I don't have anything meaningful to contribute at this point, I wasn't really able to keep up in the moment with this particular conversation. I don't want to basically just be around for when initiative is rolled, but I've been busier with work these last few weeks. I appreciate the ping and the ask-for, but Zav is just quietly stewing over Brut's existence and glad that someone else tried to do the 'right thing' 'for once' (in her presence). She's all for helping someone in need, because golly gosh she's someone in need as well.
just doing quick maths, the odds of 'people whose sisters are in the fey realm' is apparently 2/7. I'm trying to keep abreast of circumstances, I swear.
Dag'Tyr's contribution to this research is simple but very significant; he harkens to an old Kin rhyme he learned as a young child from Nursery Fables, which adds more context to the circumstances of the Heartlands;
Though root faces rot and streams flow not though spring held still and heartland lakes refuse to fill though shadows grow- There lurks the foe!- Pure water and seed is all the good earth needs.
This is, to be explicit, what Dag'Tyr's exceptional investigation roll also contributes to the research 'activity'.
Chosen God Taliesin the Twice-Born Chief of the Bards, Seer of the Round Table, Poet, Writer, and Musician extraordinaire.
The domain of Taliesin is wide and varied, but his reputed power is merely that of a peerless seer, beautiful person, and unchallenged bard. His history is a mystery, so tied up in his role in other mythologies that the true story of Taliesin the Bard and the born-again god-child of Ceridwyn through the power of Awan, mystic cauldron of the chief goddess. Some stories use Merlin and Taliesin interchangeably in their role amongst King Arthur's Court, while others still keep the entities distinct and focus on Taliesin's prophetic powers and reputation as a peerless bard...
Cathal's dreams are omen-like in nature, filled with surreal glimpses of what may-be, and what may have been. "I get ramblin' dreams, y'see. I see things and people I ain't never seen before. I've never liked what I've seen."
(Note, I will not be using this as a means of prophecy or future-sight by means of intention; merely a flavorful means of capturing the character's mental state and perception of things by way of enhanced sleep descriptions. If the GM tosses me some info from time to time to sprinkle into my descriptions that's swell, but not my goal with this.)
Cathal is in service to a Muse; his music, poetry, and written works are guided by divinity into their ultimate forms. As such, his works have subtle enthrallments to them. "I've got a dab hand at the piano and saxophone, and I like to think my singing voice is fair on the ear to boot! When it comes to the written word, I like to keep a journal for hobby, and I can be convinced to produce a limerick or two when the need arises."
(There will be no mind control or sudden musical healing coming from our boy here; He will be able to stir, draw out, bolster, or create emotional states in others with his pieces. Someone in a good mood might be more willing to talk than someone in a bad, but he can't control or affect their actual intelligence in this way. We're just gonna avoid all the 'squicky' aspects of 'charms' and focus on the benign here.)
Cathal is a Medium, of sorts "I trust my gut. When I get a feelin' about a fella, it's usually for good reason."
(Taliesin was said to be able to 'see into the otherworld', and while Cathal can't communicate with or see spirits directly, he can certainly feel their emotions- especially in places of significance. This becomes more potent if he has specific knowledge of the potential spirit, and grows with increased knowledge and research until he has a complete emotional understanding of an event. The goal with this isn't 'the ghost tells me who the murderer is', but rather 'While looking out back behind the club, Cathal gets a gut feeling this is a place of anger and fear'.)
Cathal is 'Twice-Born' "Askin' about me life before I came to the States is a bit of a no-go, pal. Clear as a foggy day and easy to stomach as turpentine. If there was a life for O'Molloy elsewhere, it's gone now."
Cathal was resurrected once by Taliesin; all bets are off if the Twice-Born can do it a third time.
Cathal's young life was highlighted by tragedy and punctuated by War. The Irish revolution coincided with the climax of World War One; his home was ripped apart from within while he was stuck in trenches on the front lines of the world's bloodiest war so far. While he was fighting for the safety of his way of life and a world of peace, insurrectionists in Ireland were redefining what his way of life was even supposed to be.
Whenever mail came, it was bad news. Each letter came in twos; the first from his mother explaining how another brother had died, and the second from the British News detailing another Irish Terrorist Event. His world was torn asunder, and his only solace in the trenches was his journal and his music. He kept a detailed record of his time in the war as an infantryman, and he was a well liked companion to his fellows for his quick eye, quicker mouth, cool temperance, and strong singing voice.
Tragedy and War were turned to song; his sorrow and love were turned to poetry. Poetry written for a girl back home, a girl waiting for him to return from this bloody mess, a girl he missed dearly; Ava Whelan. Oh, she was the girl everyone wanted- He'd had to bloody his brothers' noses regularly over their mutual pining for the redheaded woman- but she was his, and he was hers, and they were going to be something someday.
God is a woman it's plain to see Who else could plan a world as perfect as thee?
Right now God is lost The smoke's too thick to see The world's been tost But it'll see you back to me.
When the smoke clears And the birds can sing God, it's been years But I'll get you that ring.
At least, that was the plan. Contracting Malaria in the Eastern Campaign, Cathal O'Molloy was officially declared dead in Greece where he was shot by Bulgarian soldiers while fever had wracked his wits and compelled him to kneel in prayer and fruitlessly try to form another verse of poetry for Ava. When the rifle shot took him through the clavicle, it was not God who answered him- it was not bells and angels from on high who came to guide his spirit.
Instead when he fell, the world a blur of fever and pain, his hands gripping pen and page as cavalry thundered past him, what he witnessed can only be described as a dream and a portent of what was to come. He saw bright lights. A world aglow. Men were brothers once again, sharing drink and laughter. Solid gold towers rose higher than he'd ever seen; the airplanes of the battlefield crashed upon their shining splendor and the resultant explosions didn't even leave a scorch mark on their radiance. From these high towers of gold, music played; the most beautiful music he'd ever heard, music filled to the brim with soul and joy and passion- sex made into song, and distilled directly to the brain.
The music filled him, lifting his broken and fevered body from the ground and to his feet. As he walked these streets of silver, striding between these towers of gold, speaking to people made of marble and alabaster and obsidian, eating food that was ambrosia and drink that cured his fever, he soon found himself with a companion.
He was the most handsome man Cathal had ever laid eyes on; rather than jealousy, admiration burned within him. Seeing such a resplendent man sharing a table of food with him made him embarrassed; he awkwardly lifted a hand to his shattered collar and found it whole. Where he had expected to find a sucking wound and shattered bone, he instead found the rough tissue of scarring.
"I've allowed you to see this place so you might know what's to come. Look a little deeper, O'Molloy, if you can stomach it. Look deeper, and see the truth. Dining at my table has given you new strength; do with it what you will, but if you appreciate this gift then do for me but one thing..."
The man leaned forward, raising a glass of sparkling wine.
"Don't ever put that pen down."
Cathal toasted the man, then put his mind to the task of comprehending the dream. He was stunned to see that the longer he gazed at the sparkling glass he held, the less the wine bubbled and shone; in fact, the longer he gazed at it, the darker the liquid became until it was the deep red of blood resting in the glass. The thick, clotted, blood of an old wound. It dripped down from the ceiling over his table, and as he looked upwards he was stunned to see that where once there was beautiful fresco and divine paintings, there were now the twisted and horrid visages of tormented souls crawling within the taut-pulled skin of a fleshy ceiling.
He looked back to the handsome man only to find himself alone save a placard scrawled upon in the calligraphy of a man's hand; Taliesin is my name; carry it forth along with this vision.
He ran from the building, departing from his meal of rotted meat and sludge vegetables, and onto those streets of silver- Nay, those streets of bloodslick steel. He slipped on the viscera and cast his gaze upwards as he scrambled to his feet- Golden towers replaced by tall structures of bone and paper, the golden paint chipped off and revealing the mite infested truth beneath. The perfect people he'd passed on the streets were but grotesqueries wearing perfect masks, their clothes threadbare from behind even as they meticulously scrubbed a mark from the patchwork maintenance of the front. He saw one man hiding a knife behind his back as he shook the hand of another, whose own hidden hand was coated in brass dusters. He saw a woman whose stroller held a shotgun instead of a babe; an old man whose toothless smile revealed gums lined with razorwire; as the sun set, it was like a great eye rose over the horizon to watch him struggle amongst this world of suffering...
These images burned themselves into his mind forever. Then, he woke up. The Nightmare was over. He was in a small hostel in Greece, run by an old man who had scoured the battlefields for survivors. When he awoke, Cathal was in a bunk shared by a Bulgarian man whose leg had been amputated. Across from him was a Turk, whose upper face was entirely wrapped in bandages. The world was brighter, though fear laced the air from his suddenly awaking mind. He touched his collar; a mass of scar tissue, but he was alive.
The world had moved on. When he was well enough to depart, he thanked the man and returned home. Ava had moved on, now married to his only surviving brother. He did not reveal himself to them. He chose to do as the world had done; as his love had done; as the Gods themselves had done in all the years he lost in his stupor. He chose to move on.
Cathal O'Molloy traveled to the United States, an immigrant and veteran of war. He experienced a dread and strange fulfillment of purpose as he traveled westwards across the states; while nothing as grand or as truly ostentatious as his long dream appeared, he witnessed the rise and fall of the Gilded Age firsthand. His music and voice were at the forefront of many popular clubs as he worked his way across the country, and he witnessed the amazing splendor and wealth to be had in this time-
But as things began to show their true colors, his vision remained burned in mind. Truth was beneath that lustrous veneer. Truth was to be found sooner rather than later. The pursuit of that truth lead him to New Haven. His first night in New Haven, he stumbled into a club called The Soul of Sandra. What he experienced there that night was otherworldly.
Cathal gazed at the flickering neon sign. Soul of Sandra. The first 'o' flickered and struggled to stay lit, but to Cathal's mind the flickering seemed almost as if a promiscuous wink. A beckoning thing that caught the eye and promised something real. He tugged his collar higher against the rain, and descended the concrete steps down into the smoke of the lounge.
Its interior was lit in the blue glow of distant neon lights, the flickering of candlesticks keeping the atmosphere manageable on individual tabletops. The emberglow of smoke pipes and the dogged and ragged cinder-ends of cigarettes revealed themselves to be the source of the haze. Once he crossed the threshold he turned his collar down and removed his hat on general principles- but the rest of his thoughts were consumed by the song.
Up-on city lights our world A-dancing, a-spinning, a-wonderin' Without endin' losin' track of what's more important than... Feelin' right.
Oh yeah. Feelin' right. Oh yeah. Feelin' right.
I'd do anythin' Anythin' at all If it meant seein' through the lustre of light I'd do anythin' anythin' at all if it meant I could see what's inside.
Oh yeah. Feelin' right. Feelin' right. Oh yeah, Feelin' right while blind of eye
The man singing on the stage was an elderly man, dark of skin, whose head had been shined to a reflective sheen. His vocals were raspy, his lungs more filled with smoke than air- and seemingly had been for his entire life- but he was skilled and his voice carried the sombre tone of the song well. Cathal's eyes moved past him; while he was excellent, he wasn't what had immediately captured Cathal's soul.
His gaze next fell on a young man with bright eyes and a small hat that sat lopsided upon his head, in a fine suit, at the piano. His passion and enthusiasm made up for inexperience; his freestyle embellishments to the song filled the gaps well, and on a fundamental level he was keeping the tune right and not disrupting the rest of the band. No, not him either. Cathal's gaze moved, unknowingly his hands moved too to raise the glass of whisky he'd acquired without realizing to his lips.
The gentleman on the drums was a stick of a man, his long limbs moving as if drawn on strings by a puppeteer as he struck cymbal and drum alike, the gentle, rolling, thunder of his instrument adding a storm behind the old man's raspy voice. A cadence of warning, the threat of danger, behind words of sorrow. His sunken in eyes were shadowed by a broad ridged forehead, giving him an eyeless visage. The song continued as Cathal's gaze finally fell on what had stirred him so strongly.
Up-on city lights Lustre of light A-dancing, a-spinning, a-wonderin' What's inside? What's inside?
I'd do anythin' Anythin' at all I'd do anythin' if it meant Feelin' Right.
Feelin' Right.
the swarthy woman, olive of complexion and black of hair, on the saxophone. Her Mediterranean features stirred his blood even as her playing captured his soul. He desperately wished to speak to her. This place was so full of emotions- sorrow, fear, anger, hate, desperation- and it was filling him to the brim with his own sensations. The way she aggressively handled the saxophone, the way the sequins of her dress glittered, the way the dress flattered her frame, the way her playing was like a searing hot knife to the back of his mind, opening it up to the fullness of the song- all of it together made her so utterly important to him in this instant it was painful.
The song had to come to an end at last. As the elderly man spoke his thanks for the crowd, the woman- whose face was concealed by a veil worn beneath a wide brimmed hat- silently rushed from the stage and out the back. Cathal rose immediately; he could practically taste her fear. why would she be afraid, goddess of this place as she was? Why?
He looked about, and in an eerie snap back to reality he realized that several other people had also risen up. Two trench-coat obscured men raced out the back after the woman, while another pair of coat-wearing people- one a woman, Cathal was soon to discover when she kicked him in the chin in a few minutes- moved out the front door. Cathal ran out the front door and climbed the rain-slick concrete stairs out from the Club's underground front door. He whirled about, seeing the running backs of the strange people and gave chase.
The gunshot he heard was like deja-vu. He felt the bullet pierce his collarbone. He felt his own life fade- but he shook himself of this reverie. It was just noise. It was just noise...
Gasping for breath he staggered against the brickwork of the building, clutching at the phantom pain of his scarred clavicle. As his fingers curled painfully through his own coat and into his flesh, he finally rounded the corner. What he saw next burned itself into his mind as viscerally as the vision of Taliesen.
The saxophonist woman, sprawled in the rain, a bullet tearing her veil in twain and revealing to him the dullness of a dead, hazel eye. The four pursuers were briefly surprised by his appearance, but in a dazzling display of immense physical prowess the nearest to him- her frame slender and petite, and what glimpse he got of her face beneath her hat as she twisted upwards to him revealed an elfin set of features- but he didn't see much of anything else as the steel toe of her boot collided with the side of his head and sent him sprawling against the brickwork of the building. He collapsed in a heap, blood spilling from his own mouth as the world faded to darkness and he heard four sets of feet beating a hasty retreat through the rain.
The last thing that ran through his mind was a single thought;
Who was that woman? Why did she have to die?...
And it was with that story, the story of the later-identified Rea Markouli and the ongoing, unsolved, mystery of her murder, that Cathal approached Montag Detectives Ltd. He wasn't looking to hire; he was looking to make a difference. He'd failed his country; he'd failed his family; He felt like he was failing Taliesin too...
For some reason, the spirit of Rea Markouli had tied itself to his soul and he refused to let her down. The sight of her, bloody and dead behind the jazz club, had burned itself atop the fever dream of Taliesin; New Haven was a rotten city waiting to crumble, and he wanted to do his damndest to make a difference.
Nope not yet! My brain has been melting with work this week, the heat index is off the charts and I've been pushing a lot of Overtime. I'll crank out that update either tonight or tomorrow.
As for the 'moving on' part, I was just trying to be efficient with the mechanical tidbits; I'm in for the roleplay and seeing characters interact, so I'm not rushing anyone as of right now.
I wrote it up under the consideration of ‘research downtime’ taking time, so all of it would be known to everyone at the ‘end of the downtime activity’. If you wished to roleplay out specific details you can feel free to divvy up those research points as you see fit.
Chosen God Taliesin the Twice-Born Chief of the Bards, Seer of the Round Table, Poet, Writer, and Musician extraordinaire.
The domain of Taliesin is wide and varied, but his reputed power is merely that of a peerless seer, beautiful person, and unchallenged bard. His history is a mystery, so tied up in his role in other mythologies that the true story of Taliesin the Bard and the born-again god-child of Ceridwyn through the power of Awan, mystic cauldron of the chief goddess. Some stories use Merlin and Taliesin interchangeably in their role amongst King Arthur's Court, while others still keep the entities distinct and focus on Taliesin's prophetic powers and reputation as a peerless bard...
Cathal's dreams are omen-like in nature, filled with surreal glimpses of what may-be, and what may have been. "I get ramblin' dreams, y'see. I see things and people I ain't never seen before. I've never liked what I've seen."
(Note, I will not be using this as a means of prophecy or future-sight by means of intention; merely a flavorful means of capturing the character's mental state and perception of things by way of enhanced sleep descriptions. If the GM tosses me some info from time to time to sprinkle into my descriptions that's swell, but not my goal with this.)
Cathal is in service to a Muse; his music, poetry, and written works are guided by divinity into their ultimate forms. As such, his works have subtle enthrallments to them. "I've got a dab hand at the piano and saxophone, and I like to think my singing voice is fair on the ear to boot! When it comes to the written word, I like to keep a journal for hobby, and I can be convinced to produce a limerick or two when the need arises."
(There will be no mind control or sudden musical healing coming from our boy here; He will be able to stir, draw out, bolster, or create emotional states in others with his pieces. Someone in a good mood might be more willing to talk than someone in a bad, but he can't control or affect their actual intelligence in this way. We're just gonna avoid all the 'squicky' aspects of 'charms' and focus on the benign here.)
Cathal is a Medium, of sorts "I trust my gut. When I get a feelin' about a fella, it's usually for good reason."
(Taliesin was said to be able to 'see into the otherworld', and while Cathal can't communicate with or see spirits directly, he can certainly feel their emotions- especially in places of significance. This becomes more potent if he has specific knowledge of the potential spirit, and grows with increased knowledge and research until he has a complete emotional understanding of an event. The goal with this isn't 'the ghost tells me who the murderer is', but rather 'While looking out back behind the club, Cathal gets a gut feeling this is a place of anger and fear'.)
Cathal is 'Twice-Born' "Askin' about me life before I came to the States is a bit of a no-go, pal. Clear as a foggy day and easy to stomach as turpentine. If there was a life for O'Molloy elsewhere, it's gone now."
Cathal was resurrected once by Taliesin; all bets are off if the Twice-Born can do it a third time.
Cathal's young life was highlighted by tragedy and punctuated by War. The Irish revolution coincided with the climax of World War One; his home was ripped apart from within while he was stuck in trenches on the front lines of the world's bloodiest war so far. While he was fighting for the safety of his way of life and a world of peace, insurrectionists in Ireland were redefining what his way of life was even supposed to be.
Whenever mail came, it was bad news. Each letter came in twos; the first from his mother explaining how another brother had died, and the second from the British News detailing another Irish Terrorist Event. His world was torn asunder, and his only solace in the trenches was his journal and his music. He kept a detailed record of his time in the war as an infantryman, and he was a well liked companion to his fellows for his quick eye, quicker mouth, cool temperance, and strong singing voice.
Tragedy and War were turned to song; his sorrow and love were turned to poetry. Poetry written for a girl back home, a girl waiting for him to return from this bloody mess, a girl he missed dearly; Ava Whelan. Oh, she was the girl everyone wanted- He'd had to bloody his brothers' noses regularly over their mutual pining for the redheaded woman- but she was his, and he was hers, and they were going to be something someday.
God is a woman it's plain to see Who else could plan a world as perfect as thee?
Right now God is lost The smoke's too thick to see The world's been tost But it'll see you back to me.
When the smoke clears And the birds can sing God, it's been years But I'll get you that ring.
At least, that was the plan. Contracting Malaria in the Eastern Campaign, Cathal O'Molloy was officially declared dead in Greece where he was shot by Bulgarian soldiers while fever had wracked his wits and compelled him to kneel in prayer and fruitlessly try to form another verse of poetry for Ava. When the rifle shot took him through the clavicle, it was not God who answered him- it was not bells and angels from on high who came to guide his spirit.
Instead when he fell, the world a blur of fever and pain, his hands gripping pen and page as cavalry thundered past him, what he witnessed can only be described as a dream and a portent of what was to come. He saw bright lights. A world aglow. Men were brothers once again, sharing drink and laughter. Solid gold towers rose higher than he'd ever seen; the airplanes of the battlefield crashed upon their shining splendor and the resultant explosions didn't even leave a scorch mark on their radiance. From these high towers of gold, music played; the most beautiful music he'd ever heard, music filled to the brim with soul and joy and passion- sex made into song, and distilled directly to the brain.
The music filled him, lifting his broken and fevered body from the ground and to his feet. As he walked these streets of silver, striding between these towers of gold, speaking to people made of marble and alabaster and obsidian, eating food that was ambrosia and drink that cured his fever, he soon found himself with a companion.
He was the most handsome man Cathal had ever laid eyes on; rather than jealousy, admiration burned within him. Seeing such a resplendent man sharing a table of food with him made him embarrassed; he awkwardly lifted a hand to his shattered collar and found it whole. Where he had expected to find a sucking wound and shattered bone, he instead found the rough tissue of scarring.
"I've allowed you to see this place so you might know what's to come. Look a little deeper, O'Molloy, if you can stomach it. Look deeper, and see the truth. Dining at my table has given you new strength; do with it what you will, but if you appreciate this gift then do for me but one thing..."
The man leaned forward, raising a glass of sparkling wine.
"Don't ever put that pen down."
Cathal toasted the man, then put his mind to the task of comprehending the dream. He was stunned to see that the longer he gazed at the sparkling glass he held, the less the wine bubbled and shone; in fact, the longer he gazed at it, the darker the liquid became until it was the deep red of blood resting in the glass. The thick, clotted, blood of an old wound. It dripped down from the ceiling over his table, and as he looked upwards he was stunned to see that where once there was beautiful fresco and divine paintings, there were now the twisted and horrid visages of tormented souls crawling within the taut-pulled skin of a fleshy ceiling.
He looked back to the handsome man only to find himself alone save a placard scrawled upon in the calligraphy of a man's hand; Taliesin is my name; carry it forth along with this vision.
He ran from the building, departing from his meal of rotted meat and sludge vegetables, and onto those streets of silver- Nay, those streets of bloodslick steel. He slipped on the viscera and cast his gaze upwards as he scrambled to his feet- Golden towers replaced by tall structures of bone and paper, the golden paint chipped off and revealing the mite infested truth beneath. The perfect people he'd passed on the streets were but grotesqueries wearing perfect masks, their clothes threadbare from behind even as they meticulously scrubbed a mark from the patchwork maintenance of the front. He saw one man hiding a knife behind his back as he shook the hand of another, whose own hidden hand was coated in brass dusters. He saw a woman whose stroller held a shotgun instead of a babe; an old man whose toothless smile revealed gums lined with razorwire; as the sun set, it was like a great eye rose over the horizon to watch him struggle amongst this world of suffering...
These images burned themselves into his mind forever. Then, he woke up. The Nightmare was over. He was in a small hostel in Greece, run by an old man who had scoured the battlefields for survivors. When he awoke, Cathal was in a bunk shared by a Bulgarian man whose leg had been amputated. Across from him was a Turk, whose upper face was entirely wrapped in bandages. The world was brighter, though fear laced the air from his suddenly awaking mind. He touched his collar; a mass of scar tissue, but he was alive.
The world had moved on. When he was well enough to depart, he thanked the man and returned home. Ava had moved on, now married to his only surviving brother. He did not reveal himself to them. He chose to do as the world had done; as his love had done; as the Gods themselves had done in all the years he lost in his stupor. He chose to move on.
Cathal O'Molloy traveled to the United States, an immigrant and veteran of war. He experienced a dread and strange fulfillment of purpose as he traveled westwards across the states; while nothing as grand or as truly ostentatious as his long dream appeared, he witnessed the rise and fall of the Gilded Age firsthand. His music and voice were at the forefront of many popular clubs as he worked his way across the country, and he witnessed the amazing splendor and wealth to be had in this time-
But as things began to show their true colors, his vision remained burned in mind. Truth was beneath that lustrous veneer. Truth was to be found sooner rather than later. The pursuit of that truth lead him to New Haven. His first night in New Haven, he stumbled into a club called The Soul of Sandra. What he experienced there that night was otherworldly.
Cathal gazed at the flickering neon sign. Soul of Sandra. The first 'o' flickered and struggled to stay lit, but to Cathal's mind the flickering seemed almost as if a promiscuous wink. A beckoning thing that caught the eye and promised something real. He tugged his collar higher against the rain, and descended the concrete steps down into the smoke of the lounge.
Its interior was lit in the blue glow of distant neon lights, the flickering of candlesticks keeping the atmosphere manageable on individual tabletops. The emberglow of smoke pipes and the dogged and ragged cinder-ends of cigarettes revealed themselves to be the source of the haze. Once he crossed the threshold he turned his collar down and removed his hat on general principles- but the rest of his thoughts were consumed by the song.
Up-on city lights our world A-dancing, a-spinning, a-wonderin' Without endin' losin' track of what's more important than... Feelin' right.
Oh yeah. Feelin' right. Oh yeah. Feelin' right.
I'd do anythin' Anythin' at all If it meant seein' through the lustre of light I'd do anythin' anythin' at all if it meant I could see what's inside.
Oh yeah. Feelin' right. Feelin' right. Oh yeah, Feelin' right while blind of eye
The man singing on the stage was an elderly man, dark of skin, whose head had been shined to a reflective sheen. His vocals were raspy, his lungs more filled with smoke than air- and seemingly had been for his entire life- but he was skilled and his voice carried the sombre tone of the song well. Cathal's eyes moved past him; while he was excellent, he wasn't what had immediately captured Cathal's soul.
His gaze next fell on a young man with bright eyes and a small hat that sat lopsided upon his head, in a fine suit, at the piano. His passion and enthusiasm made up for inexperience; his freestyle embellishments to the song filled the gaps well, and on a fundamental level he was keeping the tune right and not disrupting the rest of the band. No, not him either. Cathal's gaze moved, unknowingly his hands moved too to raise the glass of whisky he'd acquired without realizing to his lips.
The gentleman on the drums was a stick of a man, his long limbs moving as if drawn on strings by a puppeteer as he struck cymbal and drum alike, the gentle, rolling, thunder of his instrument adding a storm behind the old man's raspy voice. A cadence of warning, the threat of danger, behind words of sorrow. His sunken in eyes were shadowed by a broad ridged forehead, giving him an eyeless visage. The song continued as Cathal's gaze finally fell on what had stirred him so strongly.
Up-on city lights Lustre of light A-dancing, a-spinning, a-wonderin' What's inside? What's inside?
I'd do anythin' Anythin' at all I'd do anythin' if it meant Feelin' Right.
Feelin' Right.
the swarthy woman, olive of complexion and black of hair, on the saxophone. Her Mediterranean features stirred his blood even as her playing captured his soul. He desperately wished to speak to her. This place was so full of emotions- sorrow, fear, anger, hate, desperation- and it was filling him to the brim with his own sensations. The way she aggressively handled the saxophone, the way the sequins of her dress glittered, the way the dress flattered her frame, the way her playing was like a searing hot knife to the back of his mind, opening it up to the fullness of the song- all of it together made her so utterly important to him in this instant it was painful.
The song had to come to an end at last. As the elderly man spoke his thanks for the crowd, the woman- whose face was concealed by a veil worn beneath a wide brimmed hat- silently rushed from the stage and out the back. Cathal rose immediately; he could practically taste her fear. why would she be afraid, goddess of this place as she was? Why?
He looked about, and in an eerie snap back to reality he realized that several other people had also risen up. Two trench-coat obscured men raced out the back after the woman, while another pair of coat-wearing people- one a woman, Cathal was soon to discover when she kicked him in the chin in a few minutes- moved out the front door. Cathal ran out the front door and climbed the rain-slick concrete stairs out from the Club's underground front door. He whirled about, seeing the running backs of the strange people and gave chase.
The gunshot he heard was like deja-vu. He felt the bullet pierce his collarbone. He felt his own life fade- but he shook himself of this reverie. It was just noise. It was just noise...
Gasping for breath he staggered against the brickwork of the building, clutching at the phantom pain of his scarred clavicle. As his fingers curled painfully through his own coat and into his flesh, he finally rounded the corner. What he saw next burned itself into his mind as viscerally as the vision of Taliesen.
The saxophonist woman, sprawled in the rain, a bullet tearing her veil in twain and revealing to him the dullness of a dead, hazel eye. The four pursuers were briefly surprised by his appearance, but in a dazzling display of immense physical prowess the nearest to him- her frame slender and petite, and what glimpse he got of her face beneath her hat as she twisted upwards to him revealed an elfin set of features- but he didn't see much of anything else as the steel toe of her boot collided with the side of his head and sent him sprawling against the brickwork of the building. He collapsed in a heap, blood spilling from his own mouth as the world faded to darkness and he heard four sets of feet beating a hasty retreat through the rain.
The last thing that ran through his mind was a single thought;
Who was that woman? Why did she have to die?...
And it was with that story, the story of the later-identified Rea Markouli and the ongoing, unsolved, mystery of her murder, that Cathal approached Montag Detectives Ltd. He wasn't looking to hire; he was looking to make a difference. He'd failed his country; he'd failed his family; He felt like he was failing Taliesin too...
For some reason, the spirit of Rea Markouli had tied itself to his soul and he refused to let her down. The sight of her, bloody and dead behind the jazz club, had burned itself atop the fever dream of Taliesin; New Haven was a rotten city waiting to crumble, and he wanted to do his damndest to make a difference.
Guardian Angel Haruki,
rush99999,
Pilatus,
mattmanganon,
wanderingwolf,
ColdAtlas,
Lurking Krog,
Damycles,
QueenBea,
Noctis
