EMPIRE 6! – Once Upon a Time in Kursaal (Grand Caravan)

[mystic1110]

Cook-Slab Leavehome was an old man and if there were, one word to describe him it would not have been patriot. Nonetheless, the collapse of the protectorate was an enormous opportunity for his criminal enterprises. The common people turned to him and his racket when their society and leaders failed them. In poverty, it was better to be exploited by the devil, you know than the devil you don’t and so Cook-Slab and the Leavehome clan unexpectantly became a shelter for much of the Uzii diaspora. Cook-Slab took to wearing a white coat and a white wide brim hat and smoking a thick roll of tobacco. The days of Cook-Slab the minor racketeer were long far-gone – he was Don Cook now.

The Don and all the power that came with such title was widely recognized by most clan heads now as a chief of a powerful clan – a chief that would have been present at the last Snortmoot where the Don would certainly not have voted for a filthy Cau. The fact that the last homage of the great Swampum Empire (the Don dispensing of the pleasantries of language and calling a duck a duck) was such a frightened deer-man that he would bend the knee towards the cause of the Uzii’s downfall infuriated the criminal mastermind. The fact that Lowerth and Laughing-Wolf had additionally conspired to cement the Homage title as a hereditary one was tantamount to betrayal. Not that the Don would have expected anything better from a yellow-tailed Cau.

For it was Don Cook’s dream to one day ascend to Homage and create a legacy for the often-disparaged Leavehomes as the saviors of the Uzii. In gambling halls and other dens on inequity, the Don and his nefarious associates plotted and schemed until they decided on a course of action that would surely strangle the alliance between the Targiz and the Night Kingdom while it was still in its infancy. Infant being the keyword.

***

Elsewhere young Wist was in a crib built big enough for a Goliath child. The crib was build longer than usual given that Wist had Cau’s horns but made large through his lineage. The toddler had a bright future ahead of him if he lived long enough to see it – he was a bridge towards a peaceful south, but even now that peace was threatened by elements beyond his innocent dreams.

***

As the young scion Isarkatl awoke groggily at the edge of the prostitute’s bed, his hangover was a poor indicator of the misadventure that perhaps laid before him. As he slapped the whore’s ass with his hilt he might have thought that he wanted to gamble with letters names or dreams, little knowing that he might be gambling with nations soon.

The harlot woke with a bleary yawn

“Business? Depends what kind . . .”

She turned in the sheets to look at Isarkatl and frowned. She didn’t quite know why she had agreed to sleep with him last night. Did he look richer in the dark? In the morning the young man was clearly in over his head in Kursaal – robbed of his clothes and belongings and with no means to pay her. As she furrowed her brow she thought then perhaps her pimp could figure out how to get her paid for the work she put in last night.

“. . . actually I know who you should speak to. Find Don Leavehome and he should be able to entertain you”

[mystic1110]

The Laughing Games

”Come to the Laughing Games!”

The criers on Kursaal’s street corners crooned.

”Men and Women take on challenges the likes of which were never seen before!”

Tourists and even the jaded denizens of the city perked up their ears and smiled at the latest circus and headed towards the Grand Stands, which were being used, for the season’s entertainment. The Odds-Mistress-To-Be has captured hundreds of malcontents and terrorists and has decreed that they become productive . . . members is the wrong word. They were to become products. The wheels of capitalism may make commodities of us all, but for the captured Mockeries, they were to become the very thing they seemed to always want to be: the entertainment.

The Grandstands are two stone rings surrounded by a mud track for Battle Toad racing and stone bridges leading from the outside in. Aste has all but one of the bridges destroyed and the mud track filled with water and vipers until it became an impenetrable moat. The center of the Grand Stands would usually contain the K-Ball fields, but the World Tour had just finished so Aste had no qualms over constructing a vast labyrinth for the Laughing Games. The labyrinth is then subsequently filled with all manner of exotic beasts and devious traps, each more horrific and inventive than the last. Whichever menagerie the Mockeries had once mocked now jeers at them from within the maze and the common folk, sitting on the stands, watching the elaborate executions as the theatre it is meant to be.

On the other side of the moat is a road cleared by the Kursaal guard sworn to Aste and past that road is a staircase leading to a dungeon where hundreds of Mockeries are held behind bars and in cages. Aste walking along a corridor in this prison speaks to the multitudes within.

”Curiosity is such a funny thing. You and I are two sides of a rolled dice. My grandmother rolled those dice and could not escape the allure of her flower. You rolled the dice and could not see a path other than the one laid out by your blighted lord. I rolled those dice and drank the Holy Milk. The whim of fancy makes fools of us all does it not.”

One of the Mockeries closest to Aste spits through the bars, the gob landing on Aste’s face. Titters are heard in the dungeon as the Mockeries mock the future Odds-Mistress. Laughter in the background. Aste frowns and wipes it off.

”You each have a chance of living through the Gauntlet, but that chance rises the more you tell me. Teach me or lead me towards the secrets of Alchemy and perhaps not only will you survive you will be ensconced in wealth and luxury. Regardless . . . “

Aste takes the knife that all Children of the Great Mother are obligated to carry and hurls it towards the Mockery that spat on her, the blade embedding itself in the man’s forehead.

“Who’s mocking who now”?

As the games commence, odds are taken based on the age and race of the various Mockeries who are forced to compete. Gamblers, this being Kursaal, delight in other events to wager on. The mockeries are led five at a time into the maze and as they run through the gauntlet, families on the stands take note of their achievement and even cheer some of them on. There are some fan favorite “rooms” as some of the obstacles come to be called. There is the Milk Puzzle, where the Mockery reaches a dead end and three doors and four bottles of white liquid on a table. There is a key in each bottle and the liquid needs to be drunk to reach it. One of the bottles is filled with Mother’s Milk and if the Mockery mistakenly drinks it they burn out from the inside to thunderous applause. A couple times a clever Mocekry might spill all the liquid only to advance to the next room and find out that they were filled with deadly spores taken from the Impact Zone in far off Sikar and that the other three bottles had the anti-venom necessary to survive.

There are rooms of Dire Hummingbirds trained to feed on blood, others of Fire Boar from Tarandi, and others with even stranger challenges still. Eventually, though there came to be Mockeries that were able to win and complete the labyrinth . . . only to find Aste waiting and asking them if they were ready to spill their secrets. At their refusal, they were rechained and sent back into the maze in special “Champion Challenges” where they compete with other such “winners” for their survival – and then subsequent “Grand Champion Tournaments” of winners of those ordeals. Needless to say the escalating torments were popular with the crowds.

The gambling wheel turns, turns, and wears them down. Grinding them to dust like chaff and wheat. Tormentors are tormented until they weep instead of laugh, beg instead of mock and until they tell the Odds-Mistress-To-Be everything there is worth telling.

[Tychris1]

”300 years old. I don’t think there’s enough candles in the whole building to count your sagging years, Ageless-Lion.” Merlyn gazed surreptitiously at the cake arrayed before them, red glowing eyes squinting in the twilight hours. Ageless-Lion stood beside them as did a handful of Blackguard Elves and Vultures. The streets of Kursaal were a dangerous place yet no road was more treacherous than the one the Agent of Ruin trod upon. Suddenly a short figure emerged from neath the heavy cloak that clung to Merlyn. A Ko of slight years, covered in white scales marred with soot or tar, and a pair of speckled green eyes that were just slightly too large for her face. She bowed briefly but noticeably, a swift swooping motion that caused her hood to flutter and the loose garments she wore to partition dances in the dark.

“My Ruinarch, are you sure vacationing in a city known to harbor Blight Cults is wise when we are already embroiled in such a civil war?”

“Nonsense. It is a time of celebration! My greatest champion should be rewarded on this his most-wait-Greatest champion. Wake up. When did you even go to bed in the middle of my…” Merlyn turned to the hulking mound of flesh sitting beside them and now snoring into a simple pie placed in an operose line of food. The Goliath chef, shaking in the corner, hadn’t seemed to cease their work since the Wyrm Sorcerer first browbeat him into beginning, and couldn’t actually remember the prices he was supposed to charge. Merlyn whaled on the dire lion with a single gloved hand. Seeing the futility of the effort Merlyn stuck a finger into Ageless-Lion’s skull and the colossal Woken suddenly stirred to.

”… I don’t know how I got here the first time and I do not know how I got here now….. Is that meat pie?”

[Aedilred]

Spoiler

Show

Cook-Slab Leavehome was an old man and if there were, one word to describe him it would not have been patriot. Nonetheless, the collapse of the protectorate was an enormous opportunity for his criminal enterprises. The common people turned to him and his racket when their society and leaders failed them. In poverty, it was better to be exploited by the devil, you know than the devil you don’t and so Cook-Slab and the Leavehome clan unexpectantly became a shelter for much of the Uzii diaspora. Cook-Slab took to wearing a white coat and a white wide brim hat and smoking a thick roll of tobacco. The days of Cook-Slab the minor racketeer were long far-gone – he was Don Cook now.

The Don and all the power that came with such title was widely recognized by most clan heads now as a chief of a powerful clan – a chief that would have been present at the last Snortmoot where the Don would certainly not have voted for a filthy Cau. The fact that the last homage of the great Swampum Empire (the Don dispensing of the pleasantries of language and calling a duck a duck) was such a frightened deer-man that he would bend the knee towards the cause of the Uzii’s downfall infuriated the criminal mastermind. The fact that Lowerth and Laughing-Wolf had additionally conspired to cement the Homage title as a hereditary one was tantamount to betrayal. Not that the Don would have expected anything better from a yellow-tailed Cau.

For it was Don Cook’s dream to one day ascend to Homage and create a legacy for the often-disparaged Leavehomes as the saviors of the Uzii. In gambling halls and other dens on inequity, the Don and his nefarious associates plotted and schemed until they decided on a course of action that would surely strangle the alliance between the Targiz and the Night Kingdom while it was still in its infancy. Infant being the keyword.

***

Elsewhere young Wist was in a crib built big enough for a Goliath child. The crib was build longer than usual given that Wist had Cau’s horns but made large through his lineage. The toddler had a bright future ahead of him if he lived long enough to see it – he was a bridge towards a peaceful south, but even now that peace was threatened by elements beyond his innocent dreams.

***

As the young scion Isarkatl awoke groggily at the edge of the prostitute’s bed, his hangover was a poor indicator of the misadventure that perhaps laid before him. As he slapped the whore’s ass with his hilt he might have thought that he wanted to gamble with letters names or dreams, little knowing that he might be gambling with nations soon.

The harlot woke with a bleary yawn

“Business? Depends what kind . . .”

She turned in the sheets to look at Isarkatl and frowned. She didn’t quite know why she had agreed to sleep with him last night. Did he look richer in the dark? In the morning the young man was clearly in over his head in Kursaal – robbed of his clothes and belongings and with no means to pay her. As she furrowed her brow she thought then perhaps her pimp could figure out how to get her paid for the work she put in last night.

“. . . actually I know who you should speak to. Find Don Leavehome and he should be able to entertain you”

All these westerners had such silly names.

"Some kind of circus ringmaster, is he, with a name like that? Alright. Put last night on my tab." He wasn't entirely sure how that worked, but he'd heard that it was something you said in this part of the world when you didn't want to pay cash. He left the room without a backward glance and made his way to the saloon, where he approached the first person who looked like they knew their way around.

"I've been told to speak to a Dod Leafhobe. Where can I find him or one of his company?"

[mystic1110]

Isarkatl walks into the saloon and strides up to a Ork hoodlum known by the derogatory term Tusker. Tusker though reclaimed that term for himself so that made it OK, as he told everyone. Other Orcs rolled their eyes - they weren't going to let other races call them what they willed, but Tusker had a lot of work on himself left to do. Regardless, the Ork was busy speaking with other ne'er-do-wells and was shocked when the almost naked man prodded him.

"Hey now, I appreciate the courage it takes to come up to a complete stranger, but naw man, I don't . . . wait Dob Leafhoe? Who the hell is that? Wait, are you seriously asking for the Don? You're naked and asking for the Don by calling him a Dobber! Ha! Yo guys take a look at this naked dude. Wants to see the Don and bargain for some clothes. Freaking hilarious."

The assembly snickers towards Isarkatl. Tusker shrugged, if the guy wanted to get himself killed - who was he to stop him. Actually Tusker appreciated assisted suicide. There are many people that are suffering and he felt that if they wanted to take their own lives then they should. Who was he to tell them that suffering was better than death. If Isarkatl wanted to take extra steps in his suicide wasn't Tuskers place to disagree with the man's journey.

"You're lookin for the Don. With an "N" at the end. D. O. N. Don. And yeah, sure I'll show you the way. This I got to see."

Tusker gets up starts walking along the path towards Leavehome, but then stops.

Wait. You can't see the Don naked. We got to get you dressed.

Tusker diverges from the initial path and takes Isarkatl towards the garment district and the many tailors that exist there on the Don's payroll and under his protection racket. Entering one shop, Goblin-owned, Tusker yells for the owner:

"Hey! Raha! You here?"

A small goblin hops down from a messy assemblage of yarn, cloth and various hides.

Yes master Tusker?

You got to fix my boy up. I want him in the finest Battle Toad Suit and Wide Brim Hat before I take him to the Don.

The Don?

Yes, only the finest!

Eh . . .

Don't worry.

Tusker grins

My boy here will pay it back before he dies.

If Isarkatl would have said no, there was no time in the commotion and hectic activity before he was garbed in a tight fitting amphibian skinned suit and hat even given a cane with a strange symbol of a snake with two bars skewering it into two curves. Before he knew it he and Tusker were standing before an absolutely ancient Uzii dressed in white with thin black stripes running down it. The Uzii was liver spotted, fat rolls overflowing from his neck, his belly attempting to escape emerald buttons doing their best as goalers. The Uzii rasped

So you're the new Pimp?

Tusker cackled.

[Aedilred]

It was certainly kind of these people to sort him out with a new set of clothes, even if their tone seemed a bit sinister. But they were foreigners, after all, and he knew their customs and manner of speaking differed from home. Maybe they had just recognised him as an elf and finally decided to treat him with the appropriate degree of respect.

If any self-doubt penetrated his sense of superiority as he was ushered into the presence of the horrible Don Leavehome, it didn't show.

Isarkatl adjusted his hat as the Don spoke. The clothing was just as silly as everything else about these people, but it seemed reasonably well-made, notwithstanding the slight smell of dead toad from his jacket. He looked the repulsive old Uzii up and down.

"Not sure what you mean by that. My name is Isarkatl of Gevgutadagiti. You must be Dod... Do' Leavehoe. I was told you should be able to entertain me now that I've done all the usual visitor haunts."

[Ausar]

Arnfroy picked himself up of the damp dirt of the fighting ring and levelled a gaze at the last opponent standing, a scarred Uzii barely holding himself upright after the aberrant hero had thrown him bodily into the ceiling. Arnfroy knew he had to take a fall or two each day - a too-successful independent fighter quickly finds themself confronted with organised bodies, and killing too many enforcers would garner too much attention. It was his third week of wallowing in Kursaal, head beneath the waves of liquor, narcotics and sex he was trying to drown in. The Uzii roared and tried a last-ditch charge, twisting at the last moment to drop his shoulder into Arnfroy's ribs and gore at his throat. Arnfroy watched time pass in slow motion, grabbing the poor fool's tusks and lifting him by them, slamming his head down into the dirt and bending it back until his spine was showing where his throat should be. He wrenched the head up and threw it into the crowd, then meandered back to his cell, stepping over the piled bottles and collapsing into bed beside three dozing courtesans. He willed sleep to take him - his nightmares had been deepening with each day he spent in sin, each body he swiped from the dumping grounds of the fighting pits and consumed. If only he could use the living...

He awoke. The dream was getting clearer still, but the ending remained out of reach. He was lost, lost in a dark forest lit by just enough moonlight to cast deep shadows. The sounds of his fellows being torn apart by wild things, cries cut short as they fell into sudden yawning cracks and crevasses, and ever up ahead the sound of the monster, his goal, calling out. Run, it said, Run to Me. He stumbled on, even his supernatural body failing him. His markings, the bloody lines and patterns of endless rose petals that criss-crossed his body, they would not open in this hell. His thorns, his poisons, the vines, all were blocked by some facet of the mental torture he inflicted to Run in this dream, this nightmare. He could see up ahead, a clearing, the thinning of the trees, and in the centre something stood, alone. He found a final well of energy and spurred himself on closer, closer, so very close until he reached the treeline and burst into -

Daylight. The rays streamed in through the cell bars, burning at his bloodshot eyes. The courtesans were gone, and the last of the gems he'd brought from Bhaile-Koma with them. He could feel the frustration threatening to swamp him. He rolled out of bed and threw on the loose flowing robes that covered every inch of his body, shielding the sun and covering his scars. It was a brief walk to the underground pits, but someone important, someone dangerous, could always be watching. He skulked towards the pits, running half-crouched along the rooftops. He was about to leap down into the well and swim for the pit's trapdoor entrance when he saw them.

The birds. A falcon and a hawk were perched on the rim of the well, staring at him. He froze in place, crouched in the shadows at the base of a tavern's north wall. He stumbled over the words to an incantation, pulling back his sleeve to rake his pointed nails along his forearm, the drops of blood gathering in a small ball before him. He was about to launch the now-fully-formed dagger of red at the falcon when he felt a shiver run down his spine. He stumbled over his words and the dagger splashed to the ground, a harmless pool of crimson. He squinted at the birds, then his eyes widened. They were not perched on the rim of the well.

Clambering his way out of the well and strolling over to the stunned young Brythion was a familiar figure. Hair beginning to streak grey, ropey muscles still free of trace of fat, the talons of the two birds still digging deep into his shoulders Jofry glared down at Arnfroy.
"Nephew."
"Uncle."
"You're still in Kursaal."
"I need more time. I can nearly see it, I can almost reach Him, I just need a little more time. Please."
Jofry paused, looking from one avian watcher to the other. The Hawk slurred a three note call, descending, shrill and harsh. The falcon stooped, letting out a similarly shrill cry. Jofry raised an eyebrow, chirping back at them. Both took wing, circling once then beginning a spiralling dance back westward. He turned back to Arnfroy, still crouched in the shadows.
"Come."

They wound their way through the narrow streets, stepping over dice, bodies, refuse and all manner of shattered dreams until they reached a small alcove sheltering a smooth living wood door, high up a still-overgrown guard tower abandoned as the city walls had moved on. The birds were perched in the branches, and returned to Jofry's shoulders as he approached. The a face Arnfroy felt was so familiar but he just couldn't place formed in the door as the pair climbed the last few steps, and spoke.
"The Spark."
"Rayner."
"Enter, dear one."

The door swung open, face dissolving back into the wood, and Jofry stepped inside, the birds releasing him and soaring up to the high rafters. Arnfroy stooped his way in and stopped, taking in the room before him. Crafted with gentle, flowing curves at every turn, carpeted with woven branches and ever-youthful flower stems, flowers of all varieties growing from every wall, a small pool sending wending tributaries this way and that through grooves in the floor, it was a serene riot of colour. He could just make out a half-goliath young woman reading a scroll in the curve of a windowsill, but it was the towering figure at the centre of the room, sitting cross-legged by the pool, listening to the birdsong of a quartet of thrushes that demanded his eye. Not beautiful, but strong, fierce, imposing and assured she looked, yet at once so calm. When she opened her eyes he could see the wells of unspeakable kindness within, as they bored into his own that had for weeks been close to lifeless. Jofry walked over and kissed his wife, turning back to Arnfroy with a soft smile. Olea raised an eyebrow at her husband.
"He says he needs a little more time, love."
"Does he now."

[mystic1110]

Don Cook-Slab quickly realized that he was dealing with an idiot. Who else would somehow be brought before a criminal overlord and demand to be entertained; an idiot or a hero, and the Don had had plenty of dealing with heroes in the past – back when he was a young upstart – and looking back he would say the two words, hero and idiot, were essentially synonyms. Well, the Don thought as he smoked his fat smelly cigar, the smoke drifting around the room in thick lazy clouds, one could always make use of heroes and idiots.

A Pimp . . . eh, forget about that. You want to be entertained? I have a game for you. Let’s call it a Scavenger Hunt.

The fat Uzii clapped his hands and four other individuals walked into the room.

The first was a woman named Igaz who had a tattoo of a wolf’s head painted on her one face. The woman was well known among certain circles of Kursaal as a bounty hunter, finding debtors to sell to the night kingdom. She usually relied on planning and carefully detailed assortment of lures and traps to find her targets. She carried a multiple daggers on her person and she walks into the room practicing some knife tricks.

The second was a man named Ocirebi who was a usually seen handing out pamphlets written on various skins and yelling at the citizenry of a variety of conspiracies usually that involved the upper classes eating people. Given Kursaal ties to the Crimson Kingdom and its own Corpse Flower Cults, the various rumors did hold plenty of water, but the common people expected them and had long ago grown desensitized about such habits. Let them eat Soylet Cake was the general thought. Why was Ocirebi in the Don’s employ? Apparently various promises that if he wins the Don’s games he would finally be invited to some of these canablism parties – you know, to take them apart from the inside – or at least that’s what Ocirebi told people out loud.

The third was a rare sight from the south, one of the fffolkkk, a female turtle names Nnnaltttu, who wore a fishing net that she had once gotten caught in while swimming. She never took off the net, treating it as clothing bestowed to her by the sea, rotting fish still caught along with it which gave her a most putrid scent. The smell had attracted a small entourage of carrion birds, including some Tattered Dancer males – her harpy haram traveling with her on her back. The Fffolkkk woman was primarily a fortuneteller in the Kursaal Bazar, but did send her haram out to make sure that her predictions of misfortune came true.

The fourth was a man named L’tacehe a young man who had failed to even be accepted to the Trials of Iron held by the Sentinels. While he styled himself a warrior, the truth of the matter was that his parents were extremely wealthy. L’tacehe would brandish his sword at those he felt wronged him, but it was his gold and jewels that made doors swing open for him and luck fall his way – that is until he tried to cheat Leavehome.

The four joined Isarkatl in standing before the Don who spoke.

There is a Child in Kursaal. They call him Wist. The one bring this child to me shall have all debts forgiven and paid back as reward. The rest of you will be killed. Think of it as a bloody race.
The Don takes out a staff a hits a bronze symbol by his chair that lets off a deep an onerous GOOOOOONNNNNNGGG.

No one moves.

Well got on with it!

Igaz, Ocirebi, Nnnaltttu and L’tacehe begind to run to opposite doors as the race started leaving Isarkatl to decide if he will join the race and if he does, if he could win?

[mystic1110]

Interlude

The Dolod held out his paw to signal to the barkeep for another drink. He had perfect memory so he knew exactly how many drinks he had before this: too many. He sighed . . . you know how when you purge after a night of debauchery and you feel like your throat and stomach personally hate you? Do you recall that moment? Absolutely not, your mind has too much mercy and similarly purges that purge from its memory. Now think of how it would feel like to recall that moment of regurgitation perfectly and always. Makes a Dolod want to drink that's what it does. The poor Dolod drank to forget that he could not forget drinking as much as he did. It was a vicious cycle.

The bar was full of these Dolods. In fact this was the "BARAB", known in neighborhood as the Dolod bar. Not every Dolod in it was an alcholic. Some where the usual bookkeepers, useful in the Kursaal banks and vaults. Others were taking a break constructing a Sanctum in the local apocalypses known as Ruin. Others were still conspiring of building a further Sanctum in the far forests of the Congress of the Honeyed Child. Lots of Sanctum Builders - not easy work, made one want to drink . . . . Other Dolod were just priests of the True Dawn joining the local scene of preachers and holy men. Kursaal was known to change faiths every year so they seemed to want to place their own wagers on the table.

Either way, the bar was filled with the creatures in a various stage of inebriation. One Dolod turned to another and asked:

Have I ever told you the story. . . .

The other rolled its eyes, irritated.

Yes. Sun's Curses yes. You know you told me the story, and I remember you told me the story and we all know the story. Sun Damn it!

The first Dolod downed another cup of wine.

You could humor me you know. Just cause you know and I know you could be less of an *******.

You know everything about me and recall perfectly how I would react to your asinine story, you know I'm going to be an ******* about this.

The first Dolod asked the barkeep for more flower wine and said:

Maybe I hoped the Sun would have put you in a better mood

The other Dolod was also now drinking

I can't be in a better mood I'm hungover

Hungover? You were working in the Sanctum yesterday.

We've had this conversation before, you know that I was hungover two months ago and still remember feeling like **** which makes me feel like **** now!

So you're telling me you're going to be an ******* forever now?

Probably.

Both Dolod Drink.

[Aedilred]

Isarkatl watched as the other competitors raced for the exits, momentarily perplexed. He had no idea what was going on, but, he reasoned, this is the sort of thing he was after: a life-or-death chase.

A quick look over the others suggested that Igaz was probably the most competent of them and the most likely to reach the target first, but that was presently secondary. After checking what direction the bounty hunter took off in, he changed course and headed after Ocirebi.

Isarkatl's new suit made concealment in the alleys almost impossible, but he didn't mind his quarry knowing he was on his tail. Taking pleasure in the hint of panic as the agitator turned a corner and hauled furniture and refuse in his path to try to obstruct him, Isarkatl grinned and vaulted over it with contemptuous ease...

... only for his ankle to be grabbed almost in mid-air. Somehow he stuck the landing, not neatly, but without injury. Shapes lurched up from the dank corners of the alley, and he saw that Ocirebi had stopped, panting with his hands on his knees and smirking as his beggar allies came to his aid. Four against one, suddenly.

It was a mistake.

As the first beggar lunged at him, Isarkatl seized his shoulder, pulled, twisted, struck down with his cane, and moved forward without so much as looking, ignoring the howl of pain behind him as he transferred his cane to his left hand and drew his black iron sword. There were few men who could match one of the Sirrvadut for speed or savage strength and the other two beggars had barely found their feet before Isarkatl was upon them, stomping on ankles and knees, and raining down blows with both weapons to the glorious sound of cracking bones.

Ocirebi had only just processed what had transpired before him before Isarkatl had bundled him against the wall, the moaning remnants of the beggars left behind him. The cane was across his throat, the point of the sword to his stomach.

"Who is this Wist the Dod has asked for?" Isarkatl hissed. "And what does he want with him?"

[mystic1110]

Ocirebi had peed himself.

Leeettt me me go . . . I'm a man of the people! The people!

The words coming out fast and stuttering.

You can't kill a man of the people! Whose going to tell the people about the aristocrats eating ba . . babies! Babies! They eat babies! The people got to know!

The beggars groaned in the background.

Are you part of the bourgeoisie? Is that why you hurt the beggars! The . . . they are just simple city-dwellers. These are people of the gar . . . Garbage. The common filth of Kursaal! You know...

Ocirebi trailed off as he found himself rambling and Isarkatl's steely gaze unwavering.

Dob?

Yellow was not the only color his pants had become.

You mean the Don? He's going to kill me now isn't he. OH No! He's going to kill me!

A couple of good slaps from Isarkatl and Ocirebi was talking straight again. He ventured his best guess.

The beggars told me that Wist is the Odds-Mistress's grandson. I don't know why the Don wants him. Perhaps he wants to blackmail the Odds-Mistress?

He paused and the fear returned to his eyes. He grabs Isarkatl by his toad skin lapels.

You got to save me! The people need me!

[Aedilred]

Isarkatl wrinkled his nose in distaste at the smell, but the talk of baby-eating had caught his attention. He didn’t really understand why the man was so upset about that, even if personally, he preferred older meat that had had time to develop a bit of flavour, but he had seen enough of the world to know not everyone shared an elven sensibility on this subject. He glanced over at the beggars.

“They'll live. Probably. But if you want to actually make a difference, do exactly as I tell you. And you might even live through the night, if we’re lucky.”

He relaxed slightly, still not allowing Ocirebi enough room to escape, but giving him a bit more room to breathe.

“I need you to find a dead child. A fresh one, about the same age as Wist. You say the rich eat children, so if what you say is true they must have a supplier somewhere and you must have an idea where or who that is.”

He rolled his eyes at the look on Ocirebi’s face.

“We’re not going to hurt it. One that’s already dead and however sad that is whatever happens to it now is better than something happening to a live one. We’re trying to save a child, not harm one.”

He stepped back, keeping the point of his sword levelled at Ocirebi’s belly.

“Meet me back here with the body as soon as you have it. Don’t bother trying to run. If Leafhoe doesn’t catch you, I will. And if you think about double-crossing me, you’ll wish he had got to you first.”

He turned away. “I’m going to see to the rest of the plan,” he said, then looked back.

“Oh, and change your trousers.”

[mystic1110]

While Isarkatl went off to see to the rest of his plan, Ocirebi scampered off to find a dead baby. Luckily he knew exactly where to go. He had to go to a restaurant.

The restaurant catered a new food that was becoming extremely popular, it was a sort of flat bread covered in cheese from Rhödödendräk. Ocirebi wasn't a huge fan - he felt that the meal was too rich that it needed some sort of acidic profile, preferably as a sauce; also a pop of color - red perhaps and maybe a green herb of some sort as a contrast. Instead the bread and cheese was just so much gooey whiteness that the up and coming chefs prepared by placing on long wooden boards and then shoveling inside brick ovens that in a city that had inspectors would have been demolished. The food was called Za' and it was the product of placing a bunch of desperate immigrants together in a small confined area and seeing what happens.

Regardless, the Za' restaurant that Ocirebi had in mind had a basement where an older female elf, who escaped the collapsing Crimson Kingdom, was known for being the chief supplier of Long-Veal, as sentient baby corpses were euphemistically called by those in the know. That is baby corpses from sentient corpses, not that the corpses were sentient. The elf's name was Heulwen-Raewyn, an unusual hyphenated name that spoke of some Targizian roots in her past. She usually went with the nickname HR. HR was a a sever looking woman with long horns born from her eating habits and short blond hair. The basement was set up sort of like a butcher shop in that there was a counter and a line and people would place orders and HR would go into the back and emerge with a brown bagged object which she would hand over for coin.

When Ocirebi, piss and poop filled pants and all, the place was thankfully empty except for HR. HR immediately narrowed her eyes upon seeing Ocirebi. The man wasn't her mortal enemy but he was a huge nuisance - picketing her shop and the Za' restaurant above - which, looking back, just meant free advertising. Regardless, the man was annoying.

What are you doing here. Also why do you smell so bad?

Ba Baby Baby he stuttered.

Yes Baby. Long-Veal. Whatever. You know what I sell. What cut do you want? Back Ribs?

Ba Baby Baby

You hypocrite just tell me you want a baby.

Ba Baby Baby he held out his hands to indicate a whole baby.

Ah, Gotcha. If you're going to break your principles might as well go all the way eh.

Ba Baby Baby

You have money?

Ba Baby Baby

Ugh, never mind. I'll give you a baby if you promise to never set foot in this part of town again.

Ocirebi vigorously shook his head in agreement. HR shrugged and went into the back to pick out her worst dead baby - still fresh, she had standard, but she wasn't going to give out her fairest fattest baby for free - and wrapped it up in brown hide and came back out to give it to the pathetic activist.

Here you go. I hope to never see you again.

Ocirebi, once again, vigorously shook his head in agreement, and started to take off to meet Isarkatl when HR called back out to him

Oh, and change your trousers.

[Aedilred]

On the trail of Igaz, locating Wist turned out to be rather easier than Isarkatl had expected. After tracking her to the child's location, Isarkatl was unsure whether she was even aware she was being followed. As he put his hand on the door to Wist's chamber, however, that question was immediately answered as a knife flew at his head. Only his elven reflexes saved him.

The ensuing fight was not one that either of the participants was likely to be proud of. After an initial exchange of blows, the two tripped each other and fell to the floor, grappling and trying to stop each other from getting at their weapons. The ungainliness of the struggle was partially mitigated by the absence of anyone able to see them. Hopefully.

Igaz got on top of Isarkatl with a hand on top of his face, making a token attempt to claw at his eyes but really just using it for support as she tried to reach for another dagger. Isarkatl sunk sharp teeth into her hand, and she yelled in pain as she tried to withdrew her arm and fell, allowing him to twist on top of her. Finally having achieved the upper hand, he threw punch after punch at her head and chest until she stopped resisting.

He stood up and drew his sword. "Leafho wants you dead and I need you dead," he said to her, though unsure if she was even still conscious. "So you can get out of Kursaal and I'll tell the Dod you were killed, or I'll finish the job here and now."

He looked around for Wist. "Now where's this baby everyone is so fussed about?"

[mystic1110]

Igaz was conscious but clearly concussed, her eyes were unfocused she slurred when she spoke.

Leaf Bow?

Her last words before she slumped back down to the floor asleep, her face already swelling up to become something unrecognizable.

Isarkatl, looking around the room which Igaz had scoped out, would notice its finery. Seems that Ocirebi wasn't lying when he said that the Baby was related to the Odds-Mistress. Whoever owned this joint was clearly loaded. What was unusual was that for such a wealthy household there were no guards or servants around. Where were they? Pushing those thoughts aside Isarkatl stepped further into the room to find the crib. There was a toddler there - a huge toddler - if HR got her hands on the baby there would have been enough Long-Veal for days if not weeks. The child turned it its sleep the confrontation with Igaz not having woken him. Isarkatl tried to pick Wist up, but the large moose-like horns that sprouted from the top of his head caught the edge of the crib and Wist opened up his eyes; they were brilliant green. He smiled that fat smile of babies and squealed in delight as he reached out with his fat fingers and stuck one into Isarkatl's nostril.

Then he burped and vomited on Isarkatl's new suit. Then he laughed.

[Aedilred]

This was going to be more of a challenge than he had thought, but he still had some ideas. The first thing was to get the child out of here before any of the others showed up. Doing his best to soothe the gurgling infant (something which did not come naturally to him) he gathered up not only Wist but the baby’s bedclothes and any other accoutrements of the cot that looked expensive.

He wrapped the baby up sufficiently tightly that it couldn’t meaningfully struggle but covered as best he could so as not to attract too much attention and raided Igaz’s prone body for some petty cash, a knife, and straps for ease of carrying.

“Who’s a good baby?” he asked, somewhat unconvincingly. “Coochy-coochy-coo.”

As unobtrusively as possible, he made his way out of the house. He did not whistle nonchalantly, but it felt like he could have done.

Next stop, an abbatoir.

He arrived at the meeting-place with Ocirebi carrying Wist in one arm and somewhat awkwardly managing his cane and a bag containing a goat’s head (which he was sure he’d overpaid for, but lengthy haggling would have been too much of a risk) in the other.

“You actually found a baby?” he asked, as he saw Ocirebi's ashen face, and lifted the gurgling Wist. “Here’s the one we were supposed to get. We swap their clothes and tell the Dod that this one is the one he was after.”

Ocirebi’s baby was rather smaller and scrawnier than he had hoped, but it was better than nothing. With any luck, the Uzii boss hadn’t actually seen Wist in the flesh and wouldn't look too closely at the corpse he was delivered.

He saw Ocirebi looking at Wist’s head. “Of course, it won’t be just the clothes we have to change. That’s what this is for.”

He lifted the goat’s head. “You might want to look away. This could be gruesome.”

[mystic1110]

While Isarkatl was busy dressing up one baby in the clothes of another the rest of Don Leavehome's contestants were making their move. The one the plot focuses on at the moment is the turtle mystic Nnnaltttu.

Nnnaltttu did not so much rush out of the Don's quarters with the others except slowly saunter back to her stall in the Grand Bazaar that snakes its way through the alleyways of Kursaal. The smelly fffolkkk woman believed that however fast the rabbit ran it would eventually get caught in the tortoise's net. And so she sat down at her stall and began to read the fortunes as she would usually do - except this time she read Wist's fortune.

She turned over the first card.

The Odds-Mistress. Meaning change, cycles, fate, decisive moments, luck, fortune, unexpected events. Of course there is Wist's own relation to the actual Odds-Mistress which could not be discounted.

She turned over the second card.

The Corpse Flower. Meaning illusion, intuition, uncertainty, confusion, complexity, secrets, unconscious.

Interesting. She contemplated these results and though about what it could mean. There will be a twist. The Corpse Flower always represented a twist in the reading. Which meant either that the Wist that she would find would be a Fake . . . .

She turned over the final card.

The Wyrm. Meaning only Destruction.

A Fake Wist that would bring ruin to the one who held him. Obviously, a creative reading, but Nnnaltttu smiled lethargically. And snapped her fingers. Suddenly a flurry of male Tattered Dancers arrived - their matted feathers falling on her rug.

Fiiiinnnnddd thhhheeee othhhherrrs, taaaaiiiilll thheeeem. I waaaannnnt thhhheeeee reaaaallll boooooy. Kiiiiillllll whooooo hoooolllds thhhheee faaaakkkeee.

As always in the fortune telling profession it is good to have insurance. When you are uncertain about your readings you should always ensure that they become correct as fast as possible. Nnnaltttu's Harem of Harpy husbands pecked at the dead fish caught on her net and then ran and flew in separate directions throughout the city to make of her instructions as best that they could. Something about killing.

[Aedilred]

Isarkatl strolled back to the Don's base of operations holding a bundle in his arms.

"Tell the Dot I'm here to see him and I've got what he asked for," he said to the muscle on the door. A twitch of a blanket revealed that the bundle was a baby, or at least had been. The child's head was in ruins, having been stoven in by some heavy blow, and the whole scalp and face were caked with dried blood, brains and other gore. But amidst the horrifying spectacle were two horns protrucing from the child's skull.

Earlier

His grisly task completed, Isarkatl wrapped up the substitute baby in one of Wist's blankets and discarded the goat's head. He turned back to Ocirebi.

"I'll take this one to the Dog and tell him that this is the one he's after. In the meantime, you hang on to that one and make sure no harm comes to him. We're not the only ones looking for him, so stay out of sight. Meet me back here at sundown, or if you get trapped, send someone to let me know. And if I don't show up... I guess ransom him back to the Oddsmistress. She might be able to get Leafhobe off your back. You never know, you might even be able to get her to shut down those baby-eating joints you're worried about as a reward for finding him."

"Oh, and it goes without saying, if you double-cross me..." he drew his finger across his throat and made a squelching sound.

[Rolepgeek]

Dobonhonkeros cannot curtsey, but he is able to bend until the end of his snout touches the ground before Aste, that beacon of glory he hoped to earn the hand of here. His garb is worn, but well-suited for the clime surrounding Kursaal.

"I am Dobonhonkeros Lhungho, born to Khonraangru Lhungho, and nephew to the Prophet-Queen of Lhungho Saar. I come before you now so that I mi- so that - hoping t-to-" He struggles to get the words out, so heavy in his chest do they sit. He bites his tongue to focus, and as the taste of blood coats the inside of his mouth, he manages to proclaim: "I hope to court you, Ank’Anske’Thalez’ir Asteracea, and earn your hand in marriage. Will you permit this?"