YD 171 - Moonsday 12 of Foundation

Kontina bustles with a glut of newcomers, holdovers, and prisoners. Every dock is booked and the streets groan with bodies. Pickpockets slip through the crowds, preachers and similar con-artists draw crowds to their corners, armed guards stand at the doors of every shop.
An exile Troll and a trio of Shades sing pirate shanties for coins. A snake-dancer balances on a wood pole above the press and deftly catches tips from the air. The crowd parts for a Vampire and her entourage.
Bright and beautiful designs are displayed on artificial skin in the windows of a tattoo parlour. A gunsmith cries her wares. Frying murkbeast and spiced pork scent the air, fighting the stinks of sweat and smoke, the perfumes and cloying sweetness from a chandler's stall. The chatter of these people thunders like a tide in the great ocean of life.

Chwegwn and his Lybarim accomplice thread the throngs toward the Arena, carrying a small ransom in recently acquired gemstones. Kira is waiting for the next payment on her guns. One more job, after this, and the debt is paid - or so she said. At least they are very fine guns.

Meanwhile, in a small cell beneath the Arena, Cold Hands waits with a serenity that makes the guards avoid her. Rows of dark alcoves ring the walls, smelling of fear and despair and blood. The cacophony above is muffled but audible. Caged beasts protest their captivity and throw themselves against the walls where they have not yet learned resignation to their terrible fate. Now and then the floor vibrates slightly with the languid motions of the Arena's prized monster, an immense slime affectionately called Big Wet Willy.

Big fights on the docket for today.

Chwegwn emerged from a Tangles exit near the arena's entrance, his newly acquired Lybarim doctor in tow. All six of Chwegwn's bodies had their new guns tucked neatly away in their reinforced jackets, and the body leading the way was also carrying the small ransom of gemstones within their jacket's confines.

"Today is a good day, Doc." Chwegwn said as they led the way through the crowd. "I'd been hesitant to go out and actually do some piracy without a doctor to patch up any injuries, and now the crew not only has its doctor but also a way into Kontina's drug trade through your manufacturing talents. On top of that, after I blew away that Magus Leadbelly sent me to steal from, the bonus she'll give me for killing him will earn me a little gambling money for the arena bookies. With any luck, I'll be walking out a little bit wealthier than when I walked in."

A new current pulled at the souls imprisoned beneath the arena. Cold Hands could sense the change. The guards talked less. They moved more. And when they spoke it was in hurried whispers amongst themselves or loud shouts accompanied by the piercing crack of whips. The cold stone of her cell pleased her. The darkness that surrounded her sharpened her senses. And hunger filled her stomach with gentle expectation.

Panicked prayer. Screams of rage. Futile struggling. Cold Hands listened. She allowed the feelings to flow through her. She did not retreat. She did not withdraw. She chooses acceptance. She welcomes the rolling waves of suffering that come crashing over her.

Her breathe was slow, a rhythmic inhale and then exhale. Sitting with her legs tucked beneath her, Cold Hands contemplated the parable of the Bitter Wind. She thought of the Unsmiling One and her lips moved in silent recollection.

My feet stand upon the frozen waters.

The cold wind cuts across my heart.

And I strike with fists shaped by despair.

The slavers presumed she merely waited. They could not see her preparation. They thought the metal bars would keep her. They hoped the heavy chains would bind her. They had already forgotten what she had told them.

Suffering had already set her free.

Todays wardrobe of choice was derived of paranoia, an aching sensation that had accompanied Adrian since he'd taken to the sea. A shabby hood hung low over his head, obscuring his face from those who didn't deliberately go out of their way to make it out. Even choosing to attempt to peek under the hood would only reveal a set of piercing eyes gazing out atop a face mask obscuring Adrian from the nose down. Lastly a drab brown cloak wrapped around his shoulders and obscured much of his figure as well as his hands. For all intents and purposes Adrian looked raggedy and uninteresting, a bland figure that the eye might pass over with nary a second thought. To the trained eye though, Adrian might very well appear exactly as he was, a man on the run.

Adrian cursed inwardly as he checked over his shoulder for the 3rd time in the last 5 minutes, gritting his teeth in frustration. Paranoia was unbecoming of him and yet he dueled with it anyways. His escape from the mainland had been far too close for his liking and he struggled with the idea that he might be safe out at sea. Regardless he'd found his way to Kontina and found a ship in need of a doctor. With any luck such a place would throw any pursuers off his trail.

Adrian pushed the paranoia to the back of his mind as Chwegwn spoke of betting at the arena. He'd no idea what Kontina's arena might hold but he certainly considered himself a duelist and would enjoy a few bouts at the arena, especially as a means to put his mind elsewhere.

Movement. A shadow down an alley off to Adrian's left. His breath caught in his throat as his hands reflexively sought to arm themselves. His heart quickened rapidly and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the hilt of his rapier tightly. A cat stared back at him from atop a pile of refuse, absently licking it's paws of whatever it's previous meal has been likely. Adrian slowly let himself unwind and tried to play it off as if nothing had happened. He'd have to do something about the overwhelming paranoia gnawing at the back of his skull.

Chwegwn noticed his new doctor tense at the sight of movement in a nearby alleyway. While that was certainly a justified response to such things in a place like Kontina, Chwegwn was fairly certain Adrian would have jumped at that shadow regardless of whether he was here or in the safest place in the world.

"Relax, Doc. No one's gonna try anything here." Chwegwn said. "And even if they did, it wouldn't go very well for them while you're with me." Chwegwn made that claim with with a tone of total confidence. After seeing what even one of his new guns could do. Chwegwn walked with a considerably larger measure of boldness to his step. One gun could shred a target in moments, and all six of them could wash away all but the most resilient foes in a river of leaden death within the time it took to blink. The Goblin was confident that anyone he wanted dead would die. Anyone who wished to harm his new doctor was definitely someone that Chwegwn wanted dead.

The Cells

The prison quietens; the chatter and shouts have stopped, leaving only the cries of unbroken beast and the weeping of captives. Even the guards seem on edge.
You sense someone approaching - their gait is measured, but betrays weight in the soft pad of the stride and vibrations in the floor.
An Orc steps into view, wearing only linen trousers and soft-soled shoes, and you immediately understand why. You can read the scar-writ saga upon his frame like a mother tongue.
Those five lines from the left temple to the right cheek, over the eye; claws. They intersect a neat score to the corner of the lips from... a light blade, a rapier perhaps. Pockmarks from a pellet gun warp his shoulder. A puckered indentation just above his hip recalls the bite of an axe.
His knuckles are worn steel fused over the bone.
He squats until his pale brown eyes are level with yours and says nothing for a time.
"You're no more trapped than I," he says in accented Trollish, and you recall you've heard ths name of this one. The Unfortunate Son.

The Streets

One of Leadbelly's henchmen sees you approach from half a street away and ushers you past the lines of glaring specators who have to wait their turn to enter the worn red edifice of the arena.
You're pointed to the corridor to Kira's private box. She has posted no guards that you can see, but that's unsurprising. Few Scions live long if they can't defend themselves with surpassing style.
As you approach the the door, up steps and steps and more bloody steps, you overhear voices beyond the door marked VIP.
"...an't spare the bodies with those bastards on the wind." Kira says, sounding nothing so much as tired.
A high, strangled voice replies in sing-song. Adrian, so paranoid, immediately looks at the ceilings and sees a fat black spider on the lintel of the door. The speaker must be one of Orohome's Chorus.
"She will come here, Kira, with or without the star, and neither ends well for anyone."
"You send someone then!" Kira barks.
You have a very narrow window to interrupt, or listen; if the spiders have seen you, it is the Vampire's choice not to announce your arrival.

One set of Chwegwn's eyes caught Adrian turning his gaze upward. Another pair followed that gaze up to the spider on the lintel. Orohome knew they were at the door, but made no effort to inform Kira. Perhaps Orohome had deemed the two new arrivals irrelevant, or perhaps the elder Vampire wanted them to eavesdrop as a part of a wider plan or simply as a way of gaining leverage. Either way, Chwegwn decided to take Orohome up on the offer and continued listening. As they did so, Chwegwn paid especially close attention to what Orohome was saying as they tried to deduce why the Vampire was allowing this.

At the urging of his captain Adrian began to relax somewhat, centering himself even more as they arrived at their destination and were ushered from the streets. Adrian let out a sigh of relief, momentarily dropping his guard before his wandering eyes caught sight of the spider over his head. Once more his paranoia set in as Adrian couldn't help but wonder if Orohome knew of Adrian's origins. That information could prove dangerous for Adrian in the wrong hands, or worse should the wrong people figure out his location. Adrian tried to be as nonchalant as possible as he moved to draw his hood lower over his face. Meanwhile he followed his captain's lead and strained to also listen to the voices beyond the doorway.

The Cells

Her breath no more than a whisper, a chill wind that faintly moves her chest, Cold Hands sat quietly at first, as if no words had been spoken. Her lips purse in a faint smile as her eyes open, cold ice orbs of blueish white unflinchingly meeting those of the Unfortunate Son. Welcome words of violence pour from his form, a great sea of suffering that fills Cold Hands with the memories of blessed revelation.

When she spoke her voice was warm, her Trollish light, the gentle rocking of some distant waves, "Despair is the key that opens all doors, even to Heaven. There is no prison that the bitter winds cannot reach. I am free here or elsewhere."

Slowly, she opened open her hands, resting them serenely in her lap, "I am Cold Hands, of the Hearts By Tide Devoured."

Private Box, Hallway

"I can spare no bodies, Kira," the thrall says in the Vampire's voice. "Kurze is hunting, The Son is occupied, Burke is worthless to us, Willa has no ship."
"Where is she, Orohome?"
"South, far south, now, but she is coming."
"If Kurze and the Captain are back by the time she shows her face-"
"They will not be. You know this. I know this. Calculate, Kira."
There is silence.
"Fucking... you're right. We can beat her but the Captain will be pissed about the losses."
"You must choose from among your agents, Kira. Find the star and we can... manage, the Desolator."
"I'll find someone, someone always owes me."

Adrian feels a black pit open in his stomach before the words are spoken.
"Why not the ones outside your door?" the Vampire says.

The Cells

The Orc does not reply. He meets your gaze and says nothing, silently fishing a small wooden box from his pocket.
Casually, deftly, he rolls a cigarette with the contents. His right hand was once broken, trembles so slightly where it never healed right. His metal knuckles glint dully in the hissing light of the sconce in the wall. Tendons shift in his forearms, biceps swell in the curve of his arm. With a ruby-tipped light stick, he ignites, and inhales.
As he speaks, acrid smoke plumes from his nose and wafts to the high window of your cell.
"I was like you, once," he says. "What will you do if your god is ripped from your heart, Cold Hands?"
His voice reminds you of visiting monk who came once to your monastery, mild like summer tundra. You are suddenly aware how your fists ache, but faintly, to kiss his face.

Chwegwn listened with curious interest as the Council Captains spoke of Council Captain business. From what they could hear, Chwegwn began to wonder if Kontina would be a safe place to stay for much longer. If this Desolator was dangerous enough to have Leadbelly Kira and Orohome worried, then she was definitely someone to be concerned about. Especially between all the Council Captains' talk of a potential attack and the losses it would bring. Then there was also talk of a star that the Desolator was looking for, and that it could manage the Desolator if someone reached it first.

"Why not the ones outside your door?" Orohome spoke then.

Sensing that those words were their cue, Chwegwn knocked on the door. With any luck, Kira would think they had just arrived and hadn't been listening at the door.

The Cells

Faint memories stirred deep within Cold Hands as she listened to the orc, the one they called the Unfortunate Son, speaking in his soft voice. But it was the peculiar feeling in her hands that she focused on, that she latched on to with a fanatical devotion. She let left hands form a tight fist, considering the emotion. She seldom felt the urge to inflict violence, not truly. The sensation was unfamiliar, but welcome, oh so welcome. Leagues she had traveled. Years she had suffered. Kindness was a weakness that tormented her with every step that she took along the unspoken path. Charity a fever that threatened, always, to consume her. The frozen monastery of the Last Stand lay far behind her. She carried the cold within her, certain of the tides she traveled. Hardship and suffering awaited.

"One day," Cold Hands began, nodding at her clenched fist, "One day, I will strike the Bitter Wind herself with this fist. My mind, my heart, my body, and my soul. They are no more than tools, weapons I have forged to wield against the gods themselves."

"You may tear any god from my heart, but you would only hasten my work."

Adrian's first thoughts were that of worry, frustration even. It would seem that they'd been offered up for some sort of mission. Judging by what Adrian had overheard he wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing. Whoever this Desolator was certainly had two of the higher powers of Kontina concerned, that alone stroked Adrian's paranoia. Adrian took a moments to roll his shoulders and crack his neck, letting the familiar actions soothe his nerves as he took a deep breath and set about analyzing the situation.

Kira and Orohome were both considerably influential, and that was aside from their actual raw power. This 'Desolator' was an unknown to Adrian but perhaps the situation could still prove to be advantageous. Possibly working under a high profile individual such as these two might warrant his pursuers choosing to stay their hand for a time, perhaps not. Either way Adrian could likely count of Orohome keeping any information regarding him to herself for now as long as his presence proved to their benefit.

With his jaw set and a look of determination Adrian made to follow his captain and made an effort to shake off the paranoia that had been plaguing him thus far.

The Cells

The Unfortunate Son inhales again, nodding as if this was the answer he expected, and exhales as he speaks.
"Good. We are kindred spirits, in a way. You too know that one must seek adversity lest this wretched world swallow them whole," he says.
He stands, rolls his shoulders.
"I have a trial for you, Cold Hands. Be patient, prepare your strength. For what little remains holy to you... this will be a rapture."

Kira's Private Box

There is a moment of silence. You can almost picture the exchange of glances
And then Kira speaks.
"Enter."
So you do.

The room is layered with history; the dull red stone, undressed and functional, from the colosseum's founding. Finery and filigree laid over that, then torn away but for parts too awkward to remove or too ugly to fence, layered again with the trappings of VIP opulence, then finally adorned to Kira's tastes. Gunmetal grays, highlights of gold, and replicas of her favourite guns.
As you wait patiently to be called forward, Kira dismisses the Vampire's agent - a boy, possibly, and perhaps fifteen, dressed in black silk. He needs no badge of office. The Vampire's mark is evident in his coal-black eyes.
He drifts from the room like a ghost, followed by Kira's growl of "and take your fucking spiders with you."
With the merest whisper a single-file parade of spiders flows across the ceiling and out the door.

It's just you and her, now. The finest gunsmith in the known world, they say. Exile of House Yrva. She's stocky, muscled with that particular corded strength of dedicated artisan in heavy metals. Dressed in a fine gray-and-gold vest so her arms are left bare.
Her features are broad and angular, but her eyes dominate your attention if you look at her face. Faintly glowing blue-white, three irises rotating and oscillating with her gaze.
They say she can put a bullet in your heart from two leagues away.
"Good timing, Chegs," she says, her voice slightly rasped from fumes. She has never bothered to learn to pronounce the Goblin's name right. Or perhaps she feels some affection for him betrayed in the diminutive. Who can know the mind of a demigod?
"You've got my cut, for your guns? Wait."
She holds up a hand suddenly, then reaches under the arm of her scuffed and worn (but evidently comfy) chair.
Her eyes scan the ceiling, following something you can't quite make out, and then a gunshot echoes in the small room.

Whatever she hit was vaporized by the bullet as it plouged through the stone.

"Right. Cheeky fucking thing. Loot, then; you have it?"

"Right. Cheeky fucking thing. Loot, then; you have it?"

"Indeed I have." One of Chwegwn's bodies confirmed while another came forward, bearing a sack that was half the body's size and twice its weight. "One small ransom of gemstones. Pried from the death grip of that obese Magus that you suggested would be the perfect target practice for the new guns." Chwegwn placed the sack down before Kira as they spoke, and opened the top to reveal the shimmering stones stored within.

Kira's Private Box

She inspects the bag for a moment, irises spinning.
"Quartun, mixed, heavy on the sunstones," she mutters - perfectly counting and weighing the contents at a glance. Immediately almost bored.
"How'd the guns perform?" She asks, sitting up. Her gaze settles on one of your bodies, the one carrying the gun that jammed. Out of sight under a jacket. Her eyes seem to find it exactly but it could be your imagination.
It was a tiny thing; a casing hit the ejector at an odd angle. A four-second problem. You barely registered it, since the amount of lead these things spit would make it stranger not to get the occasional jam.

"Of the six guns you gave me, five worked perfectly." The five bodies of Chwegwn that Kira wasn't looking at replied in perfect unison. The body she was looking at then patted the spot on its jacket where gun it carried was hidden beneath before speaking alone. "This gun jammed for about four seconds though." Chwegwn informed her. "But by the time I noticed, the Magus and everything behind him was already sporting a staggering amount of holes."

Kira's Private Box

"Hm," she extends a long-fingered hand, delicate yet calloused. "Let me take a look, tune it up a bit."

Chwegwn did as instructed, producing the gun that jammed from the jacket it was hidden within and handing it over to Kira.

Kira's Private Box

The Yrvanim gently takes the weapon in her right hand, and her left unfolds like an explosion in slowed time; unfolding into a set of tools that impossibly precise and elegant. They click almost musically as she begins calibrating the weapon.
"I'll give you this fix for free. Can't go selling faulty guns," she says, "and I'll split you cut from the bag when I'm done."
She continues to work in silence for a moment.
"What's next for Kontina's only Goblin captain, and my uncharacteristically restrained cousin over there? Good card for today, if you want to stay and try to double your earnings. Celebrate a fruitful trade with me."