In-Character Thread
Waterside Luxury Apartments - Penthouse
The bedroom was in a similar state to the unhinged room outside it, with its own writing desk absolutely coated in gadgets, scorch marks, and unsorted notes. The bed itself, however, was absolutely immaculate, except for the words "DON'T FORGET" scratched into its headboard like the ravings of a lunatic, with an arrow pointing towards the room's closet, which coincidentally had no fewer than 8 padlocks on it.
The notes Leo is searching through were difficult to read, as the paper was irregularly coated in a black substance that looked like tar and had the consistency of candle wax, on top of absolutely refusing to reflect even the smallest iota of light. "...fascinating, seeming to oscillate with purpose I have yet to decipher. I may need to pry open the manhole to get a better look, but I'm not sure M would appreciate me rummaging around under..." This may take days to sort through and actually glean anything from, but if Leo thinks he's up to the task he may feel free to [make a Resolve+Academics check.]
The Night Markets
The Markets were busy this evening. Julian needed to slip by a quartet of what - by the smell - could only be werewolves, arguing with a body that had the pallid appearance of the dead, whether vampiric or otherwise unclear, over the value of a pinky nail-sized vial of black water that looked like a cosmos full of stars (probably sand, but who can tell?), and that was just to reach the second wave of bustling, hawker-laden alleyways. Fortunately, the rest of the path had enough room for personal space, although that consolation was unlikely to last long as he came up to his destination - a rusted steel door with no knob to anybody else, as likely to lead to a meat locker as some very underground club, though nobody would bat an eye at somebody entering even if it weren't common occurence. Part of the benefits of Glamour, similar to the implicit permission to be ostentatious as hell; to a Changeling's keen eye, the door quickly resolved into an elegantly hewn - probably hand-crafted - oak door with thin gold trim in the shape of a violin's F-holes adding flair, along with what's probably some form of Fae enchantment for protection or somesuch. The walls around the door gently faded from rose-tinted cobblestone lit like a fairy tale set at sunset to the brutalist bricks making up the building it's been fused into, and in front of it stood a being like a human-sized flame made of shadows, with motes of brilliant vermillion light acting as its eyes. Jack, if memory serves. The hissing emanating from the shadowflame formed words easily enough - a convenience of Arcadia's own rules - although any warmth was lost in transit. "Evening, Julian." Jack's eyes, without moving, gave off the sensation of sweepig up and down Julian's body with no shortage of suspicion. "See you're still doing alright for yourself. Go on in." To any other creature, it looked like the thin, frail-yet-intimidating teenager knocked, but of course any other creature couldn't see the doorknob the flames wrapped around. Where they should have slipped or parted, they instead turned, and the knob with them, revealing a room with a roaring fireplace and no shortage of velour in the furnishings.
Most humans would find the fact that a man was already sitting in the room expecting them without appointment creepy, even ignoring the hushed whispers from within going deathly silent as all the other inhabitants of the room looked to Julian, but you don't even need to be a Changeling to know Fae work by rules of stories in lieu of mortal timekeeping. As it was, the porcelain mannequin sitting in one of the lush armchairs nodded to Julian, sweeping an arm ending with ink-stained fingertips to a chair by him as he regarded Julian with the eye on his otherwise-immaculate face that hadn't been cracked and split by dark vines bursting from within. Of course, Julian could pick anybody else to approach, but that could be taken as spurning the Court of Eyes; already a dangerous proposition without involving Julian's precarious reputation. And Hadrian, of course, knew this; why else would he be awaiting the good doctor?
Wright and Bright Finance
A rush of dry air went by Damian as he opened the closet, along with a scent that rushed by too fast to properly identify, although when the stale, saturated air from deeper within the closet - contrary to its outward appearance, on the inside it was bare, well-waxed wood, worn from what faintly smelled of bleach - wafted gently out, he got a good whiff; blood. The details were murky, Damian's senses still a little confused from the business card; it would take a few moments to identify the smell - and its source - better, and Damian could hear shifting from downstairs. There was a good chance of Something Dangerous (to his ability to hide, at least) happening downstairs if he stayed any longer; there was information to glean, but was the risk worth it?
Aside from the scent of blood, Damian could see the closet was organised into three sections: on the right, a set of neatly-pressed suits, all of which were identical and some flavour of tan. On the left, a set of drycleaner's bags, eerily reminiscent of (very short) body bags in the almost-lightless surroundings. And at the bottom, right in the middle, a pile of haphazardly-arranged boxes sized for wine bottles, all with different branding, and all closed. If Damian stayed to identify the scent, he would at least have enough time to also rummage around one of these three areas, though there was no guarantee he'd get anything useful of course.
La Comédie
The back room was clearly once a back stage, seeing as it looked like it used to be the prop room. However, while the racks and racks of various costumes (which were discarded for much subtler alternatives under new management) remained, the rows of shelves filled with trinkets and useless knick-knacks were emptied out and replaced with rows of shelves filled with enough firearms, street drugs (in classy packaging) and other various illicit - and supernatural - goods to give even the dirtiest cop palpitations. A ghoul attendant, whose garments lay on the crossroads between Victorian butler and contemporary fashion designer, bowed elegantly. Wilfred, the man who could avoid neither rolling an R nor adopting the most dreadful Southeast European accent imaginable since she had met him. "Ever a pleasure, Lady Vera, though I did think you would come sooner. I have been given a manifest to make available for rent if you came here." He went behind a small counter and pulled out a Post-It, squinting for a moment as he scanned it over once more to be sure. He then loudly grunted as he picked up a steel suitcase - like the ones criminals always use to lug money around in the movies - and gently hefted it onto said counter, opening it to reveal a sealed vial of blood the size of a thumbnail. "This, and a means of defending yourself. Since there was nothing more... specific, I take it you can choose one of anything. Don't be shy, yes?"
If Vera accepts the equipment-in-exchange-for-nonspecific-price deal, she may select any one weapon (unless I've missed some weird stuff) from the rulebook, add that and one Vial of Ambrosia Red to her sheet, and take the Tasked condition, though she doesn't know what for yet.
Devaux's Books
Was that traffic camera always pointed this way? Was the manhole cover always oriented so the graffiti on it looked like an eye from the angle of their approach? Would it change anything if it weren't? A city is normally bustling, no matter the weather, even in the middle of the night, but on the duo's way back to the book store they encountered nobody. Perhaps a coincidence, or even Devaux's own design to avoid attracting too much attention, but without having verified beforehand there will now never be a way to be sure.
Even vulnerable to the Machine as Devaux was, by sheer virtue of not being born from its machinations, he was no pushover. If nothing else, that was unchanged, as the smallest flicker of calculation passed behind his eyes when Tzayidiel followed Amanda inside, followed by a welcoming smile. "Ah, good evening! I do not receive many visitors at this time of night, but feel free to look around as long as you need." He paused, looked between the two a moment, his smile never fading. Then it seemed he had reached a decision. "Erm, Amanda, you know my joints have been acting up today. I can't reach a box on the top shelf, could you help me with that for a moment?" He waved eagerly as he beat a retreat into the store's back room, leaving Amanda to (probably) follow and Tzayidiel to browse the selection of books from "Cerebral Trigger: Unbanishing Your Mind" to "Behind the Azure Curtain: Musings on the Soul".