A Gathering of Thieves

Shadows creep along the floor, dancing rhythmically to the slow, eerie tune of the instruments and bardsong emanating from the next room, slithering beneath the many plush armchairs and antique tables within. Candles and lanterns, far to few to light the spacious room adequately, cast the flickering phantoms across the many portraits and paintings that line the walls. The rich aroma of spices, burning pipe leaves, mahogany and walnut nearly hides the underlying scent of mildew and dilapidation. Dominating the center of the dark room is a table so long it could seat two dozen dinner guests comfortably, its chairs now empty, dust-layered surface bare. Forsaking it, a small gathering lounges at the far end of the dining hall, framed by tall, arching windows behind them, heavy drapes pulled shut to hide the moonlit allies beyond.

Legs crossed, Durgin takes a long pull from the slender stem of his pipe and leans back into his wingback chair, becoming swallowed in the shadows it holds. He lets the smoke seep out from his mouth only to inhale it into his nose in an endless cycle, like a dragon biting its tail. A glass, half full of red wine hangs lazily between his fingertips. Durgin's shoulder-length black hair curtains both sides of his pale white face. He was a handsome man in his own way, extruding viperous cunning and a dark, mysterious charisma. His voice, deep and rumbling yet scratchy and rasping from years of heavy smoking, is perhaps one of his most unique characteristics.

Before speaking, Durgin, never one to hurry, exhales deeply, blowing a plume of smoke that pools on the small, round table between the company of thieves. The veil lifts, revealing a large, white envelope stained with what can only be blood spatters.

"I've received discourse from one of our friends in the Fourth Quarter," Durgin begins in gravelly tenor, his eyes fixed on the envelope. "It follows an invitation I was delivered earlier by envoy of the Vidame Grey Devonshire. It seems the Lady Devonshire—and her lavish Upper Ward estate—will host an art auction a week from tonight."

Durgin lets his words settle on the minds of his audience as he takes a sip from his glass: one-eyed Martin Grey, a cutpurse, catburglar, and lockpick; Leon Kallis, a dashingly-handsome ladies man; and the grotesque Meeshak, a goblin mage.

"Regretfully, I will be unable to attend," Durgin continues with a hint of sarcasm. The three knew him well; though he had backstabed, bribed and blackmailed his way through the rind of high society's lowest crust, he wasn't one that enjoyed such company nor affairs. "However, that shouldn't spoil all the fun for you, my dear friends. I wouldn't want my absence to deprive you all of a cultural opportunity. Of the chance to rub elbows with some of Rimuldar's finest citizens. To broaden your social circles.

"No, I would like you three to go in my stead."

Again, Durgin pauses. A smirk curls one side of his lips as he takes another deep tug from his pipe, the cherry-red glow from its bowl casting his face in a demonic light. Though Kallis was a socialite with an impressive list of noble acquaintances, this was far out of his realm. The other two? Martin's home was in the filthiest slums and back allies of the Lower Ward—a high society party was no place for a notorious thief, let alone Meeshak who was regarded as little better than a child-eating monster at best. Worse, if his magical status is known.

As well as they know Durgin, Durgin knows his listeners. He knows their hearts and minds; this was a ludicrous proposal. He didn't seriously expect the trio to carouse amongst the empire's elite, and they knew it. So, to what end was he seeking?

"In that envelope is your invitation. Well, not your invitation, but I'm sure the three dead fellows who were on their way to the viscountess's manor won't mind if you borrow them; they don't need 'em anymore.

"It's a letter addressed to Lady Devonshire from Lord-Barrister Dreadstone, a gloriously-wealthy imperial magistrate from Temecula. It seems as though it's his custom to send handlers in advance to wherever he visits in order to make certain the accommodations—whatever they are—meet his approval."

Durgin stands and crosses the floor to another table upon which rests a crystal pitcher. Back turned to the group, he re-fills his glass and drinks deeply before repeating the act.

"Oh, and by the way, he sent six. The other three . . . Well, apparently, they got lost along the way, as did their entire escort and entourage," Durgin waves his free hand in a quick circular motion as if conjuring an anecdote from thin air. "It is a very long journey from Temecula to here, after all. I hope that small detail causes you no complications during your stay at the villa."
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:21, Tue 10 June 2014.

There was always an eerie presence in rooms such as this. It was like a trick he'd been shown as a boy where one could be shown things with apparency, guiding someone's attention, and through deception become vulnerable in ways that even the victims could not believe; amazing to see in action. Leon felt the deep stabbing of awe and anxiety as the hands of the organisation, environment and words prodded and pulled at his senses. It told him one thing and left him with the uncomfortable feeling of undertones that he could not quite fathom; it was very disconcerting.

Durgin's actions oozed stoicism and it naturally lent the feelings of suspicion to the younger member of the group. His extrovert personality often resulted in the question about peoples' motives. Each of Durgin's movements looked calculated and purposeful - he seemed to be a man that never acted without due consideration, exemplified by the delay before speaking.

Quiet now Leon, he thought, listen... he told himself.

The tones of Durgin almost lulled him into a somniferous state until the man rose to refill his cup. The pouring and drinking resulted in Leon developing an itching thirst that he sought to control by tonguing the roof of his mouth before opening up to speak.


" Durgin, if our goal is to... ensure the Lord's warm and fuzzy welcome," he said with a grin opening across his face, humoured at the thought of impersonation and deception, " then we can do this...

I speak only for myself, of course, and would never put words into my friends' mouth but I am sure they are, like me, wondering what purpose there is for us lowly folk to be in such a place, " the irony flowing freely in his tone ", I certainly consider our mandate to the Lord of utmost importance but would like your advice of the best way to pass the time once our duties are fulfilled. Are there fun things we can do in this city?" The tone was obvious, somewhat playful and lavished with tones suited to the facetious handling of conspiracy. His voice, while charming and enticing still carried the twang of a low-born accent even when he was mimicking the cadence of higher people when they spoke

Leon had learned, or decided, early to never speak explicitly of criminal activity or indeed actions and goals of their community. Instead, he often spoke in circular pressing innuendo and subtlety to its limit.




I hope this is okay for a first post...

I tried to capture a little bit of the character's personality; he is playful and perhaps a little wise to the 'requirements' of subtlety in their line of work.

The tone is implicitly mocking the 'victims' of their efforts but he is still curious about what the actual goal still is...


This message was last edited by the player at 20:46, Mon 02 June 2014.

Martin stood towards the back, his dark clothes making him blend into the darkness, only his face catching the light. One eye covered by an eyepatch, and the other roving around the room, often settling on Durgin as he spoke, but never staying there for long.

Despite his stoic expression, Martin really wasn't feeling very comfortable. He didn't really like, or trust, Durgin. And being in the belly of the beast was filling him with nervous energy, urging his fingers into motion, to tap on the table, to right the slightly crooked painting next to him, to engage in a bit of finger gymnastics, to do anything. But Martin suppressed the urge and clasped his hands on his back, fingers rhythmically squeezing and relaxing.

This was just a job. Durgin might have, almost certainly would have, additional motives beyond what he would tell. But it was unlikely anything bad would happen in this room. And the pay tended to be decent. And Martin could really use the money. It wasn't cheap feeding what amounted to a largish family, even if some of the members could provide for themselves.

So Martin waited and listened, fingers nervously squeezing and relaxing.

If his eye did narrow a bit when Durgin revealed that half a dozen people had been killed for the invitations, he also did quickly get his face back under control.


When the spiel came to a close, he did want more information about the job. But Durgin was being all theatrical and suave, and Martin didn't feel like playing that particular game, neither by participating in the inappropriate banter nor as a stooge asking the questions Durgin was obviously anticipating.

So he didn't mind at all when Leon stepped in. Though he could have done without the banter.

Meeshak paced the room, trying not to make eye contact with anyone in the room. His mumbling and constant finger flinches only stopped when he was near a door or window. At those moments he would stop and either listen intently at the door or peer around the drapes covering the windows. Obviously satisfied that they were not under observation, the goblin continued his pacing.

As Durgin lifts the veil, the goblin stops and cocks his head to the side in an effort to somehow get a better look at the envelope without approaching closer. His eyes dart from envelope to Durgin and back to the envelope without moving his head as the man speaks. At the mention of the prior owners now being dead, Meeshak's eyes roll and he lets out an audible sigh. Once more he continues his fidgeting as Leon began asking questions.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:33, Mon 09 June 2014.

Durgin lifts a leaf of white paper off the table, then crosses the floor, returning to his chair. "Oh, there will be plenty of fun to be had at the Devonshire estate, Leon. If you're not thrilled to attend the art and antique auction, perhaps you'd like to stay a little longer. The next day, they're having a masquerade ball.

"I know what you're thinking: 'What ever shall I wear?'"

Durgin takes his seat and crosses his legs. He lays the paper on his lap and takes a drink from his glass. "I have here a copy of your invitations. It seems Lord-Barrister Dreadstone saw fit to describe each of his six attendants in detail. Well, will you look at that. One of them seems to be missing an eye."

Durgin looks up and meets Martin's gaze, then returns to the copy of the invitation and clears his throat. "Durgin Khatzbaran, of one eye, green in color. He stands just short of six feet; dark hair," Durgin reads. "'Durgin.' That's too good of a name to waste on a Khatzbaran," Durgin scoffs. "Just what color is your eye anyways, Martin? Bah, never mind. No one will notice. Hell, I've known you for more than twenty years and I've got no clue. You'll probably want to slouch a bit, though."

In scratchy tenor, Durgin continues reading, expecting no reply from Martin. The invitation describes another of passing similarity to Leon. "'Waderan Mottle.' Hello, 'Warden,'" During says, looking up at Leon. "Not the most attractive name.

"Well, how about that. There's a goblin on the list as well," Durgin says feigning surprise. "No. No there isn't. But there is a mage. '. . . a gifted fellow, blessed with the Talent. He attended the grand academy, graduating with highest esteem. Vanderan Shulz.'

"So, Vanderan," Durgin says, glancing toward Meeshack. "You should be happy to know you'll be attending as a human, a better species all around.

"Now that we've all been introduced, let's talk about what I would like in return for so generously sending you all on this luxurious vacation. A small price to pay for a few night's room and board in one of Rimuldar's finest estates, really. Quite small." Durgin holds up his hand, thumb and first finger making a pinching gesture as if he held something between them. "It's about an inch long and much less in girth—Leon, you should be familiar with that size.

"It's shaped like a canine's tooth. Or a dragon's. 'Suppose that's where it gets its name: The Dragon's Tooth. But it's neither. It's a diamond, a big fat sparkling rock. You see, it was in my possession once not long ago, and I want it back.

"Its current owner, who just so happens to be the Lady of the house, intends to sell it at the auction. Perhaps you can acquire it for me before the bidding begins."

Durgin uncrosses his legs and sets the glass on a lampstand near his armchair. He then stands, signalling this conversation was coming to a close.

"Now, you all can't go to a party looking like that, so I'll provide each of you with a new wardrobe. Don't worry, I had the blood washed out and all the holes stitched good as new.

"See our dear old friend Zuul about getting your new clothes tailored. He has everything you need. Martin—I mean, Durgin—see to it the invitation and its copy finds its way straight into Zuul's grimy talons and no other's," Durgin says with a wave to the piece of paper and the envelope on the table. "He's waiting on you, all three."

Martin takes in the rest of Durgin's performance with indifference.

Once the last order is passed, Martin simply nods and walks up to the table, where he palms the paper and letter which quickly disappears under his shirt. He nods to Durgin again, and says, no particular inflection in his voice, "We'll get it for you."

He adjusts the papers through his shirt, making sure that they make no bulge.

"How much do we get? Beyond the.. vacation."

Durgin's face goes blank as stormclouds gather in his eyes. "'Get?' Like, as in you want paid?" he asks, incredulously. "What do you think this is, Martin, some kind of job? I just handed you the keys to one of the wealthiest mansions in Rimuldar and all I ask in return is one tiny diamond. That's like telling a child he can have anything he wants from a candy store for the price of a single gumdrop—but the kid wants paid to go in."

Durgin scoffs, then turns and walks to the door. He takes the knob and opens it, revealing the smokey second-story gallery overlooking the main floor of the Quiet Lady brothel and tavern. The rowdy din of a hundred drunken revelers below pours through the threshold. Leaning on the handrail is a man called Blade, but he's known as Durgin's hitman—a ruthless, mass-murderer, a cold-hearted killer. Blade slowly turns his attention from the floor below and looks back over his shoulder, his face a perpetual scowl.



"Martin," Durgin says, gesturing toward the door. "Won't you join me?"

Martin walks out of the room and onto the gallery, taking his place beside Durgin who is looking down over the rail.

"If you're looking for employment, I'm sure I can arrange something, my friend," Durgin says in low voice. "I know it must be tough for you looking after all those orphans. That's a lot of mouths to feed. Why, just the other day, one came here looking for a job. I set her up; what with us being old friends and all, I figured I owed it to you to take at least one of those scrawny brats off your hands."

Durgin nods toward one corner of the bar, and Martin's lone eye—still ajusting to the brighter light—catches sight of one of his own. She's a petite young girl with pale reddish-blonde hair talking to a greasy man three times her age.



"We call her Rose around here. Oh, she's a bit too young for the work, but some of the men sure do love having her around. Oh, don't worry; she's not for sale. Well, not yet anyways."

---

OOC: Martin, this might be a passive-aggressive threat. "Rose" is probably 13 or so, and this is the last place a girl her age should be. Just being "not for sale" is far cry from being safe—this is a tavern and brothel, after all. Durgin's killer probably isn't standing there by accident either . . .

With the pseudo-identities received and talk of a masquerade ball Leon was both thrilled and still clinging to caution. There was a lot about this whole lot in life that didn't sit well with him. The group of thieves were generally considered to admonish those that committed violence, with few kind words being spoken to those that killed people - especially in cold blood.

Leon decided quickly that there was something more to the Dragon's Tooth than met the eye. Diamonds, while valuable could likely be found in any wealthy estate in the city and with likely more 'arousing' dimensions.

"Well, if they're anything like the masked parties that are normally held I think the dress code will be easy enough..." he said with a slightly lyrical tone. The comment was very offhanded though as his brain zoomed through the possibilities and reasons and actions to date - his paranoid side was coming through strong and loud, even if he wasn't letting on.

As he re-phased into the conversation Leon chuckled at the theatrics by their boss and couldn't hold back a comment "Less surprising when you think we were probably selected for our similarity to our unfortunate friends..." a grin wide on his face as he suppressed a jolting feeling of smugness. It fell away quickly though as his head returned to the deconstruction of current events. There was something odd about this whole situation, or so he thought.

The feeling was soured further when Durgin opened the door into the brothel. A man, a violent and sadistic bastard was standing there. "Fuck him..." Leon said under his breath, before sucking the bitter taste from his tongue.

15:49, Today: Leon Kallis rolled 13 using 3d6. hearing the conversation.


Again, hope this is okay. I've not gone too far with my post to give everything a chance to unravel.

:D

When Durgin announces that the pay will be whatever they manage to steal while inside, Martin considers saying no to the mission. It might not make him any friends with Durgin, but this smelled too much like doing a job for the crime boss, and then paying him for the privilege. Besides, Martin was a smuggler and a burglar, not a con-man. Making himself known to the target before robbing her wasn't something he was comfortable with. Too many chances for something going wrong.

Still, he followed Durgin out onto the balcony. He frowns a bit when he finally spots Lisha. Or Rose as she is called here. Not because of what she is doing. There was nothing wrong with being a prostitute. In Martin's opinion they had the moral high ground compared to thieves like himself, and there was less chance of losing a hand or getting the rope.

But he had a problem with Durgin. The Quiet Lady might be theoretically be safer than working the street, but Martin really didn't want any of his flock under Durgin's thumb. Durgin didn't employ people. He used them. Like he was using Lisha now, in order to ensure he would get use of Martin.

Though theoretically, now that she had left Martin's wings, she was no longer his responsibility. That was his code. Even more so when she would hire on with a man like Durgin. Theoretically she was no longer his responsibility. But however much he wanted to leave her to her own chosen fate, he couldn't. Not really.

Both his hands are on the railing, the fingers of his left hand reflexively dancing in a quick rhythm, as the thoughts pass through his brain. Maybe two seconds pass, and the frown hasn't left his face entirely when he turns to Durgin.

"I get your point." he replies. "I'll get the stone for you."

Another man might have couched the reply in pleasant words. Might have lied about how he appreciated the chance Durgin was giving him, or how nice it was of him to keep an eye on Rose. Martin didn't do banter.

"If you're there after Dreadstone arrives, you'd better be wearing a mask."


Durgin nods knowingly and returns Leon's short-lived smile.

In truth, both Leon and Meeshak, despite being a goblin, were well suited for the job. Leon was a charismatic ladies man, and Durgin suspected he dreamed of the of the spender and majesty of high society, of lords and ladies, of mansions with gated fences and rolling green lawns. His ambitions would be well served by carrying out this task. In fact, Durgin wouldn't be too surprised if he never saw the young man ever again. That was fine, just so long as he got the Tooth.

Meeshak had a gift unrivaled by any other in Durgin's employ. If only he were human—but then, he wouldn't be under Durgin's influence; he'd be high in a tower somewhere, buried in arcane tomes and working magic and wizardry, or whatever it was that mages do.

However, Leon's hunch rang especially true in martin's case. He was there because of his missing eye and other passing physical similarities. Durgin had considered having an unfortunate accident befall some other henchman in a back alley, but there was no time. The auction was rapidly approaching.

No, Durgin used one-eyed Martin out of necessity. Though Martin was an excellent smuggler and lockpick, this wasn't a job for him. Usin him was like pounding a square peg into a round hole. Durgin didn't like it, but it wasn't the first time he had employed a hammer to make-fit.

---

"And, you'll make yourself a rich man, while you're at it," Durgin replies to Martin jovially with a pat on the shoulder. "Like three foxes in a hen house!"

Still laughing, Durgin turns to Blade. "Make sure my friends arrive safely at the Raven's Claw. Wouldn't want anything happening to them along the way." Wordlessly, Blade turns and starts for the stairs down. His scowl becomes a toothy sneer as he passes a tall, well built, gray-haired man going the opposite direction. The man returns the look with an ice-cold, steely glare. Both keep walking.

The gray-haired man approaches Durgin, still frowning.

"Sergeant Murdoch, thank you for stopping by on such short notice. Walk with me."

---

Through the twisting back-allies and winding streets of Rimuldar's outer slums the three walk, eyes on the lookout more for rival gang members than for soldiers. Rain turned dirt to mud hours ago and the heavy smell of sewage and garbage hangs in the air.

It's warm for an autumn night, but there is still a chill in the air. Mist gathers low to the ground, shrouding everything in its tendrils. It's a couple hours past midnight, yet a few windows have the flickering glow of a lit candle within them.

One of those windows is the back room of the Raven's Claw Pawn and Consignment, a run-down shack where members of the streetgang hang out. Zuul, the old gargoyle who runs the shop, is a spindly, gaunt buzzard except for his big, round paunch. The gargoyle acts as a fence to gang members, paying them bottom dollar prices for their ill-gotten loot and selling it on his shelves for a profit.

In the night, the gargoyle works on clocks and tinkers with jewelry in his tiny, cramped back-office shop. Burglars looking to fence their loot usually slip in through the window, but tonight, the door was cracked open and a lantern lit inside.

Blade, who had shadowed the three at a distance, disappears into the the night.


"Fools. That's what you are," the gargoyle hisses in his gravelly, raspy voice. A single candle casts dancing shadows across the deep furrows of his haggard, inhuman face, a face which could perhaps best be described as a cross between a bulldog and a tortoise. "You think you can just walk right in there waving a little piece of paper dressed up like a bunch of buffoons? They'll smell a rat before you even get to the gates.

"Then you'll be dead rats. All three of ya."

None of the three had spoken hardly a word to the gargoyle. He had just started right off on a tirade as soon as they walked through the door of his shop.

Leon generally had a low regard for the gargoyle, he was a bastard too. He would sit in his shop, testy and prickly and mock everybody that dared to step inside. Being an associated of Durgin meant that his situation was relatively protected. That, coupled with the monopoly he had on fencing items meant that all power was with him.

Though Leon would never show his disdain.

"Hey it's the Gargoyle... " he said with a grin and a touch of nonchalance. "You should keep your door locked, I hear there are bad men walking the street. Murderers and brigands..." he said while taking a backward glance at the street, curious whether the murderer was still outside and why there was a need for him to 'escort' the group.

The man gave a grin, looked at the other guys in the group and gave the goblin a pat on the shoulder before moving deeper into the shop and browsing around anything that was on offer.

"Well, if we're just rats that canna' speak good. What do you suggest for getting a warm welcome? I should point out that me and my friends here will be better dressed..." he continued without moving his gaze from the latest item he was inspecting. The touch of sardonny to his voice was quite apparent but still light hearted.


22:53, Today: Leon Kallis rolled 6 using 3d6. Some influence roll (Diplomacy) (15).
// aiming to increase the Gargoyle's disposition towards him and the group through humour and the dry-wit that parallel's the gargoyle.

// Find any advice about the job.

"You'll be wearing the grave clothes of six men who fell prey to highwaymen on an imperial roadway. You'll be wearing the livery of Lord-Barrister Dreadstone, the imperial magistrate who won't be too happy when he learns his men have killed.

"I wonder just what he'll do to you three," the gargoyle says folding his arms over his chest and letting them rest on his plump stomach. "Worse than that poor young fellow Frank the Fiddler, I'll lay heavy wager."

Frank was a Raven's Claw initiate who had been executed for evoking the dark arts not long past. There were other charges as well, charges such as robbery, arson and burglary, but they tacked black magic on there so they could torture, interrogate, and then hang him dead. Though none of the three ever met him, they had all heard, everyone had. The black cloaks flooded the quarter for days. Dozens were arrested in raids all over the Lower Ward. Those who didn't follow Frank to the gallows still rot in dank prison cells. If they ever see the light again, it will be as old men of crippled bodies and broken souls.

Perhaps worse, during that time, the Reaper hacked up a pile of bodies taller than a horse's bridle prompting some to believe he is an agent of the empire. All the mutilated victims were vermin and street urchins, some of whom were Raven's Claw.

Zuul had stopped accepting late night visitors and claimed to have went clean, as clean as his grimy, gnarled talons could get. "Officially," the gang had disbanded, but nothing much had changed, really. Cutpurses will still cutting purse strings. Pickpockets were still picking pockets. Thieves were still being thieves.

"You want my advice? Walk away from this one, young Kallis."

That's when it strikes the three like a blacksmith's hammer: Zuul, the callous, stone-hearted old buzzard, is afraid. None of them had ever talked to him for so long about anything, other than perhaps while haggling over prices. He had never given out advice or suggested caution. Yet here he was telling them not to take a job.

Meeshak tried not to think of denying Durgin this job. The man could make people "disappear" and turn up in horrible places. Or so Meeshak thought. His hands continued their little dance and quick movements as he pondered the contents of the estate as the group made their way to see Zuul the gargoyle. The dark night felt better to the goblin as fewer people to avoid on the streets.

As the trio entered and Zuul berated them for accepting this death sentence, Meeshak could only blink wildly at the gargoyle. At the mention of The Fiddler, Meeshak felt a lump rise in his throat. He had spent many days hiding, fearful of everything that moved.

Leon seemed to want to talk to Zuul, Meeshak shrugged and continued listening, his head half tilted.

Even as the goblin's eyes darted about the room, trying to memorize everything nearby, he couldn't escape the words that Zuul uttered. His eyes immediately locked on the gargoyle and the lump rose in his throat again.

On the way back Martin was mostly thinking about how he might get Lisha out from under Durgin. If he could actually convince her that she wanted out.

He didn't think too much about where he was going. He had walked these streets often enough that the trip could be performed without thought. Keeping an eye out for rival gangs were also second nature, requiring little thought process. So Martin quietly brooded on his problem until he reached Raven's Claw Pawn and Consignment, and Blade made his disappearing act.

He stood quietly in the background as Zuul and Leon talked. But then the gargoyle ended with "You want my advice? Walk away from this one, young Kallis."

Martin knew Zuul was afraid, and it only cemented the fears he had himself. He felt a lump in his throat and his mouth going dry. Zuul was telling him nothing he didn't know already.

He tried to swallow, and replied "Well. Some of us don't have that option." There might have been a slight quiver to his voice, but he tried to ignore it as he pulled out the papers from under his shirt and dropped them on the table before Zuul.

"So why did Durgin tell me to deliver these to you?" he continued, more or less changing the subject.

IT was slightly chilling to hear the gargoyle speak such words. He wasn't well known for his concern, fear or general good will towards other people. Leon knew however, even if there was no tangible and strong reason, that turning down someone like Durgin who had just made a spectacle of parading his assassin like a sailor's tramp probably had done so with purpose.

Looking around the room and noting that nobody else was suggesting advice or even contributing to the somewhat subdued tone of the situation Leon conitnued, "Well, this thing must be of great sentimental value to Durgin" he said with a somewhat ironic sneer.

<red>"I appreciate the advice..." he said revealing a moment of sincerity with the gargoyle but offering a look that held in it a shrug of resignation. They were in this, people had already died for the tooth and none of the three were important enough to not be expendable. But, with a look to the bright side, maybe Leon would get an opportunity to put a bolt or a knife into that assassin; he went to spit but then realised he was inside and stifled himself.


<red>"Well, just think guys... We'll get a pick of silver, gold and jewels. If we're not a good deal richer by the end of this then... well, I suppose we'd have been too preoccupied with all of those noble whores that like to turn up with half of their bosom on display!"<red> he offered with a more upbeat attitude.



Will we get chance before this thing (i suppose we will) to do some of our 'own stuff'. I want to ask my contacts some things.

A diplomacy roll for everyone goes here:
19:07, Today: Leon Kallis rolled 7 using 3d6. Some influence roll (Diplomacy) (15).
// if it's required

Zuul takes the envelope and leaf of folded paper from Martin, maintaining his fix on Kallis. Eyebrows arched, the gargoyle then looks down through his thin eye glasses—which hang precariously low on his long, hooked nose—and glances over the paper. "Safekeeping," he replies to Martin.

"So, what is your plan?" he then asks with a tone that suggests he's doubtful such a thing exists.

---

OOC: Leon, you'll have ample opportunity after this meeting for player-driven initiatives.

Martin too looked to Leon. He seemed like the kind of person who might know how to handle a con job like this. At the very least, he would know more than Martin.

"Well we need to figure out what's going on with this place. I don't know the area at all, I've never seen the people involved in this. The first part will be to get information about the area... and have a bit of time dedicated to introspection - figuring out who we are exactly.

We have a few days before the auction so this is the way we should go about it..." he said with an unusual amount of frankness for his situation. It seemed though that they were all, perhaps minus the gargoyle, in the same boat and each person had their own skills to contribute.

"I'm not sure how we'd identify the tooth by site. The description was relatively vague considering I haven't seen any of your pricks," he continued with a chuckle.

"What do you think?

Zuul, walking away from this job might be a step in the right direction but i'm not sure our good friend Durgin will be particularly happy. I share your concerns though..." he told a half-truth. While it was concerning that there was something amiss with the whole setup; death, murder, threats, blackmail and coercion - the job itself seemed like it might be okay; Leon would probably end up in bed with the hostess anyway.

Leon chuckled to himself, thinking about the masquerade ball.

The little goblin looked at the others, "We must learn what we can about this place. Who the guards are, what their routines are, what they'll be expecting."

Meeshak stopped and looked at the gargoyle, "Care to invest in our survival?"

"Oh, I think you've got it all figured out. They might as well tie a little red bow on the the Tooth and gift it to you right now. Save us all the trouble of this nonsense," Zuul replies, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm.

In the past, Zuul had always shown Leon favor. For whatever reason, Leon just had a way about him that brought out the best in people—even gnarled old gargoyles. However, Zuul was in one of his moods; even if he thought Leon's head was in the right place, he was going to be quick to lop it off.

The stone vulture rocks back in his creaking chair and places one taloned finger on his temple, exhaling loudly.

"Lord Dreadstone, also known as the dread wolf of Temecula, or the bloody wolf of Temecula, has two sigils. One is of a white wolf baying atop a mountain, a red full moon behind it on a field of black. The other is of a wolf's head."

Zuul flips over the envelope on the table Martin handed him earlier. It is sealed in red wax with the house's signet, an ornate, stylized wolf's head—a visage of terrible menace:



"He's the bloody lord for a good reason. Ever since he took seat atop the empire's highest court of law, the honorable judge has spilled more noble blood on the guillotine than I knew we even had. It flowed in rivers, mixing in a cesspool with even more of a common vintage. 'The Cleansing,' some called it. And because of it, Dreadstone isn't without enemies*, as one can imagine. We'll not tarry there any longer . . ."

As if to add stern punctuation, Zuul pauses to beam through the dim, flickering candlelight at each of the three standing in his workshop individually. His thoughts blare louder than words: "We shall not discuss the subject of Dreadstone's enemies further."

"Suffice it to say, your every movement after putting on Dreadstone's livery had better be in character, and you don't want to be seen naywhere near the Upper Ward before hand traipsing around like lost kittens."



"What can Durgin do that Dreadstone won't?"

He then turns his gaze to Martin. "Of course, Durgin will stop before moving on to others . . ."



"I'm already invested wingtips to toenails," Zuul snaps back, not taking whatever bait Meeshak was dangling before his beaked nose. "When you three get caught by the throats and put you to the question, I wonder just how long you'll last before you give up poor old Zuul. Just how many fingers and toes you'll be willing to loose. How many broken bones and hot pokers it'll take before, 'It's not me you want, Mr. Torturer! It's that damned old stone buzzard at the Raven's Claw who set me up!' You'll shout my name from high atop the breaking wheel, I'll hazard.

"No, it doesn't matter now," Zuul continues with a dismissive wave of his hand, resigned to his fate. "No one who knows about this little outing will live to tell about it unless that stone rests in Durgin's hand, and even then, you can forget about remaining here in the paradise of Rimuldar. It's too late to back out, so you all better scribe your last testaments. A short list, I'm sure."

"Speaking of lists, I have a charter of invitations, or at least a partial one. I expect you'll want to familiarize yourself with it, Leon, as you're the only one who can pass as anything other than the shit beneath a nobleman's boot heel. It's just names. You'll want to learn what you can about each. Oh, there are a couple hundred on there, but I circled about a dozen or so of interest, particularly those who are staying at the manor." As he speaks, he produces a couple leafs of paper from the drawer in his desk and slides them across the table. "I don't suppose I have to tell you not to get caught with that.

"You'll note the first name on the list." Zuul doesn't speak it. He just taps one black claw on the paper.

The unspoken name drops like a hammer. His Imperial Highness The Prince Gregor Leonidas Draven was attending the auction in person. Durgin wasn't just sending you to a fancy high-class cocktail where the affluent bid on faded paintings, moth-eaten tapestries and moldy ottomans; this was a royal affair.

There won't just be guards. There will be an army. The royal escort alone will likely be a hundred strong. The prime centurion of Rimuldar might act as the doorman.

There's not a thief in the world who could sneak onto the premises, let alone jimmy a window.

Again, Zuul rocks back in his chair, this time smirking. He lets the situation settle down upon the three like a heavy, wet blanket in an icy rainstorm. "So, I don't think you'll need to case the manor, Mr. Goblin. I think your imagination will suffice. A sea of black armor and a forest of spears. No one in or out without one of these," he says, glancing down at the invitation sitting on the table like a poisonous snake coiled and ready to strike at the first man to pick it up.

Zuul breaks the brief, morose silence. "Meeshak, show these two to the cellar. Your gear and livery is there. Try it on. Martin, an eyepatch marks yours. Careful with that sword. We've established that it's magic, just like damn near everything else you'll all be wearing."

Neither Martin nor Leon knew there was a cellar, but they follow the goblin, who, with a gesture magically reveals a trapdoor on the floor of another small, cramped room full of junk.

---

* See Chapter IV, msg #121 for a hint of the brewing trouble five years in the future, though it is Lord Slayer who wears the mantle of high judge at that time. Wonder why? Further note, this is "The Cleansing" proper, not to be confused with the following "War of the Cleansing," which hasn't yet happened in this timeline.

The little goblin had minor trepidation about this job. The location, the people, several unknown factors were going to make this difficult if not impossible.

But as Zuul spoke, Meeshak's stomach began twisting and convulsing.

"Dreadstone? We are going there?" He could no longer feel his hands or his feet and began to feel the room spin.

He leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the table to view the list and the name Zuul had pointed out.

Meeshak looked up at the gargoyle, his vision beginning to tunnel. "The prince?"

Meeshak pushed himself away from the table and found a spot on the wall that could support him, otherwise he would surely collapse. His mind was full of visions of an entire army dressed in black, hoisting spears to impale the poor wretched goblin over and over until...

Meeshak shuddered and shivered and was lost in the misery of this image as Zuul called out his name.

"The cellar? Oh. Yes. The cellar."

Even more packed with clutter and piled junk than Zuul's shop, the three pick a way through the dark, mildewed hoarder's paradise, careful not to topple the treacherous mountains of rummage. Spiders scuttle and rats scurry from the dim light as Meeshak leads the way, candle in hand, stepping across the pools of fetid water. It's a small cellar, but it takes exponentially longer than it should to find passage from one side to the other, where Meeshak comes to a rotted wooden door. Of course, it's swollen in the threshold and the hinges are rusted, but the small goblin manages to force it open. It groans and creeks loudly.

Inside, it's pitch black and surprisingly dry. It's also mostly empty, save for a large and sturdy wooden table and some chests, shelves and cabinets. As Zuul said, there are six sets of clothes on the table and bundled with each is the former owners' equipment.

Seated at the table in utter darkness is a tall figure in dark robes.

Meeshak wasn't expecting the light-less room to be occupied, nor was anyone else. The figure, whose face is hidden beneath the shadows of his deep hood—and what's left is further concealed behind a scarf—stands slowly and places his gaunt, pallid hands on the table. There's a brief standoff lasting just more than a second, but it drags by like a minute.

"Greetings," the figure says in a voice that's much less haunting than one might expect were this some unholy shade. "Our names aren't circumstantially essential, so let us dependence with the social pleasantry of introductions. As are you, I am here at your employer's humble adjure."

He waits for everyone to enter, then motions for the door to be closed.

"I trust you know why you are here. Before you are the articles previously specified. Do with them as you please. However, be forewarned: the enchantments placed on each are not fully discovered nor understood."

A broadsword sword leans against the table, an eye patch dangling from one quillon, a small ruby glimmering in its center like a red eye. Beside a black wizard's robe is a matching quarter staff. Meeshak's mystic third eye can see that it radiates magic like an beacon fire and though most everything on the table is enchanted, the staff's intense, resplendent luminescence overpowers all other auras. More than half of the outfits include a coat of mail and all of them have footwear, from polished riding boots to comfortable, laced shoes. Pouches and packs, wide leather belts and thick leather gloves, even expensive jewelery like necklaces and rings are included with each ensemble. This is the livery of a powerful and wealthy lord.

"Well, be quick about it!" the figure snaps when no one takes immediate initiative following the ominous warning that a magical booby trap might explode upon first touch. The three take motion, gathering what is theirs.

"I have tirelessly analyzed what enchantments I could in the brief span of time allotted. The eye patch is of utility detecting heat signatures. None of the blades have a determinable curse, as is often the fear. The staff . . . I have recommended strongly against its implement. However, it was insisted that the livery be exhibited completely. Regardless, I advise the use of it's powerstone should be avoided at all costs."

"Well, I can see why Zuul is in such high spirits..." he said as twisting his way around the ambiance of the place. There were too many things about and too little organisation, he suspected that the gargoyle may have been a fan of the idealogy of 'creative chaos', it came and went as a passing thought.

The figure came as a shock as they entered the room and Leon's hand instantly went to the knife he wore on his hip. He considered a brief moment, after the man had commenced his mysterious act, what he'd even do if he pulled the knife or why he even went for it. It was a reaction and left Leon slightly confused.

"Okay... easy" he said after the man snapped, and before taking a step forward to inspect the clothing, he assumed belonged to him, he gave the other members of their threesome a quizzical look; who is he? his expression asked.

Martin reacts to the presence of hooded man with a brief moment of panic. Taking a step back, he prepares to flee the room. The dread that the mission has started to evoke in him, makes him for a moment convinced that the entire plot has been uncovered, and that this is a trap. However, as no guards spring from the shadows, the moment of panic passes.

The words that follow from the man further lessens his unease, until it merely simmers under the surface. Shady dealings he knows. It is almost comfortable.

However, when the man warns about the magical nature of the items, Martin feels another sense of unease. He has no problem with magic. He has used a few potions in his time, and stolen a few magical items. However, he has also run into wards and traps which protect the wealth of some of the more affluent citizens of Rimuldar. Known magic is helpful and valuable. Unknown magic might hurt you or kill you in any number of ways.

The man's snapped command doesn't do much to bring Martin into motion. But a few moments later he manages to convince himself that Durgin would probably have done his best to ensure that there was nothing that would kill him on the spot. Moving forward he picks at the armor and clothing. The silk and craftmanship makes him feel dirty and crude, afraid that he might leave stains or accidentally mar the beautiful articles. It is different from the times that he has played dress-up in his smuggling career. Nothing that he could have brought into or out of the city would have been worth the expense of these garments.

Not long after, the door pushes open and in walks Zuul. A young man stands behind him, partially concealed in the shadows of the dank basement.

"Another lamb to the slaughter," Zull says, patting his forehead with a handkerchief. The old, gristly gargoyle wasn't much for physical activity beyond sitting on a stool. Climbing around through the mess and pushing the door open was about as much as he would get in a week. "This here's Wiley Fletcher. He'll be joining your little escapade. Wiley, that's Leon, Martin and Meeshak, three of most worthless street urchins you'll ever meet, so you should fit right in.

"Take your pick." Zuul motions to the table, then stuffs his handkerchief back in his threadbare waistcoat's pocket.


Together, the four exit Zuul's shop and step into the dark allies of the Lower Ward. The last hour had been spent in low voice, discussing several details of the mission. There was yet another maggot in the flour. Before it was beset, Dreadstone's carriage was scheduled to arrive in Rimuldar much too early for its first destination to have been the Devonshie mansion. Where it was going first, Zuul doesn't know. Dreadstone's letter in reply to the invitation, the letter accompanying the invitation that gave physical description of who would be attending in advance to make preparations for his arrival, said the coach would reach the estate two days from now. Had the not been hijacked, it would have arrived in Rimuldar yesterday. What was its business in town between then and the auction?

Thunder rumbles in the distance, the churning of a torrent cauldron of storms quickly approaching. Most unfortunate; it would probably make the later trek to the coach's hidden location in the vast forest bordering Rimuldar an even muddier voyage than the downpour from the last front had managed. An unnamed party was currently camping in secret tending to Dreadstone's horses and carriage. They were to find the location tomorrow* and take over the job. Zuul gave as precise of directions as possible to find a spot hidden on the edge of a forest. It would take six hours walking, at least to reach the camp. They were then to drive straightaway to the Devonshire mansion.

It was nearing the fourth hour of a new day by the clock's reckoning. Still a few hours of darkness before dawn, not much time was left for their own devices, let alone for sleep. What sands remained at the top of the hourglass were trickling quickly to the bottom.

Before the foursome could take separate paths, they hear the familiar sound of violent confrontation nearby: harsh words, growled rather than spoken, and the posturing of men ready to fight.

Then, one voice rings through the night air, clear as the peal of the clock tower's bell. It was Lisha. "No! Leave us be!"

There was a twist to the dark, winding ally between the four and the confrontation, so nothing could be seen but lantern light.

---

* OOC: "Tomorrow" is damn confusing since it's 4 a.m. If we look at our real calenders, it's the 22nd of July. Say it's Tuesday at 4 a.m. the 22nd now in game time (though it isn't). You need to find the coach on the 23rd and be at Devonshire's on the 24th. Clear?

Martin didn't know Filch, but he knew of him, given the splash he had made in the Raven's Claw since his appearance. He reminded Martin of Rammus, for both good and ill. Still, people like Leon and Filch were probably better suited for this mission than himself.


Walking through the alleys of the slums, Martin was about to suggest a place that the group could meet up in a few hours after a bit of sleep. The confrontation nearby didn't really register much. This was the slums. A mugging or fight in progress simply meant that he wouldn't want to walk down that alley. You might empathize with the victim, but you could only live in the slums for so long, before it became part of the background noise.

But then Lisha's voice breaks the night.

Martin sighs a sigh that combines in one irritation and weariness. Another thing to add to his plate. Setting his face in a hard mask, he starts walking quickly towards the site of the confrontation, his long legs carrying him forward with surprising speed.

It doesn't enter his mind to ask the others for help. This is his business. There is no reason why the others would want to get involved.

Wiley only nodded briefly to the others, perhaps a slight frown comes to his face when he sees Meeshak. He goes to the table and picks out a uniform and weaponry, drawing the broadsword three fourths out of it's sheath inspecting it, then all the way out to check the tip, then trying on the baldric and hanger, noting that it was comfortable in the length it was set at without adjusting buckles that might show on the leather. A quick holding up of the clothes showed the tailoring would fit with only minor adjustments. He checks the dead mans pockets and pouch. "A little light on the coin, we'll need to appear other than poor to have any hope of pulling this off." he remarks, then he pulls out a sachet of herbs among the effects and smells it. "This man kept this to mask the smells he found unpleasant." He shows polished wear on the cloth of the pants crotch and thighs. "A rider. I don't have much affinity for the horses myself. Hopefully that won't come up."

In the discussion Wiley lets it be known that he has had some experience with nobles and the upper class. "My Father worked in the house of a noble." is all he gives as explanation.

When they are leaving and he hears the cry of a female voice, Wiley's hand almost instinctively goes to the sword hilt wrapped in his bundle of a dead mans equipment and clothing, but then stops and instead pulls out the ballock dagger, revealing it's fine patterned blade, single edged and tapering to a business like point. "We can't complete our mission if we are seriously wounded or dead, although insignificant though visible wounds can be explained away easily enough. Be smart, gentlemen, dispatch quickly and with purpose if it comes to it." Then with the presumption that all will involve themselves and a single minded purpose written on his features he heads toward the voice in distress.

Martin rounds the corner just as he hears, "Stay back, Lisha!" Martin recognizes the gravelly voice as well as its accent. It's Blade. He has the petite redhead by one slender, milk-white wrist. In his other hand is an enormous knife, more of a cleaver really.

"The girl comes with me," the other man seethes. He wields a shortsword that ends in a tip. When Martin's eyes adjust to the dim lantern light, he recognizes the other man as well. It's the white-haired imperial soldier Durgin addressed at the Quiet Lady earlier. Sergeant Murdoch.

The little goblin watched as Wiley fondled and groped the sword in his hand.

"If you needs to use that, you're a dead man anyway. Better to run an' hide. Live another day."

As the human puts the sword on, Meeshak only shrugs and continues to prepare himself.

---

As the girls' voice reaches the group, Meeshak instinctively crouches and looks around the alley.  Years of running and hiding and taken quite a toll on his mind, but the goblin still lived.

As half the group began running off after some problem of someone else's, Meeshak shot a glance to Leon,

"This job hard. Even harder if someone dies."

Following the other two, he sees the one known as Blade holding some little girl and the strange man from before. Not knowing exactly what side to be on, he slows his approach and begins to walk closer to the trio.

Martin is a bit surprised when Wiley follows. Is he the romantic type, springing into action at the call of a damsel in distress, or is he simply ensuring that Martin, being a semi-important piece in the heist plan, doesn't croak to random muggers?

He doesn't have long to speculate, before he turns the corner. Quickly taking in the scene, he quickly realizes that this isn't a mugging. Like Meeshak, he doesn't quite know what to make of the scene. However, rather than remain quiet, he raises his voice.

"So.. what is going on here?"

It might have been simplicity itself to sneak up on Murdoch and stab him in the back while he was distracted. But Martin wasn't sure he wanted to do that. For all he knew, this might be a way out of this damned heist.

Wiley followed Martin to the scene and took it in as Martin challenged the men with his query. Rather than adding his own voice and confusing the issue, Wiley is content to shift his own steel to his off hand as he slows and pucks up a clump of muck from the gutter, making ready to toss it at one of the men, depending on how the circumstances play out.

"Martin!" Lisha sequels, reaching toward him, eyes bright with fear. She's pulled back by the fierce grasp around her wrist.

Blade, his back to the four, turns his head just enough to keep one eye on Murdoch. He smiles wickedly, and returns his full attention to the imperial soldier. "Looks like you're out numbered now, copper," he seethes. "How's it feel for a change, eh?"

In the darkness, the soldier shifts his stance and grip on the pointed shortsword gleaming in the dim lantern light.



Tall and imposing, the soldier stands a head above Blade and is just as heavily muscled. Though not in uniform, he's also armored; beneath his cloak are leather pauldrons and mail glimmers on his chest. His face, up-lit from the small lantern on the ground, is a mask of furious determination. His eyes remain locked on Blade, but his posture says he's preparing for attack from all sides.

None of that matters to Blade. He's a mad dog; a ruthless, cold-blooded, mass murderer. He revels in bloodshed and relishes nothing more than inflicting pain and suffering on others. He returns the soldier's glare with a wild look. "What you gunna do now, pig? Go, 'Wee, wee, wee,' all the way home, eh?" He laughs maniacally.

"I'm going home with Martin," Lisha says, he voice aflutter with fright.

"Oh no, you're not," Blade hisses, pulling her tight, his knife still pointed at the soldier. "You're a com'n back with me to the Quiet Lady!"

Wiley looks at the soldier, trying to appear reasonable. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to move along and let us take care of our own? Plenty of pretty girls out there for man like yourself. We can end the night without bloodshed."

Though he doesn't release his battle-locked stare from Blade's eyes, the soldier replies, "You don't sound like you want to die tonight, boy. I think it's you who should move along."

Wiley shakes his head sadly "I can't do that and leave this defenseless girl with either of you. What I can do is let you two deal with each other then take on the one who seems to get the upper hand. Is this girl worth risking your life for?

Okay, so Wiley was the romantic type. Martin didn't have a problem with that.

Also Wiley might convince them to let Lisha go. Martin found it extremely unlikely that would actually happen, but it was a nice thought.

So, for now Martin remains quiet, and lets Wiley do the talking. With any luck he'd find out what Murdoch was up to. It seemed pretty cut and dried, but then again, he had been pretty sure he knew what was going on before he turned the corner, and had been wrong then.

Leon was already prepared to draw the knife at his back. The situation looked like it was ready to explode any moment. He decided that it was best to let the two mad people pick at each other, and focus their attention elsewhere if anything was about to go down.

Better to put a knife in the flank of somebody not knowing you're there, than to try and fight people directly. Honour was an odd thing, but he wanted what he wanted... and that seemed to be some kind of higher honour than what was expected of most people... In fact, honesty seemed to just be a way to make the game easier for stupid people.

The man said nothing to draw attention to himself.