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| A Pound of Flesh; [P] Irene | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Sat Nov 25, 2017 3:26 am (558 Views) | |
| Ioann | Sat Nov 25, 2017 3:26 am Post #1 |
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Ioann bit the tip of his tongue, eyes scrunched up in concentration. The last whorl on the Old Wolf’s signature, where she dragged the pen directly from the final f to cross the t was a challenge to reproduce, even when he’d been able to use his right hand. The pen had to move quickly enough so the ink didn’t pool, but slowly enough that he could match the precise angle required. With his left hand, the task was irritatingly difficult, as evidenced by the pile of parchment dust collecting over his vest like snow. Each mistake required scraping down the document a bit more, then evening it out to allay suspicion. That meant recopying the last few lines over and over. It was already getting too thin – it wouldn’t last through another round of edits without drawing entirely the wrong sort of attention. But this time. This time would be the last. Steady... Steady... Dammit! He tossed the pen aside and pinched the bridge of his nose with his good hand. Ioann stood slowly, working out the kinks in his back from crunching too-long over his work, and checked his inkwell. Nearly dry. He turned to his chemistrie and measured out a bit of varnish and lamp-black, then reached for an egg. As he lifted it to crack the shell, the little bell on his front door chimed softly. He sighed, placed the egg next to the little pestle, and wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his belt. On the way out of the study, he closed the door. “I’m clos-” he called out as he rounded the corner. “Oh. It’s you.” The Stranger stood just inside the doorway, eerily still, as always. A charcoal fedora accented by a black silk ribbon hid its face in shadow. It always had to be a new hat. “It’s me.” “I’m not finished yet.” Ioann wiped his hands on the towel again, more from discomfort than necessity. “Your hand.” A touch on the brim of the fedora in acknowledgement. “It limits your productivity.” Ioann held up the maimed appendage, wiggling the burnt stumps-of-fingers that remained. “Yes.” The response came out droll. “We can help you with that.” Ioann arched an eyebrow. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Six bells. Have the document prepared. And we’ll take care of your hand. You will find the procedure... painful,” it finished, matter-of-factly. With that, it turned out the door, into the dark. Ioann sighed, absentmindedly patted the towel on his belt, and turned to restart the document in his study. The bell on his door tinkled again. Another slow breath of air escaped his lips. “The document will be ready. I haven’t failed you yet, have I?” But when he turned to address the Stranger at the door, it was someone else entirely. Edited by Ioann, Sat Nov 25, 2017 3:49 am.
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| Irena | Sat Nov 25, 2017 4:47 am Post #2 |
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The girl in the doorway was disguised as well, a thick scarf covering her face from the eyes down. Her wide golden eyes were barely visible, her long brown hair scraped back away from her high forehead into a neat topknot. Unlike the earlier Stranger, the small girl abandoned her trappings immediately, words becoming less muffled as she unwrapped the length of fabric. "You're a hard man to find." Irena said mildly, eyebrow raised. She reached behind her and closed the door the rest of the way, turning the heavy iron lock. "You should use that, if you don't want to be disturbed. They really only keep the honest out, but at least you'll know what you're dealing with if they come in anyway." She tossed her scarf on the table nearby, crossing her arms behind her head as she leaned her back against the door. "I know I didn't look it...back there. But I notice things. I may have been busy dying, but I remembered you said Balefire had changed you. The ink stains meant you were most likely a scribe. Not a very good one, given the state of your clothes. Or maybe.." Pushing herself away from her relaxed position, she took a step forward. "Maybe just not a scribe for the right people." In truth, Irena had been scouring the city for the better part of a week. She wasn't foolish enough to ask for the man by name, lest she bring the wrong kind of attention down. Instead she had made vague hints to the right people, whisperings about needing new papers. Credible papers. The best that her money could buy. Eventually, word came back of a man whose description she recognized. The best, they all promised her. Not that it mattered. She wasn't here to buy, after all. Irena waved a hand towards the door. "Whatever it was that just left, didn't look like anything I'd want to be 'employed' by, but we all do what we have to do. 'Shed the man you were.' someone once told me.." The girl shook her head once, as if to shake the sentiment out of her brain entirely. "I may not like the person I've had to become, but I'll never be someone who lets a debt go unpaid. My life is beholden to no one, at least not for very long. I can't leave here until I've evened the score." She leveled the man with a hard stare. "You've extended my life with your actions. Whatever pathetic scrap of honor I have left demands I do the same." As if she had almost forgotten, the young girl's severe expression softened momentarily. "Now that that's out of the way, it's nice to see you again...Ioann." |
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| Ioann | Sat Nov 25, 2017 1:59 pm Post #3 |
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With visible effort, Ioann closed his mouth. “I... thought you were dead.” It took a moment for the rest of her words to hit his brain. He shook his head slowly, weary, and found that the ink-stained towel at his belt was suddenly interesting. “Sometimes we must do things we do not want to do, in order to survive,” he murmured, finally catching her eye. His admission felt like betrayal, though in truth he barely knew her. “And my employer can be very... charismatic, when it chooses to be.” When had he started referring to it as it? But him or her just didn’t seem appropriate. “There is no room for pride here, not in Balefire. Only survival. You are still young, Irena, and full of the principle of youth. I hope you keep it.” He paused for a moment. A life-debt was no small thing, but greater than sharing a coat and temporary roof had warranted. He understood the feeling. And knew he would want to shed it just as quickly. Ioann chose his next words carefully. “There is a way to repay me, kid-” Too easy and the obligation would remain like an unscratched sore, and so would Irena. She couldn’t be here when the Stranger returned. Too difficult, and... “-I need parchment, and lots of it. Good stuff, not that flea-ridden sheepskin from the tanneries here. High quality Backswamps parchment. The Dominion is close-lipped about its supply, but I know there’s a shipment coming in by scorchliner at first bell. From the Mudflats.” He hesitated, working his tongue over his lips. There was still time to turn the conversation, to simply dismiss her debt and send her off into the night. Away from him. Safe. Safer, at least. “What do you think about making sure a case falls off of the back of that ‘liner? You do that for me, I stay one step ahead of my boss, and that keeps me alive. That’ll make us square.” Edited by Ioann, Sat Nov 25, 2017 6:01 pm.
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| Irena | Sat Nov 25, 2017 5:32 pm Post #4 |
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Irena squinted, turning the scribe's words over in her brain, trying to ascertain if she was being sent on a fool's errand. The man looked tired, though. There was obviously no way he'd be able to get the stuff himself. This required a more practiced hand. Or hands, as it were. "Paper? That's all you need from me?" She repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. After a brief moment, she nodded, shrugging the strap of her leather bag off her shoulder. "Easy enough, I suppose. Never fear, your scary ass looking boss won't have a reason to be displeased with you. At least, not for this." The girl rifled through her possessions for a moment, pocketing a roll of twine, a thin knife, and what looked like a small piece of chalk before tossing the satchel into the corner of the room. It landed with a heavy thump, and Irena waved off Ioann's questioning look. "Gotta travel light. Don't let anything happen to that, it is quite literally everything I own." Grabbing her discarded scarf from the table, she began winding it around her neck once more. "First bell? I'll get moving then. I'll be back when I'm back, depends on how heavily this stuff is guarded. Never been on a 'liner before...what an interesting day this is shaping up to be." Her enthusiasm for the coming task was almost childlike. "Not often I get to steal something for somebody else, either. Closest thing to a job I've ever had." She finished tucking the edges of the fabric into the upturned collar of her lightweight jacket, before stretching it upwards to cover her nose. Turning to leave, she rested a hand on the iron lock before opening the door. "You should lock this again after I leave." The muffled voice informed the Jarkman. "You don't have to worry about keeping me out." She left the implication unspoken. I can get in anyway. With a twist of the handle, she strode through the door and exited into the night, her steps purposeful. |
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| Ioann | Sun Nov 26, 2017 4:13 pm Post #5 |
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Ioann waited for a few minutes to give her a headstart, then grabbed his faded black frock coat from the hook near the doorway. He shrugged it on and stepped outside. With a little smile, he locked the door. Knocking, on the doorframe. At this hour? Knocking again. Repetitive. Incessant. “What?!” More knocking. Relentless. “Hold on, you impatient little kybh! I’m coming, I’m coming!” She opened the door, the perpetual scowl that defined her face deepened by the annoyance of disrupted sleep. On her step towered a man of average height, with the several days’ stubble decorating his chin and lip. One hand was shoved into his frock coat, the other, ink-stained as a scribe's. But she knew better. “What do you want, Gregori?” The man gave her an infuriating bemused grin, then flicked out his pocketwatch. “You know it’s only half-past twenty-third bell, Mother Stragya. I thought you kept the high time?” Yelena Stragya curled her lip and scratched at what remained the bird’s nest of gray hair thinly piled atop the crown of her scalp. “I was up during the low time today,” she frowned indignantly, “But I keep whatever time suits me.” She shuffled forward, beckoning him inside. “You know that blasted Clocktower is an abomination. Why, when I was a younger woman, we did things when we had to. Didn’t let a twirling rod of iron and artifice tell us our business!” As usual, Ioann nodded along sympathetically. “Eat this. You are too skinny,” she crowed as she shoved a plate of musty piroshky at him. As an afterthought, she brushed away some of the dust and hair that had settled atop the pastries. “Thank you, Mother Stragya, I just ate but I’ll take one home with me,” he replied, as was custom in their little dance. She pushed aside a bedraggled blanket and sat on the edge of her rocker, a cat preparing to pounce. “Now, I know you Ioann Gregori. You don’t just wander upstairs for the food and company of an old vedmother. What do you want?” Ioann shuffled with obvious discomfort for a moment. “Spit it out, Gregori!” “There’s a girl-” “Good!” she snapped, cutting him off, “There’s finally a girl!” “No, it’s not like that. She’s my... niece. I need to keep an eye on her tonight. I... I asked her to do a favor for me, but I want to make sure no harm comes to her. I was wondering if...” He trailed off. “...If I would vedsé her,” she finished, a look of distaste deepening the mountain range of wrinkles that creased her face. “I don’t like this, Gregori. I told you last time was the last time.” “This is my doing, Mother Stragya,” Ioann frowned. “I need to make sure I didn’t put her in danger.” In a poor attempt to placate her, he took a bite of stale piroshky, and, with well-masked distaste, swallowed it gamely. She sighed. This was a mistake. “Fine. But this is the last time, Gregori. Now, go get me a bowl of water and a ghostlight. I’m assuming you have...” “I do,” Ioann replied, producing a single strand of brown hair from a pocket. “Good. And, Gregori, don’t breathe so heavy this time. You’re like a roshakha in heat! We don’t want the Shadows to know we’re watching.” Edited by Ioann, Sat Dec 16, 2017 3:41 pm.
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| Irena | Mon Nov 27, 2017 5:34 am Post #6 |
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In some neighborhoods, 1st bell was considered the height of the evening. Market stalls would be lit up, front doors open for neighbors to bustle in and out of each other's flats. Arguments and conversations and whispered declarations would carry on the streets, its people alive despite the late hour and oppressive darkness above. This was not one of those places. Mostly industrial, very few people made their permanent home on this street. And Irena was quick to find out why, after a few well placed rounds of idle conversation. "That damn 'liner, comes in this late every night and blasts that damn horn. At least a mile 'til the station, makes the worst kind o' racket." One older gentleman was happy to talk her ear off, complaining about the incessant noise that drove most people away. The area around the tracks for several blocks was a virtual ghost town this time of night, which meant nobody's prying eyes were around to watch Irena limber up her muscles on the edge of a nearby rooftop, away from the harsh lantern light of the streets below. "This is a bad plan." She stated for her own benefit (not for the first time), swinging her arms forward to roll in their shoulder sockets. A winking light in the distance caught her attention, and when she turned she could see the beam of the scorchliner rapidly approaching, winding its way through the darkness. The girl patted her front pocket once more to be certain her things were still secure, then began to back up the length of the flat rooftop, giving herself about twenty feet until the edge. "This is a bad plan." She repeated. "..but, it's not the worst plan I've ever come up with." Some days, that was the only consolation the girl had. Sighing, she tugged her scarf back over her face and made sure it was tied securely around her neck. With seconds to go, she braced herself like a runner would at a starting line. The long, low scream of the scorch liner began to sound, announcing its impending arrival at the station around a mile ahead. And there's my door. The second the engine crossed her line of sight, Irena shot forward. She only had the rooftop surface to build enough momentum, and she needed to make it count. Reaching the edge, she braced one foot against the low brick lip and propelled herself forward. With a loud clang, she landed squarely in the center of one of the passenger cars, the proceeded to tumble violently along the length of the compartment. Letting loose a string of colorful language, her body bounced along the metal roof for several feet before her fingers' finally found enough purchase to latch on to something. Almost too late, as she was now dangerously close to the gap between cars. Allegedly, the locomotion was slowing its speed to prepare for arrival at the station, but the wind still whipped around the girl, flattening her against the roof. With a grimace, she fought her way to a crouched position and began to creep along as fast as she dared towards the rear of the train. With the deafeningly loud horn to cover the noise of her arrival, Irena made her way to the final compartment. Its metal was less decorative than the passenger compartments, and it was windowless. She had no doubt the door was well locked. Probably a lot of good stuff in there. Be a shame if something were to happen to it. The lanterns that lined the tracks were growing closer together now, their colors more vivid. The 'liner must almost be at its destination. Irena quickly flattened herself on her belly, then fumbled in her pocket for a length of chalk. Grinning slightly, she drew a large circle in the metal she could reach, then pushed slightly inward. For a moment it seemed to buckle, then dissolved entirely, leaving a circular gap where it had once been solid. Gripping the edge of the circle, the girl slid into the opening headfirst, metal closing up again behind her feet just as the scorchliner rolled into the final stretch. Irena tumbled from the ceiling, twisting to land on her feet with a light thump. The cargo hold was illuminated by a single orb by the large door in the back, casting a faint light on...stacks and stacks of identical crates. Not one of them clearly marked. Irena rested her palm against her face, eyes taking in the sight between her spread fingertips. "Of course. Because why would anything be easy." She sighed, before digging into her pockets for her thin blade. It would be tedious work prying up the tops to view the contents of each crate, but the official stamps decorating the outsides might as well have been gibberish to her. "How heavy could paper be..." Irena mused, eventually settling on a medium sized box and getting to work. The lid was almost open when she heard movement outside the doors, causing her to freeze. "-en it. Got to make sure no sticky fingers pilfered anything on the last stopover. When we're done hustling the passengers off, this car needs to continue to the Customs station in-" A muffled voice said, then came the unmistakable sound of metal locks being turned, cutting off their destination. With almost no time, Irena shoved her knife back into her pocket and began to dart up the nearest crate stack. The ceiling wasn't very high, she would have to hope these were not especially tall guards. Wedging herself between two of the crossbeams, she braced her limbs to hold herself suspended. Please don't look up. This would be a bad time for all of us, if you did. Skills Used
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| Ioann | Wed Nov 29, 2017 3:38 am Post #7 |
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Ioann shot up, fingers interlocked over the crown of his scalp, toes tapping with nervous energy. In the eerily calm ghostlit portal of Mother Stragya’s vedsé, he watched the scorchliner car. And the girl. He saw mostly Irena’s scalp, near the temple, where a now-sacrificed hair had sprouted. The askance view made him feel doubly helpless. Through the water, the cargo space was hazy and washed in grays, a warped, shadowy reflection. Sound transmitted with delay, stretched as though dragged through water, but the metallic click of a lock was unmistakable. Ioann’s legs twitched. Impotent words of warning danced on his tongue, but a sharp glance from the vedmother made him swallow them away. As a precaution, he shoved a knuckle into his mouth to still it. But when the two guards finally entered, too close, too close! a tiny, strained grunt escaped his lips. The look on Mother Stragya’s face was pure fury. She plunged her spread fingers into the twisted, still water, and wiped away the vedsé. “Fool boy!” she snarled, face in creases. But there was more fear than anger there. “I told you to be silent!” “There’s a chance they didn’t hear us... I mean, the likelihood of it...” It was a weak rebuttal. Mother Stragya scowled and shoved the bowl away. With a grunt of her own, she rose and stumbled toward the kitchen, murmuring curses and protective wards in equal measure. Ioann followed, rubbing at the back of his neck absently. And in the bowl of water, unnoticed, a shadow with far too many eyes passed just beneath the surface. |
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| Irena | Sat Dec 2, 2017 4:55 pm Post #8 |
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Irena was in luck, for once. The two men who entered the train car were in fact, not blessed with much height. She forced her limbs to steady, already they were shaking slightly with the exertion of holding herself in her current position. Her breathing was on the verge of becoming ragged, and she was grateful she had thought to cover her face before embarking on her current shenanigans. The thick weave of the scarf helped muffle the noise as she remained frozen in place. One of the guards, looking impossibly bored with his task, began to flip through a stack of papers. He wandered the cargo car while his compatriot remained at the door, ostensibly keeping watch. Flicking through the pages, he stopped occasionally at certain stacks to count the boxes, adding little checks here and there to his manifest. Eventually satisfied, he returned to the entrance, stopping right underneath Irena's suspended form. "Everything looks fine. One of the boxes must have gotten a little banged up in transit, we'll need to take that up with the boss. But it's all accounted for, we can press on." He said gruffly, earning a nod from his fellow before the two retreated, locking the door behind them. Irena waited until she heard their footsteps fade, the faint sounds of shouting still audible through the heavy metal walls of the cargo compartment. Finally secure in the fact they wouldn't return, she released her hold on the crossbeams and dropped down to the floor with a grimace. The muscle strain had taken its toll on her, her muscles and joints burned as if the girl had passed through fire. An unexpected jolt rocked her, and she realized with growing horror that the 'liner was once more in motion. I don't know where I'm gonna end up, but it's probably a safe bet that I don't want to still be in here when that happens. Frantic, the girl started to pry up the corner of the next crate in line, tearing the lid off entirely. The time for caution was gone, if she still wanted to make a safe getaway. Her efforts proved fruitless, and as she stood helpless in the middle of the room, an idea came to her. A bad idea. With a slightly shaking hand, she swept her chalk in a high arc over the actual door, pressing firmly in the center to reveal Balefire's cityscape rapidly passing by. It's not a bad idea, if it works. She thought, before grabbing the nearest box and tossing it roughly out the new entrance she'd made. It burst open on impact, the wood splintering outwards to reveal now shattered bottles of what was most likely obscenely expensive ink. Irena watched the dark shape disappear as the scorchliner picked up more speed, before turning back to her new task. So not that one. She grabbed the top crate from the next stack in sequence, subjecting it to the same fate. Eventually her efforts brought forth fruit, right when she was on the verge of giving up. The locomotion was virtually flying by now, Irena barely able to see the contents of each box before it was left behind in the dust. She had given this container a wilder toss, its contents incredibly light compared to the others. The wood shattered as it collided with the train tracks, and Irena was rewarded with several sheets of stark white paper catching in the air. This one!! She realized, grabbing another lightweight box from the same stack. It wasn't as tall as the others, with a narrower shape. With as much gentleness as she could muster, she hesitantly dropped it over the edge of the door, wincing slightly as one corner smashed into the hard metal of the tracks. Wasting no time, she flung an arm around the side of the train, retreating through the door as the metal stitched itself together again behind her. Puzzle this one out at Customs. She clung to the side of the car for a brief moment before using her feet to vault herself away. It would have been better to wait for a bridge crossing, that way she could have hit water, but Irena was fearful of letting her bounty get too far behind her. She wasn't about to show up empty handed after going through all this effort. Landing hard on one shoulder, she tucked her limbs into her body as she rolled, finally coming to a stop flat on her back on the cobble stoned street. The 'liner retreated into the darkness, and eventually the only sound was Irena's ragged breathing. Tearing her scarf from her face, she stared upwards at the blank, dark sky. With a groan, she stretched out each arm and leg in turn, tentatively flexing her muscles. Still have ten fingers...still have ten toes. A rustling sound drew her attention, and she shifted her head to make eye contact with the grotesquely large rat sizing her up from a short distance away. "Don't you [redacted]ing touch me." She rasped, drawing one arm up to feint a strike in the animal's direction, causing it to scatter. "I'm not dead yet." Staggering to her feet, the girl began to stumble along the tracks, retracing her journey until she came across her prize. The box wasn't as mangled as she thought it would be, which brought a smile to Irena's face. My work here is almost done. Humming slightly, she crouched down and began to unravel a length of twine she had brought, wrapping it around the crate several times. Satisfied its contents would remain secure, she hoisted the box over her shoulder and departed, a skip in her step. Unfortunately for the girl, her suddenly cheerful mood clouded her other senses. Senses she had honed living on edge, constantly wary of her surroundings. Things she had come to rely on to warn her of approaching danger. She hadn't even thought to hide her face again. As Irena walked off into the dark, certain her task was coming to an end, she remained blissfully unaware that she was being watched by a Stranger in a wide, flat brimmed hat. |
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| Ioann | Sun Dec 3, 2017 4:14 am Post #9 |
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Ioann retreated down the skeletal cast iron staircase. It rattled beneath each step, threatening to tear itself from its mounting on the apartment building’s dilapidated brick façade. Mother Stragya had wasted little time in shooing him out the door after the vedsé ended, with accusations and admonishments and one more stale piroshky. It was a crisp night, with none of the late-autumn drizzle that usually blighted Balefire at this time in the season, but still he pulled at the collar of his frock coat and huddled up his shoulders for the walk back to his dwelling. The streets were less crowded than usual, the trend toward keeping continental hours a manifestation of the Clocktower. Or so Mother Stragya would have blamed. A muffled BOOM made him drop to his stomach on instinct. He scrambled up and backwards, away from the building. Intermittent flashes of red, green, white light danced in the north-facing windows on the third floor, accompanied by low-pitched rumblings. Mother Stragya’s apartment. She was in trouble. Ioann sprinted back up the staircase, taking steps three or four in a bound. The frame shook beneath him. He reached the outside door and pushed it open in a single motion, then raced down the hall. As he rounded the corner, he saw a few more bursts of light from under the old vedmother’s door. It wobbled on its hinges. He shouldered it open, snapping the feeble chain that pretended to secure it, and stopped in the entryway. Mother Stragya sat atop her favorite chair, facing him. Other than looking a bit gray around the edges, she seemed unharmed. But she was still. Too still. And she was smiling. The expression was foreign on her lips. Ugly in its alienness. “Hello.” The voice was hers, but not. Like someone else speaking through her lips. “Mother... Stragya?” his voice inflected only in the final breath of its last syllable, turning her name into a question. The thing-that-looked-like-Mother Stragya – for at that moment Ioann knew it was not the old vedmother who sat in her skin – stared at him blankly for a moment, then shook her head slowly. In his horror, Ioann saw the utter blackness of her – its – eyes. Like two pools of hungry shadows. In that short heartbeat, images of too many eyes, writhing, slimy tentacles, and slobbery, gnashing jaws filled his mind. “I saw you watching, through the lens.” It seemed a great effort for it to twist Mother Stragya’s mouth into the right words. Her voice sounded strained, like it was lifting a heavy load. Or like it was a large foot being forced into a small boot, in that there was just too much there to mind delicate laryngeal musculature. “I do not like peepers.” Edited by Ioann, Sun Dec 3, 2017 4:16 am.
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| Irena | Mon Dec 4, 2017 4:59 pm Post #10 |
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Irena was within a few blocks of her destination when it happened. The girl was walking at a brisk pace, her tied up crate still balanced on one shoulder, when a pulsing flash of pain in her left arm made her stumble. She had never been struck by lightning before, but she had to imagine it was the most apt comparison there was. Tightening her grip on her stolen property, she whirled around, searching for enemies on all sides. Had she been struck by something? When she turned, would there be a mage within sight, electricity humming through their body? But she saw no one, the street she was crossing was deserted at this late hour. Another wave of pain washed over her, and this time she fell to her knees, box careening off her shoulder and hitting the pavement with a loud crash. She barely noticed, she was too busy holding back a dry heave, her stomach protesting against whatever was assaulting her. She could feel her body going into overdrive, desperately trying to figure out where the attack was coming from. Had she been poisoned? Had she injured herself more than she thought in her jump from the scorchliner? No, she realized with growing horror as she ripped the ever present bandage off her arm. Whatever was causing her harm, it wasn't coming from an outside force. The crescent moon birthmark on her arm was a vivid slash of red, throbbing as if it contained a second heart within. No. No no no no no. This had happened before. One brief, horrible encounter that felt like a thousand lifetimes ago. They're here. Not just their hired goons, but them. Irena staggered to her feet, pawing at the dropped crate of parchment with her good arm. Hastily, she dragged it into a nearby alleyway and wedged it in a narrow gap between two buildings. I hope you are still here when this is over. Then again, I hope I'm still here as well. The girl peeked around the corner into the street, heart racing. They had to have seen her, they wouldn't expend this kind of energy unless they were sure it was her. With a hiss of resignation, she touched the abandoned face covering that hung around her neck. You [redacted]ing moron. She gazed up at the building beside her, mentally calculating how long it would take to climb even as the fingertips of her left hand twitched uselessly. Going up was not an option. Fighting them off was her last resort, she had no doubt they had come more prepared this time. Hiding would be the best bet. She bit back a scream as her arm pulsed once more. Hiding silently would be the real issue. Her vision shrank to a pinpoint as she felt along the wall to guide her way. There was still somewhere she could go..And maybe someone, not exactly a friend, who would help her. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself forward, slinking the last few blocks to Ioann's residence. Please be here. She prayed, cradling her left arm against her body while her free hand drew a shaky portal in the front door. With one push inward, she fell inside, metal and wood closing behind her, leaving only a faint outline of chalk behind. |
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| Ioann | Tue Dec 12, 2017 12:42 am Post #11 |
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Ioann bolted. Down the hallway and around the corner to the outside door, still ajar from his entry. The shadows chased him as he fled, grasping, insubstantial things that tried to find purchase on his coat, skin, eyes. He lunged for the opening but in that moment the darkness solidified and the door slammed shut at his fingertips. He tugged it uselessly, then spun, searching frantically for another exit. The apartment door nearest was locked, its occupants deaf to his mad pounding and shouts. The next, similarly secured. “Peeping isn’t polite.” Mother Stragya stood at the end of the hallway, staring at him with utterly black, inhuman eyes. The old vedmother had once filled a room with her presence. What stood before him now could fill an amphitheater. Around it, the shadows coalesced and hummed contentedly and the hallway sconces flickered, orange glow bleeding gray around the edges. “Do you know what we do to peepers?” Ioann’s shirt was damp with sweat and his ruined hand flexed nervously of its own accord. He turned away, fist striking the nearest door over and over again. A deep, primal fear filled him, one that could not be suppressed or controlled or even ignored. “Open the door! OPEN THE DOOR! HELP ME!!” “We make sure they never peep again.” From the corner of his eye, Ioann saw the thing-that-wasn’t-Mother-Stragya withdraw a bowl from the folds in her gown. The vedsé bowl. The lens. The shadows deepened for a moment, and she was beside him, with her alien grin and black, too-black eyes and behind them surged tentacles and teeth and far too many more unblinking, inky eyes. He gasped and sputtered, crawling backward and away and how had he ended up on the ground? but he couldn’t get far enough and then her hand was on the back of his head and pushing, pushing him face-first into the bowl but he didn’t want to go in – had to resist her! but her grasp was iron and the water was so near and then his face was under. He surged and thrashed but she held him, still pushing, until he felt the water pass his shoulders and on his abdomen and back and then legs and feet and still she pushed and he was cold – so cold! Above him, the water-warped face of Mother Stragya smiled, and as she stirred the water with her splayed fingers, the hallway and the apartment building and the entire city washed away. Edited by Ioann, Wed Dec 13, 2017 8:55 pm.
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| Irena | Sat Dec 16, 2017 5:53 am Post #12 |
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Irena tumbled to the floor with a muted thud, the wooden door warping shut behind her. She rolled over onto her back, arm cradled to her chest. With great difficulty, she rolled her eyes to the door, relief washing over her when she saw Ioann had indeed locked the door after she left. The girl hadn't even thought to try the handle when she arrived. Grimacing, she rested her head back against the splintering floorboards and closed her eyes, pain radiating through her body in waves. The Jarkman hadn't appeared from the back room, maybe he hadn't heard her quiet arrival. Weakly, she slapped one hand against the ground, the sound echoing through the small room. She was afraid to open her mouth, sure that the second her lips parted she would begin screaming and would never, ever stop. No one came. The forger had left for gods know where. Irena was alone, which she should have been used to by now. Still, the true consequences of her loneliness were beginning to weigh heavily on her, especially as she began to hear soft voices on the other side of the wall, coming from the street. No. No no no. A soft tap came on the aging wooden door frame. "Sister." A feminine voice cajoled from the outside, her whispered words slipping through the cracks. "Are you in there, dearest one?" Irena's heart began to pound so violently she was worried for a moment that it was audible to those lurking outside, giving her location away. Don't be stupid. They must have seen you come in here. Still, she clapped her free hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her ragging breathing, another flash of pain causing her body to contort into the fetal position. "Please let us in, Sister. It doesn't have to be like this. It causes me no joy to cause you pain." The voice continued in earnest, evidently trying to jiggle the door handle as well, judging by the noise. From above, Irena heard the muffled sounds of crashing and yelling. Two, maybe three floors up. So there were people here, but it seemed like they had enough on their plates. As silently as she could, Irena attempted to hoist herself off the floor, almost succeeding before pure agony overcame her senses, eliciting the smallest shriek from her lungs as her vision faded in and out. Once more, she slapped a hand over her face, eyes wide and staring at the door, shoulders heaving as she fought to keep another whimper from clawing its way up her throat. A beat passed from the other side of the door, then a soft, satisfied voice rang out. "Found you." |
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| Ioann | Sun Dec 17, 2017 2:23 am Post #13 |
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In the inky nothingness, Ioann fell. Falling was not an entirely apt description, since there was no up or down, no sense of perspective, scale, or relevance. He choked as the void filled his mouth, throat, lungs. But after the initial frantic heaving, he found he simply did not have to breathe. Gods, what was this place? As if on cue, a hard surface slammed into him from below. Stone flooring, walls, a ceiling coalesced from nothing, sprouting drab gray decor. It became a long, narrow chamber, with a single door set high, near the ceiling, and washed in dusky palette of smoke and charcoal and ash. Hoarfrost rimed every surface, and Ioann, for the first time, saw a puff of condensation at his lips. He felt the floor tentatively, but sharply withdrew his hand. The sensation at his fingertips did not match the expected rough threads of carpet, instead, he felt cool, slimy skin that surged and constricted, like the coils of some great marine leviathan. Ioann stood uncertainly, seeking solace upon the wall’s apparent stability, but the tentacles were there as well, surrounding him. The door ahead opened. Blackness so bright it was blinding backlit a figure of impossible proportions. It strode down stairs that materialized and disappeared with every slow, confident step. Layers of rags, tattered cloaks, and grimy coats from every nation and every era were woven into a patchwork garment that camouflaged its true form. They were as colorless as everything else, save for a single, ragged scarf piled with intentional disarray near the top. It was bright yellow. Ioann felt a cold terror that surpassed even his encounter with the thing-that-wasn’t-Mother-Stragya. A fear beyond screaming. He turned to run, but the stone walls had closed in on him, shuttling him forward, toward the dread figure, toward, he was certain, his doom. The patchwork creature finished his descent and walked toward him with an unhurried gait that betrayed inevitability. Ioann judged the distance – was it too high to jump to the door, to escape to wherever it was this thing came from? But then the walls constricted – or the figure grew – filling the space ahead of him. His ragged breathing stopped. There would be no escape. From the shadows pooling behind him, a sharply dressed figure in a fedora appeared. It stepped in front of him, before the yellow-clad monster, and brandished an open palm like it was a blade. “He is ours.” The response was a bass rumbling that Ioann felt more than heard. “He carries my mark.” “He is ours!” Ioann hid his face with childlike terror in his hands, one ruined, one whole. Blinding strobelight danced behind his closed eyelids. Then he felt an inhumanly strong tug at the back of his coat and was torn violently to one side. His senses revolted and he felt himself screaming, but no sound emerged. He tumbled through naked, disorienting space. And then he landed. “I will return at six bells. Do make sure the document is prepared.” It was the Stranger’s voice, as cold and emotionless as ever. “Do not tempt the Sentries again, Mr. Gregori. You see that you are wholly unprepared for the Court.” Ioann watched the Stranger walk away into the cold Balefire darkness. He looked around. Cobbles beneath his feet, houses – stationary, at that – lined the sides of the street. And there, his home. His home, with three would-be thieves picking his front lock. Suddenly indignant, he jumped to his feet and jogged toward them, horror momentarily forgotten. “Hey! Hey, get away from there! What do you think you’re doing?” Edited by Ioann, Sun Dec 17, 2017 2:26 am.
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| Irena | Sun Dec 17, 2017 5:58 pm Post #14 |
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She fell back to the floor with a crash, curling her arms around her legs as she shivered on the wooden slats. This was it, then. The only real question left was if she surrendered herself with dignity, or forced them to break open the door and drag her into the streets like a dog. There was no way she could fight them off in her condition, not while they had that damn bag. The bag. Something the mages in her Family had concocted before they had found her the first time, more than a year ago. Specifically designed to hurt. To maim. She had torn it from her Brother's cold, dead hands and carefully examined the contents once she had fled. A sliver of quartz, a shiny steel nail, some herbs she couldn't identify. At the time it had only caused her fleeting pain, she didn't know whether its added effects now were due to different spell components, or just the inevitable march of time. You were halfway to useless already. She mused, staring at the offending appendage. With a heaving sigh, she stretched out onto her back, mind swimming. I wonder if they will spirit me away, or if they will linger..to kill the one who aided me. It's what they had done last before. Can't leave any loose ends behind, she supposed. No. The voice in her mind rang out, and suddenly her thoughts were clear. That won't happen. Not again. She would not let them take something else away from her, even if that something was a man she barely knew, a stranger who had only shown her some small kindness while they were both in the most hellish of situations. Irena did not have enough friends in this world that she would be so careless with their friendship. Whoever was waiting for her outside, she would not allow them the opportunity to lie in wait for the poor Jarkman to return. Weakly, she fished around in her pockets for her roll of twine, then began unraveling a random length. Cutting it off with her small knife, she doubled the string over and crammed it between her teeth. At least she could bite down on something instead of screaming, hopefully. Rising to her feet, she took the moment to grace the doorway with a rude hand gesture, hoping the intent could be felt even if the action was unseen. [redacted] you, and [redacted] your island. If I ever go back there, it will only be to burn it to the ground. Eyes on the door, she unwound the scarf from her neck and refashioned it into a sling for her injured arm. It was an unwieldy task with only one good hand, at one point she had to utilize her teeth to hold the fabric taut. But eventually her left arm was firmly lashed to her core, leaving her right side free. Irena collected her bag from the corner she'd deposited it in earlier, happy to see Ioann had obeyed her instructions and left it in its place. Wouldn't be the worst thing if I had to leave it behind, I brought the most useful thing with me anyway. At this she patted her pocket, thankful to feel the familiar outline of her chalk. Old friend, don't fail me now. There was no back door in the shop, the sole entry point was the door being guarded by god knows how many hooligans. But that had never stopped Irena before. In the back room, she hauled a chair over to the desk and stacked it on top of the surface, disrupting more than a few papers in the process. Hope none of that was important. Scrambling on top of her makeshift ladder, she drew a large circle in the ceiling, relieved when the wood gave way beneath her touch. It would have been just her luck that the apartment above would be magically warded somehow. She gripped the edge with her good arm, then twisted her body to swing one leg upward, hooking her foot inside the makeshift portal. With two limbs inside, she hauled herself the rest of the way through, depositing herself inside the second floor flat. Thankfully, it appeared unoccupied for the moment, and Irena tried not to wonder if that was related to the unholy racket she had heard earlier. Softly, she tiptoed to one of the front windows and peered outside, unsure of what she would see. |
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| Ioann | Mon Dec 18, 2017 1:08 am Post #15 |
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If the three of them heard his initial challenge, they'd given no indication. "Hey!!" Ioann barked. He let his stiletto slip into his open hand, finding comfort in the knife's grip. In the cobbles beneath his feet. Had his fall into madness, into the Court, even been real? Or fevered nightmares? "Hey! What the [removed] do you think you're doing?!"
It wasn't difficult to determine who exactly the sister was they referenced. "And so your first inclination was to break in and check?" He looked each of them up and down in turn, eyes narrowed. It was obvious they weren't Balefiren. But then gray rags and a yellow scarf, and that sickening feeling of powerlessness soured his thoughts. He pushed them away. Rejected the weakness. "I don't think you know where you are, strangers," he growled as he approached them. The stiletto gleamed lanternlight yellow. “But Balefire is a very bad place to lose your manners.”
Ioann winced, the cry bringing him physical pain. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear, friend." There was no mistaking the danger in his voice. He flicked the stiletto into a forward grip and gestured with each word, blade a sharp substitute for his finger. "Get off my step." Even after the threat, Ioann moved first. He stepped forward blade-first and slashed through the handbag’s silken sides. A few trinkets spilled forth, flashing yellow. He paused for a moment, confused, knife frozen in his hand. A ragged yellow scarf. He bit back another wave of fear. No. Lights. Neighbors. “Did you [removed]ing sheep hear me? I said get off my step. Now.” From above, he heard the second floor window creak open. |
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8:38 AM Jul 11

