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| Duplicitous Entanglements; [P - Faustine] | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Sat Oct 14, 2017 4:32 pm (140 Views) | |
| Ioann | Sat Oct 14, 2017 4:32 pm Post #1 |
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It was a cool morning. Autumnal mists swirled around his feet, parting with each step and coalescing behind him, heralding the inevitability of winter’s crisp breath. Before him, the wide avenue of King’s Cross carved its way through the heart of the Morozhen District, flanked on either side by a row of black-trunked gnarled trees whose spindled fingers formed a canopy over the thoroughfare, and punctuated by black-iron streetlambs whose lanterns cast it in unwavering orange light. The leaves above were still lavender but purpling rapidly, and a few were already spotted with gray, ready to descend before the season turned. Ahead on a bench, a lone figure read a folded quadrant of newsprint. The stranger was dressed in a charcoal frock coat impeccably filigreed with silver braiding, with a matching gray- and silver-accented ascot and dark derby. Without making eye contact, he sat next to the stranger and stared ahead, taking in the details of a few passersby across the avenue. A mother walked with her young child. A few servants darted to and fro, already busy with their deliveries, despite the hour. A butcher opened the door to his shop, sweeping out whatever dust had settled overnight. “You have the documents?” It was the stranger who finally broke the silence. Ioann didn’t respond. He drew out a thick parchment envelope, still sealed in red wax, and discretely placed it on the bench between them. It was secreted into the stranger’s frock coat without ceremony. Ioann broke his observations of Balefire’s early risers and looked over. “And the payment?” “Keep your gaze ahead. Your efforts will be rewarded as agreed. Left inner breast pocket, in the envelope.” Ioann pressed his hand to his chest and felt the weight and crinkle of paper that hadn’t been there a heartbeat before. Satisfied, he started to rise. “Wait,” the stranger’s voice, ever hollow, made him pause. “Sit for a moment.” He lowered himself to the bench again, a mixture of fear and curiosity making him impatient. “What now, another job?” The stranger’s amusement seeped into his response, overstating the crack of a half-smile on his lips. “Something like that. We’ve arranged a meeting for you with an information broker. Camille d’Annequen. Her cover is making candles, but there’s no one with a better finger to the pulse of the syndicalists – or some of the watchdogs – then her. We need to know when the next shipment of arms is coming in for the rebels –” “-I’m no informant-” “-and we need to know where the constables are planning to raid next.” “Why don’t you send one of your own?” The stranger gave a short, severe chuckle that might have masqueraded as a cough under different circumstances. “Mr. Gregori, please,” the stranger chided, looking into his eyes for the first time. Ioann couldn’t suppress a shiver. “She already knows all of our agents.” |
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| Faustine Hirsch | Sat Oct 14, 2017 11:12 pm Post #2 |
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Dark eyes had settled upon the narrow passage between buildings that led from an old woman’s dining room window to the clock tower rising high above the rooftops. The seventh hour of the day had barely begun, yet the old woman in question had slept for just six hours. She was a moderately light sleeper, her birds awakening her when needed, rendering a candle clock and a collection of hidden traps unnecessary. The old building in which she sat had stood for more than a century, and the one it had replaced had stood for nearly four, yet the location of the old woman’s home had never changed; neither had its design, a fact she saw to personally. The magic inherent in her home was more than enough protection from any kind of intruder; the soil and rock into which the foundation was set had been sealed with the same kind of magic that sealed Striberg, only this was modified to meld splendidly with the eternal darkness of the City of Lanterns. Every granite brick that formed the foundation was infused with potent, long-lasting defensive magic that rendered it nigh indestructible, and part of the recipe of the mortar had included spider-silk of the strongest variety soaked in a mixture of potions that added local tactile defense of a similar quality. The window through which she gazed now was of a hard, strong amethyst crystal set into enchanted ironwood bricks fused together with that same mortar. Glancing below her window to the dark-gray stone walk lining the street, she watched as a couple of foundry workers talked on their way home from the day’s labours. Her eyes moved back to the alleyway set just across the street, however, and settled upon the street just at the far end of it. She didn’t have long to wait. A rather large cat of a domesticated Balefiren breed slipped stealthily around the corner into the alley. It sniffed about a bit, picked something up in its teeth, and glanced around before darting off to one side near the centre of the alley; it disappeared between a pair of buildings, a small cubby hole in which it could enjoy its meal and gather the package that it was to deliver. Of course, the cat wasn’t just a cat; it was a transfigured witch of little actual power, one whose few spells were useful for espionage and as a messenger and courier. Thankfully, the woman was quite discreet and very skillful at what she did. Faustine turned her head away from the window in the far corner of the room as her manservant walked in. His hands bore a small silver tray with a gleaming silver cover to the small table just in front of her. While she could have eaten at the dining table in the centre of the room, a polished blackwood piece covered with a lovely violet cloth and surrounded by eight beautifully crafted cushioned chairs with fanciful high backs, she didn’t see the need to do so unless she was entertaining guests. That was an extremely rare occurrence, however; she couldn’t immediately recall the last event she had hosted, especially at her home. So she sat at a small, single-serve table just below the rear corner window instead. Her bedchamber door lay off to her right and just behind her, but the rocking chair in which she now sat was more comfortable than her bed for eating. It was hard to sit up in bed without support, and she never seemed to be able to get her pillows just right. Revealed to her a moment later was a scrumptious-looking plate of steamed vegetables consisting of sliced bok choi with shredded leaves, beets in halved slices, chopped carrots, diced red and yellow peppers, small red potatoes spiced and quartered, and her favorite mixture of chanterelles with saffron milk caps and oyster mushrooms sautéed in a savory mixture of ingredients. The mushrooms were always cooked separately in a pan of heated olive oil and butter so as to bring out the best flavours; garlic salt, red Chianti for cooking, teriyaki sauce, and black pepper were used to help brown them and give them a nice glaze before being added to the rest of the meal. All in all, it was vegetarian cuisine at its finest. She smiled slightly as she took in the aroma of the meal. A litre-bottle of honeyed whiskey, a chardonnay glass, and a napkin had been brought on the tray as well. Faustine’s manservant set the cover aside to pour his employer a glass of the whiskey three-quarters-full, just as she liked it, while she took up her knife and fork. ”We are low on matsutakes, m’Lady,” the manservant said quietly. ”I will have to pick some up for you today - with your permission, of course.” Faustine nodded, not saying a word due to currently enjoying her first bite of the breakfast that was indeed quite delicious. ”Do you have any letters or packages to send today?” he continued. ”I shall be leaving for the courier’s office today.” Drowning a bite with a drink of her whiskey, Faustine glanced out the window. The cat had eaten quickly and was slinking along the farthest street now. It was out-of-sight almost immediately, its package carefully clutched between its teeth. Her manservant’s gaze remained carefully neutral, neither looking Faustine directly in the eye or being cast outside to the package he had placed for her in the night; the former was not his place unless personally addressed or unless his full attention was demanded by her, and the latter was no longer his affair. He had done his job, and that was that. Finally, Faustine nodded. “One,” she replied. “It’s on the desk, as usual.” ”Yes, m’Lady.” Faustine always left packages and letters upon a small writing desk downstairs for her manservant to carry to the courier’s office. The courier-in-charge had his own network, of course, and knew not to ask questions about anything that passed through the office. The couriers would bring Faustine requests to meet and other discreet messages, and sometimes packages and payments, and Faustine would funnel her own messages and packages through the courier’s office. Most of her packages were seemingly innocuous, of course - boxes of candles and related supplies and equipment - but there was often something well-hidden in the packages that only someone who knew how to get at it would be able to obtain. The letters she received were always heavily coded, and the packages she received were also usually hidden behind an ordinary façade. Her manservant handled a lot through the courier’s office, although rarely, clients would request a more direct interaction - and that almost always occurred via her manservant. The manservant ensured that everything was in order before setting off, although he did not remove the tray’s cover from the dining room table. Just as he’d started to reach for it, a large crow landed (somewhat) gracefully upon it. The bird clacked its beak the manservant and then cawed loudly when he didn’t immediately leave the room. He bowed his head and left the room at once. The crow then turned to Faustine, whose eyes locked their gaze upon the crow’s, as she took her next bite. A series of clicks and caws, a bit of wing movement this way and that, and a bit of tilting of the crow’s head to one side and then the other relayed a rather lengthy report (well, lengthy for a crow) to Faustine. She listened carefully, taking it all in, as she ate. |
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| Ioann | Sun Oct 15, 2017 3:39 pm Post #3 |
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The stranger’s instructions had been clear. The information broker – Camille d’Annequen – was to meet him at twentieth bell, in the lobby of the Hotel d’Arque off Cripplegate. Twentieth bell had come and gone, and twenty-first followed. There was no sign of the chandler. Ioann cleared his throat and looked down at his pocketwatch for the hundredth time, wondering in equal number if this meeting had been entirely a good idea. “Sir, please, if you’re not going to rent a room, I must ask you to leave. This establishment caters to a certain level of clientele, and--and loiterers are not welcome!” Ioann snapped the cover of his timepiece and replaced it in his breast pocket. He gave the concierge the imitation of a smile and nod, feigning an air of detachment. “Yes, well, I heard you the first seven times, madame, and as I assured you already – seven times if I’m not mistaken – I am not loitering. I have an appointment, but it seems my colleague is running a bit late.” The concierge, dressed in a classic burgundy and muted gray, though generously sprinkled with foppish gold accents, was starting to bluster, and her voice rose above that of pleasant conversation. A few other patrons in the lobby began to glance over at them, hungry for the gossip provided by altercation. “I understand, sir,” her voice sharpened, “but you have been standing in our lobby, obstructing our paying guests, for nearly two hours. If you will not leave on your own accord, I’ll be forced to have security escort you out.” At her word, a demure man materialized at her elbow in a nearly inaudible –PUFF– of air. He was outfitted in similar livery, but his wax-pale skin and piercing blue eyes, perched about a toothy, understated smile, marked him above an idle threat. “You called, Ms. Grafferly?” Ioann was outmatched. It was one thing to stall for time, but when the teeth came out, it was best to go. “Very well, madame, sir,” he inclined his head curtly at each of them in turn, “I’ll be off of your hands presently. But I must express my deepest disappointments at the lack of courtesy extended to me.” “Noted.” The reply was all ice. Ioann strode out of the lobby into the welcome chill of evening. Under his frock coat, which he had fastidiously kept buttoned in preparation for sudden flight, he was sweating, and the fresh air – as much as there was in the crowded city – was refreshing. He started north, toward King’s Cross and his cramped apartment, equally frustrated and relieved that d’Annequen hadn’t shown. Horse-drawn cabs and taxis sauntered down Cripplegate, heedless of the hour. Pedestrian traffic, too, kept a similar trickle no matter the time. As Balefire integrated itself into the political sphere of the continent, evenings like tonight would likely be a thing of the past. The charm of constant darkness was that the city never slept. There was always a corner tavern or small restaurant or gambling den open somewhere in the city, if you knew where to look. So wrapped in his own thoughts, Ioann was nearly clipped by a small cab that had taken the corner too fast. “Watch your place, cabbie!” he shouted, heart racing. |
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| Faustine Hirsch | Sun Oct 15, 2017 5:45 pm Post #4 |
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The meal had finished, and Faustine was just donning her coat. It was a dark-purple piece that reached not quite to her knees, wrought of wool, with a high collar lined with the soft fur of a particularly well-groomed black fox. The animal had supposedly been a pet of one of her neighbors for many years before perishing due to the rigors of old age - a fate Faustine now faced within just a few years’ time. Fortunately, her physical body was not the end for her; it was merely a vessel, something in which to pass through this world physically rather than intangibly. Turning to the rack, she found her manservant waiting with a dark-purple cloak bearing a pattern of black webs on the outside and a black interior. “We shall meet our man soon enough,” she told her manservant. “I have other matters to which I must attend this day.” Faustine cared not for appointments that she didn’t set, but she was always aware of what was going on about her. That was why she had survived in Balefire - and beyond it - for so very long. The Hotel d’Arque was the site of a meeting she was supposed to have attended the night before, at twentieth bell, but she had not received the message until just a short while ago. For that reason, she had “missed” that appointment. Worse than forcing her into a set appointment, however, was misinforming her and thus damaging her reputation. As such, Faustine’s manservant had already sent out someone to track down and punish the individual who had done so. She at least had a description of the man, and her scrying had allowed her to know where he was at the moment - and thus deduce where he would be shortly. It was simply a matter of taking her coach and discreetly retrieving him while conducting other affairs. Once her cloak was about her, she moved into her room to begin selecting the proper hat for her current attire. A dark-purple cavalier cap bearing a fluffy violet feather on one side and a violet hat band buckled with stylized silver seemed the most appropriate for her current garb. The horses were readied within the next few minutes, and Faustine descended the winding staircase carpeted in a deep burgundy shortly thereafter. A black umbrella with a long handle was in her left hand, its silver tip touching the floor; its hilt, forged of silver as well to complement the blackwood handle, bore the shape and detail of a crow’s head with a pair of faceted amethyst crystals for eyes. The carriage was a dark and beautiful masterpiece smoothly painted black. The sealed windows and the single door were lined in dark-purple, and a pair of lanterns burning with purple flames flanked the latter. Once the door was opened, the thickness of the carriage’s body became apparent; it was well-constructed and would not be easily damaged or penetrated. The interior was lined with velvet carpeting and plush suede bench seats of the same dark-purple with which the exterior of the carriage was trimmed, and a lantern like the ones on the outside burned dimly with the same purple flames in each of the four corners of the carriage; a great wave of heat came from each of them, making the carriage almost too warm when it was closed, but it staved off Balefire’s usual chill rather nicely. Black curtains kept the interior of the carriage from being viewed beyond the reinforced, amethyst-hued windows unless they were pulled aside, though it was clear when they were that another pair of lanterns lined the opposite side of the carriage just as they did the door-side. There was ample room in which to rest or even move around inside the carriage, the bottom of which was even thicker than the walls and ceiling. When Faustine sat down, her manservant pulled up a piece of the floor in the centre. He locked the retractable legs of black marble in place and flipped the top to reveal a chess board. Opening it, he set up a game with Faustine playing black, as usual. Marble and black marble had been used to construct the pieces, and the petrified redwood box had been constructed with the highest quality in mind; its black-and-purple-painted squares matched the Balefiren theme of the so-called “Phantom” carriage quite nicely. Once Faustine’s cloak was hung in the closet hidden between the windows on the opposite side of the carriage, her manservant took up the reins and drove the carriage away. Several twists and turns were taken to get to the Morozhen District, and several more were taken before the carriage stopped just outside a butcher’s. Faustine’s manservant checked on her and poured her a honeyed whiskey in a chardonnay glass. He left the door to the carriage open while he went into the butcher shop - a faux pas in public, one for which most would expect the manservant would be dutifully punished in private. But there was a message in that, one directed only at a man that a cab had just very nearly run down: get in. If he wasn’t inside the carriage before Faustine’s manservant had returned, of course, the carriage would be drawn away and his opportunity would be lost. For now, Faustine simply waited. Edited by Faustine Hirsch, Sun Oct 15, 2017 10:48 pm.
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| Ioann | Thu Oct 19, 2017 12:26 am Post #5 |
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The cabbie waved him off and continued headlong down the street, steel-rimmed wheels clacking in swift tempo with its horse’s clomping footsteps. Ioann turned, eyes locking in awkward contact with a woman sitting in a luxurious carriage just down the street. She was clad in an ostentatious purple-and-black cloak and cap, feathered with a plume that would have been at home atop a queen’s favorite duster, or perhaps jauntily angled on the decapitated head of a legendary pirate, overlooking some hidden island cove. He knew her for it. Ioann stared for too-long a moment, hair inexplicably rising on the back of his neck. With a shrug and a few fumbled words directed more to himself than the woman, he approached. “Are you-” he paused, organizing his thoughts, then started over. “You wouldn’t happen to be Mme. d’Annequen? I believe we had a meeting-” a quick flip of the pocketwatch confirmed it “-two hours ago?” Time, like everything else, was a luxury for the wealthy and powerful. “Shall we?” Taking her implicit invitation, Ioann stepped into the carriage. |
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| Faustine Hirsch | Thu Oct 19, 2017 6:05 am Post #6 |
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At first, the woman said nothing. She merely gave the man a brief glance of recognition as she pondered her next move. She had plotted this course specifically, breaking a pattern in order to determine how best to overcome it. She had studied the tactics of various top-tier players for quite a few years, but her interest in challenging herself often led her to combining offensive strategies against which to defend. It kept her mind sharp. Several moments of silence most likely awkward for her guest passed before Faustine’s manservant brought out a small bundle of packages. He put them away in an under-seat compartment, packed them with ice, and then closed the door. As the carriage started to move, Faustine finally made her move as well. The white king was in check but had two possible avenues of escape in addition to a suicidal avenue of attack. She left the game for the time being, instead turning her focus upon the man before her. “Rare is the meeting I attend,” she said to him at length. “Desperation, however, is a powerful motive.” She took a drink of her whiskey as she awaited the man’s response. |
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| Ioann | Sat Oct 21, 2017 1:45 pm Post #7 |
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Ioann’s eyes darted around the confines of the carriage, taking in the carelessly intentional display of wealth, heavy with premeditated disinterest. His eyes narrowed predatorily when he saw the checkered board. Chess was long a hobby, dating back to his time as a Cascadian copyist. There was a time when he’d been quite skilled, though lack of worthy adversaries under Red’s employ had undoubtedly robbed him of edge. He let a hint of a smile dance into the creases around his eyes. Taking a cue from the current layout of the gameboard between them, he began his gambit. “Mme. d’Annequen,” he placed a finger on the remaining white knight, keeping it there a moment longer than necessary to cement the symbolism, then slid it forward to steal the opposing black rook. The parallel here would be unmistakable. “I’ve heard that your contacts in the South have been productive. Timelines are important to me.” He removed the black rook from the field and placed it next to a few pawns. The knight, positioned to protect his king, was a lure. A transparent one, but perhaps too tempting an opportunity to pass up. |
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8:39 AM Jul 11

