is a gamble, boy. The Mask is capable of more than you know."

Her voice is softer this time. She shakes her head, sighing.

"Fine. Fine! Force an old lady to break her back helping you... that sister of yours would be heartbroken if I let you die here, you idiot."

As she speaks, green light starts to shimmer around her hand. A gush of foamy, salt-smelling water suddenly starts to pour out from her palm, landing on the ground in front of her. Instead of flowing outward, it heaps up on itself, shaping itself into legs... a trunk... a face. A copy of the very man she's speaking to. It's still taking shape, but the resemblance is clear already.

"Gods save me from men with more muscles than sense..."

Spoiler: OOC

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Casting Sculpted Seafoam Eidolon to create an illusory copy of Muro. 2 WP, 10 Sorcerous motes.

Int (5) + Occult (3) + Stunt (2)
[rollv]10d10[/rollv]


Personal motes: 16/16
Peripheral motes: 29/33 (5 committed)
Willpower: 3/5

---

* post roll count doesn't match database

[pfm1995]

There was a soft thunk as Marrow's shoulder slammed painfully into the corner of the building, his eyes too distracted by the vision in front of him to bother with trivial things like what was in front of him. The pain brought him back to earth. Holding the now-crumpled pamphlet in one clenched fist, he took a moment to debate strategy with himself. "Hey, I found this being handed out by a friend of yours, want to tell me everything you know about them?" Yeah, that might... no, no, that was stupid. "I think I saw someone muscling in on your territory. Want to hunt them down together?" How romantic, it'd be a great date if he could ignore the blood and screams.

In the end, he went with simple. At least it'd be harder for him to mess up. A trellace took him up onto the roof of the horticulture building with just a few quick motions; from there it was just a slide down the roofing tiles into a jump through the main lecture all's always-open windows to wind up two turns down from where it seemed the Dweller was headed. There, he did his best to lean "casually" against the wall and get his breathing under control.

"Hey there." He said as she rounded the corner, trying to affect some level of nonchalance. He flashed her the pamphlet. "I saw who was handing these out. We should talk, whenever your done with whatever has you in a mood." Maybe over dinner?, he wanted to add, but he bit his tongue. He was already regretting the mood comment, no need to make this any worse.

[Ascension]

"Ah, but that's all my story, not your songbird's," Scarlet Rivers says, lips quirked in a careful smile. "Although I do understand her singing provided a lovely counterpoint to the magic organ which played storms. Perhaps you should have one installed in the Sanctuary! I imagine many would delight in the novelty of weather in the undercity."

He takes another sip of the Gerarde Black... Rivers paces themselves cautiously. Unlike Laughter, they can get drunk, and they harbor no illusion that the thief is above using that difference in susceptibility against them.

"But in all seriousness, I'm not certain our victory was so great a triumph as you make it out to be. It was a substantial loss in resources, of course, but the designers of those necroweapons were all offsite. Given time, the Mask can build more... and how many more citizens of Thorns will lose their lives so that he can do that?"

A dark thought, that, the thought of exactly where a replacement for the Islebreaker would come from. Where every grisly product of the Deathknights' necrotechnology comes from, past and present.

"As to our 'little band'..." Rivers' eyes flick over to Whisper. They still have no idea where the quiet young girl came from, or why she accompanied them on this particular errand, much less whether she plans to stay with the Resistance long term. Honestly, for all they know, she could even be a spy or turncoat. They make a mental note to learn more about their newest friends. But future research can't be used to answer the question of the present moment.

"...in all honesty, I'm not yet sure. It remains to be seen if we continue to work together, or... drift apart."

That will likely depend on how the group receives their would-be informant's pitch, when they meet for his debriefing, but Rivers doesn't plan to be the one to reveal the eccentric gentleman's role... or even existence... to Silken Laughter. Not yet, at least. Better to play some cards close to the chest.

[Sticks]

The Dancer quickly flattens her back against the wall outside the archive. Thinking fast, she rumples her clothes, musses her hair and digs her fingernails into her arm until the skin underneath turns dark red and her eyes well with tears. She whispers a few instructions to Pyrefly, then acts. She takes a deep breath and then clacks the heel of her shoe against the floor quickly and with increasing volume, as though someone were running haphazardly into the archive. Throwing herself around the corner, she lands hard enough to make an audible thump, but not without grace. When she hears a reaction from the noble, she looks up at him, tears in her eyes and a pleading look on her face, for all the world the most helpless and vulnerable beauty anyone could find alone in a library late at night. The effect is enhanced by Pyrefly hovering so as to outline her in a soft firelight glow.

"Oh, sir! P-please, don't report me! I've done n-nothing wrong!"

Spoiler: OOC & Rolls

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Dancer is using Warm-Faced Seduction style to persuade the nobleman to do as she asks, not reporting her presence, but also creating an instant infatuation with her that might make him more pliable. She's augmenting this with three autosuccesses from Glowing Coal Radiance and adding a non-charm die for every 10 rolled. The Nobleman may spend willpower to resist the lust/desire effect.

This feels like manipulation, so I'll use Manipulation+Presence+Specialty+Stunt+3.

Spoiler: Rolls

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(12d10)[6][6][5][6][2][6][8][8][5][5][2][7](66)

[Inspector Valin]

Shroudvaunt
Royal Library
The sudden arrival of a third party confuses the book-thief and zombie. The former throws up their hands as they back away from Dancer, clearly startled by the unexpected interruption. Now in front of her counterpart in better light, Dancer is faced with a mild surprise. It's not a noble. The young woman before her is dressed more like a clerk: trousers and tunic both a dull tan designed not to stand out, and her hair fastened into a short ponytail. She raises her hands, trying to forestall this chaotic situation.

"Err... okay. Okay! I'm just here to take all this stuff to Manderlay. Lord Arubato's orders. I don't have a reason to be after you for anything, Miss...?"

Ah. Dancer recognizes her now. It's one of the Nanashiro siblings; Shiko, if she remembers rightly. They're three young Dragon Bloods who serve as aides to Arubato Ohishi, and always seem to be busy with some form of bureaucratic work or another. They seem to be the ones Ohishi usually uses for messages the 'Herald of the Mask' can't be bothered to deliver himself, usually to Lord Yan or another courtier. Thankless work for Dragon Blooded, though they never seem bitter about it. They don't normally show much emotion at all in fact - they're usually the picture of detatched dedication and work ethic, and are absent from social events unless accompanying Arubato. Even then, they keep to themselves, only talking when asked to do so.

But... is that a blush upon dear Miss Shiko's face?

Well. It seems that Dancer's little gambit has born some potential fruit. Pyrefly buzzes excitedly at Dancer's side, the little sprite rubbing against its mistress excitedly. The candles illuminating the room shift, the light growing brighter but softening in hue as a gentle warmth fills the dusty archive.

Spoiler

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Because it's about time the little guy starts pulling his weight. (Or complicating things) He's activating Faith's Own Tinder, giving everyone else in the scene -3 Resolve against his Instill and Inspire rolls via mood lighting!

Note - Dancer is now in Fire Aura.

Petricorum
The Dweller regards Marrow with a characteristically withering gaze. She raises one of the Quiet Mouse fliers to him, gesturing at the small illustration of a face at the foot of the proclamation. "That information could stand to be more valuable. After all, the author signed it. Is witnessing her actions really the best card available to you, Marrow of the Root?"

She gives the remark a second to settle, before chuckling at the attempt. "Still, you might be useful. You may accompany me, if you wish. That craven Maravan's asked me to explain the situation. He'll probably want me to tell him that the Mask isn't coming for his head for this incident. You can hold his hand, put him to bed and tell him it'll be okay. Might get this done quicker"

That... is a somewhat dismissive way to refer to the Petricorum's Provost and ostensible superintendent. Ledaal Maravan reports directly to the Mask himself and is a Dragon Blood of no small age and skill - hence his being charged with overseeing the education of Thorns' best and brightest. It's perhaps unsurprising that the proud Dweller would view her 'keeper' in such a light, but this conversation could get awkward for Marrow if he ends up caught between the two. The Dweller's status as a Deathknight ensures that she remains largely safe from the headteacher's reprisal, fearful as he is of the Mask's ire, but Maravan is not above cutting a Cureva's privileges and resources for a personal affront.

Both sides will likely look to Marrow for support in this meeting, and take a lack of it poorly. It will be tiring and risky to mediate between the pair. But if he wants to know what's going on... this puts him in the room with the Dweller and Provost. He'll get the full story.

Aspir Haven
Seven Tiered Sanctuary
"Cautious. Hedging your bets. Only committing when you're sure."

Silken Laughter holds the glass a second longer, studying Rivers through it, before almost dropping it and bending double, the strange thief's laughter filling the room. "We... we really aren't much alike."

There's no harshness to the observation, just the amusement. Pulling himself aloft with a gauntlet-clad hand, Laughter takes another sip of his chosen tipple before continuing. "Well, we can but hope. If you and your friends have need of me and mine, then we can talk. I haven't the arms or will to overthrow the Mask, but I'm no more friend to his regime than you are. And in this line of work, information that's useless to me might hold value to you. We've a lot to offer each other in theory."

Legacy
Shackle Maw Periphery
Yuki's eyes sparkle with wonderment as he witnesses Granny's art in action. The lad raises a hand to his duplicate, the image doing the same, both seeming just as entranced with the discovery. "So am I. So are you! You can do magic? That...."

A million questions are evidently swirling in the boy's head, but a barking call from the grounds brings him back to reality. Time is short. All the same, he takes a second to pat Granny's shoulder, fixing her with a glowing grin as he fastens the last few straps his craft requires. "We can talk later. Thank you. Now. Let's make history!"

And with that the lad jumps, Granny's illusion follows close behind him. The old Lunar has to move to the edge of the building to best direct the doppleganger. In so doing she has a chance to observe the courtyard more closely. The man she'd noticed earlier is already giving his speech, standing before four ranks of freshly washed prisoners, clad in drab flaxen uniforms. He looks like quite the piece of work - bald as an egg and svelte of build, wearing crisp black leathers. His voice is deep, a booming baritone that shakes the gut to hear. This is a man accustomed to power without restraint.

"... So I would ask that you view your time here as a culmination, a contribution to something greater than yourselves. By your presence within our walls..."

"DOWN WITH THE MASK!"

The Thornguard yell, starting to scramble as the first of Yuki's smokebomb's hit, the double echoing his throw, always aiming for the same target. The young rebel's laugh rings out across the morning air like a clarion call. In Creation, the spirits of the air would disperse the fumes swiftly enough, but in the stagnant climes of the Underworld their contents hold together strongly, bathing the whole area in a thick cloying murk. The prisoners gasp, one even managing a throaty cheer. A woman's voice, incredulous, rings out. "Gods above... Yuki?!" Over by the gate, Granny can see the boy's friends play their part just fine - coshing the two guardsmen quick and clean before drawing away: the gate wide open, ready for the escape.

By all rights? The kids should have this one in the bag. Granny knows enough of Fate to see a tale it favors, perhaps even a hand it has taken in events. A bold youth with a cunning plan? The tyrant's men not ready for the trick? A band of desperate prisoners to free? The Pattern Spiders must be jumping up and down in glee at the confluence of circumstances at play here. In a right and rational universe, in a world that was just and fair, Yuki's spirit and quick thinking would carry the day. Just as the little band of Exalted had freed so many more from the Islebreaker facility the other day, he'd win through as the hero he was meant to be.

But the Mask of Winters does not play fair. He's a cheat and a liar and not bound to the narrative of Fate. And thus far, no hero has proven his match.

The bald superintendent smiles: a thin and pointed look without the slightest sign of concern. Just as the smoke begins to rise, Granny can see some strange shape start to form upon the official's brow, a tattoo of black or dark crimson ink. For a second, he fades into the smokescreen - before a darkened un-light cuts through the shroud, revealing the Master of the Shackle Maw with his half circle Caste Mark clear as pitch. He shifts his hands through a series of familiar mudras, with ease born of long practice before finally bringing his arms up towards the heavens.

Daybreak Caste

A swarm of glimmering onyx butterflies rise from the Overseer's final gesture, flying with speed no mortal arrow could hope to match. Granny's illusion dissolves into a shower of water, a shocked look on its face as it meets an early death. The original Yuki tries to swerve out of the path of the Obsidian Butterflies, pulling his glider hard to the right, but the sorcerous shards of basalt cover the sky. The boy screams to the heavens as sharp black rocks tear into his flesh, ripping through the fabric of his glider and bringing him into a graceless plummet towards the foggy courtyard. With a sickening crunch of splintered wood, the luckless rebel hits the ground right by the deathknight as the anima-glow begins to recede into the smoke, obscuring the pair once again from Granny's sight.

Spoiler

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*breath* So.

Do you roll Join Battle?

This is a sincere question - no wrong answers, you will not be penalized for your choice, this is not a 'supposed to lose' situation. Those don't exist for Exalted, or at least are rare enough to be something I'd highlight. You have a shot at saving Yuki and the prisoners, but it will likely require Granny to intervene directly and expose herself to at least the risk of capture. And getting them out of there ain't guaranteed.

[Eurus]

It's a trap. Of course it's a trap.

Granny clutches the side of the roof, knuckles white, as she watches Yuki go down. She could leave, still, but she knows she won't. If only she had time to think... this isn't how she wanted to do this, her anonymity is the one safeguard she has.

She's already preparing to jump down, her body and mind both moving on pure reflex.

Spoiler: OOC

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Wits (5) + Awareness (2) + Wits/Dex Excellency (10)

Personal motes: 16/16
Peripheral motes: 19/33 (5 committed)
Willpower: 4/5