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CollectorOfMyst
NightbringerThe Shadow & Storm Pub, Tale's End Slums, Magnagrad
The night marched onward, the virrika overflowed, and the band played so loud and fast that the air seemed to be pulsing with electricity. The haze of cigarette smoke and etherlamp exhaust fogged the darkly-lit interior of the Shadow & Storm, but the atmosphere within the converted military bunker seemed more alive than it had ever been. It had been hours, and still the crowd in the pub had not lost any of its vigor. The band blazed through the usual repertoire of classic volska and the crowd was responding in kind. Indeed, this was the best show they had ever played. Through the rousing retelling of Omestris' fall in the classic war tune "Benighted" they danced and yelled along with its tale of Varyan heroes and evil Omestrian warlocks being put to the sword, they then slow danced to "The Lady's Favor", an old folk song that reframed the Lanostran War as a love story between Varya and Lanostre. There was no lull in the festivities, and the mostly Varyan-crowd seemed entranced.
Four hours had passed since Hassan's suggestion turned the night's festivities from a raucous night out into a a full-on event that none of the people in the pub would probably ever forget. The two inquisitors sat at their table, four young women dressed in nun's finery keeping them company. All were drinking and laughing, telling each other stories of their time within the Church. The nuns-- Sisters Ylenna, Olga, Mal and Krista, were part of a congregation transferred to this sector to reclaim and rebuild the ruined churches that stood forgotten and abandoned within Tale's End. Sister Ylenna, in between swigs of virrika, explained that decades ago, this slum had been the site of a massive slave uprising and that many of the Varyan churches here had destroyed in the riots.
"Let's not darken the mood, Ylenna. Another round, everyone?" Sister Mal asked the table, her cheeks flushed red.
Across the floor, on the opposite alcove from where Stina and Hassan sat, two Varyan officers sat alone, their relatively relaxed demeanor in complete contrast to the tables of rowdy soldiers and civilians surrounding them.
Lieutenant Lev Dragonov leaned back in his chair, staring coldly at the throng of people as they writhed and pulsed against each other. The music was boring its way into his brain, and the migraine he had been nursing since that morning seemed to twist and contort more and more with each passing moment. This terrible music, and the yelling, wasn't helping any.
Even though he appeared tired and in poor-health, Dragonov still cut an impressive figure. He seemed to be cut from ice, with high cheekbones and a hawk-like countenance to his features. His slicked-back blonde hair and ice-blue eyes gave him a look which was known colloquially throughout the empire as "Varyan asshole". His was the face that provincials saw when they pictured the people of Varya. Cold, emotionless, and blonde.
"They're enjoying themselves, lieutenant. Is that a crime?" the other officer asked.
The man sitting opposite Dragonov was in fact, his opposite in every sense of the word. Lieutenant Rexus Lycaon was stout and broad, with dark-skin and a closely shaved head. Above all, he had an easy going smile adorning his chiseled, masculine face, whereas Dragonov looked completely miserable. Lycaon's pine-green Lanostran eyes observed his companion behind a pair of sleek spectacles. That easy-going smile was genuine, but tinged with worry.
"You call whatever this is fun?" Dragonov answered, his glower still focused on the crowd. "The idiots don't even know they're being manipulated," the Varyan officer said, glancing at where Hassan and Stina sat on the other side of the pub.
"It's always dark and cold down here in Tale's End. Let them know some joy and respite from this hellhole," Lycaon answered with a grin.
Dragonov closed his eyes, trying to will the thorns in his brain into submission. "For a Lanostran, you're fucking soft."
Lycaon smiled. Through all their years fighting together he had grown accustomed to Dragonov's barbs. If it were anyone else calling his blood into question, they would be on the floor before the words left their mouth.
"How is it looking outside?" Lycaon said, speaking into the small radio in his collar.
A woman's voice answered back, her words crackling with static.
"Quiet, sir. No sign of the target."
A look of pure annoyance flashed across Lev's face.
"What of Hjálmgrímr?" the Varyan officer asked, speaking into his own communicator.
There was a slight pause on the other end. "He is, uh... sleeping, sir."
"Sleeping?"
"That's right, sir. Father Hjálmgrímr was sitting on the steps watching the pub and he... fell asleep. He's been like this for hours."
Lev and Rex stared at each other in disbelief.
"-- Wait, there's activity here. It's the target, sir. Kadenza has just exited a large steam-mobile and is heading into the pub. There's five of his gang with him. They are all heavily armed. I see scytheblades, rifles and handcannons."
Lieutenant Lev Dragonov, for the first time that night, smiled.
"We're in business. Let's get to work."
***
"Father Stina, I know it's very late to even be asking about this, but do you think there's still enough time to request a transfer aboard the Grace? I've... always dreamed of seeing El with my own eyes, and I'm sure the soldiers will need some spiritual guidance while on the long journey," Sister Krista asked, her voice slurred. She was a tiny, slim thing, strawberry-blonde hair spilled out from beneath her custom.
At that moment, before Stina could answer, the crowd within the pub went silent, the band following suit. Only the sound of the cold wind rushing in from outside could be heard.
A group of six men stood at the bar's entrance. Most of them wore grimy coats covered in pieces of mismatched armor so old and damaged by etherburn that the metal couldn't reflect the light from the lamps hanging throughout the pub. Several of the men's faces were half-hidden behind heavy leather mufflers, but with a look one could see the telltale effects of exposure. The cold had ravaged their faces in such a way that many of them wore shoddy-looking prosthetics to try and mitigate the damage- the artificial tips of noses and eyelids reflecting the light differently than the rest of their faces. Whoever these men were, they had spent time outside the aegis in less than ideal conditions, and they had paid for it.
"Pirates," Sister Mal said casually, not showing a shred of fear at the fearsome looking group of men standing at the bar's entrance. She was a few years younger than Hassan and Stina in age. Her dark-grey eyes wouldn't stray from where the men stood.
The pirates didn't bother to hide their weaponry. Pre-LW rifles lay strapped across their backs, while handcannons from as far back as the Muraad invasions hung by their belts. Blades sharpened so many times that one could see the whetstone markings on them gleamed within their coats.
At the head of the group, a skinny young man wearing an unbearably colorful three piece suit stood with hands at his hips, smiling defiantly as he scanned across the pub. "Don't stop on our account! Please, keep shakin' those asses!" he yelled, laughing to himself. Seeming to find what he was looking for, the gang began to make their way through the pub, the crowd parting to let the vicious-looking pack through.
"That's Kadenza," Sister Mal said matter-of-factly. She removed her nun's custom and placed it on the table, not caring if it got dirty. Her medium-length hair was dark like shadow, wild and unruly. She lit a cigarette as the band began to play again.
"Sister Mal! How do you know him?" Sister Ylenna cried out.
"What? I grew up here. Everyone in Tale's End knows who he is. If you've got the money, he can get you whatever you want... or so I've heard," Mal said. Beneath the table the nun began lightly stroking an old silver ring on her pinky finger.
As Kadenza walked by the alcove where they sat, Hassan and Stina took a good look at him. He appeared in stark contrast to the damaged and dangerous-looking men behind him. Skinny as a rail, smooth-skinned and pale, he looked every bit his eighteen-years. A pencil-thin mustache was stenciled above his lip while his glossy black hair was parted to one side. He had a pair of cruel deep blue T'saraen eyes that seemed to search through the pub like a shark's. The suit he wore was a kaleidoscope of vibrant purple, neon green, and electric magenta. The colors were so strange and out of place in the grey and grime of Magnagrad that they seemed to almost exist separately from the rest of the world.
Kadenza made his way to the bar, where the bartender immediately rushed to attend to him. The garishly-dressed smuggler leaned across the bartop and whispered something to the bartender before slipping something into his breast pocket. Kadenza and his gang then left through a lone door at the far end of the pub.
"He's up to something big. Those men he's with, they're from the icefields... Godless, that lot," Mal said, turning her attention to Hassan and Stina. "I understand you two aren't on duty but--"
"You're right, Sister. They aren't on duty, and let's try to keep it that way," a voice spoke up from behind them.
Stina and Hassan turned to find two officers clad in the dark crimson uniforms of the Secular Army walking up to their table.
"Father Qureshi and Father Stamenkovikj. We would salute the two of you but, it's best to keep a low profile in this place," the dark-skinned Lanostran said to them with a friendly smile.
"I am Lieutenant Lev Dragonov and this is Lieutenant Rexus Lycaon. Could we have a word with you two in private?" the tall blonde Varyan officer asked them, motioning towards a darkened corner of the pub.
