Member
Fallenreaper
Izurich
YummyYummy
Ti
Blaze Gamma
Lake Bianca was the largest lake in the Revidian heartland. With calm, crystal clear waters and an extremely mild current, it was both a valuable source of food and an excellent vacation spot for the nouveau riche. The lake was so large that one could sail to its center and not be able to see the shoreline in any direction. Nobody on the shore would know you were there, which made it a perfect meeting place for individuals seeking to conspire in secret. Tonight was the night for such a meeting, and a suitable night it was. The rendezvous had been perfectly timed with the weather, and not a single moon’s glow was able to break through the ceiling of thick gray clouds overhead. Soon it would start to rain, and a thin mist had already begun to cling to Marco’s skin.
The only other person around at present was his boatman sitting on the other side with a strange looking pistol aimed at his chest. Its alien appearance suggested it was either a completely custom job or a stolen piece of technology. Marco was not enough of a firearms expert to know the difference. All he knew was that the masked fellow did not trust him one bit. However, it was not this man’s trust that the young Century wanted to earn. Someone much more important was coming, and their conditions for coming to meet him were that he come alone, unarmed, and without any harm done to his porter. He would have to trust that the hooded gunman had a disciplined trigger finger.
Marco would have liked to check his timepiece or stretch his legs after such a slow boat ride, but he was afraid that any sudden moves on his part would give his porter an excuse to open fire. ”Mi scusi signore.” He addressed the boat man. ”Che ora è?”
The man only answered by fingering the hammer of his gun.
Rude bastard. Marco thought to himself. Everyone was so much kinder when the world was ending... Not that he could blame his chaperone for his hostility. He had the unfortunate lot of escorting one of the church’s elite shocktroopers. They got along with the Traveler's agents like oil and water. If Marco looked closely enough, he could almost see the henchman’s hands shaking with adrenaline. It was obvious who posed more of a threat to the other’s life right now. A Century was an existence that could casually deflect cannonballs without breaking a sweat. Even the most advanced pea shooter in the world wouldn’t save this guy if Marco truly wanted him dead.
Just as the tension between the two enemies had begun to reach its peak, Marco finally spotted a dim lantern light creeping up on the horizon. At the same time, the small fishing boat he was sitting in began to drift towards that light. He looked at his chaperone, but that man’s hands were nowhere near the oars. Someone was pulling the ship along the water with magic, he could feel it.
They sure kept me waiting. Marco thought. Were they hoping I would give up and go home?
The two ships finally stopped once they were perfectly parallel to each other. In the lantern’s orange glow, Marco could make out the faint outline of a single individual.
“Marco Terranova?” The Volti addressed him.
”And no other. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” Marco replied.
“Clearly not poor Giacomo,” it answered, with a hint of puckishness. “Va tutto bene, Giacomo,” the woman addressed her subordinate. “Lo prenderò da qui. Grazie per l'aiuto.”
After a moment of hesitation, he lowered the pistol.
“You speak with one of the Dieci Volti, naturally.” She wore a red mask and, beneath her cloak, an outfit that accentuated her shape. She tilted her head as if considering. “Volto Rosso, in this case.” She did not beckon him over quite yet. “You went to quite the lengths to contact me,” she observed. “Why?”
”Before I tell you why I am here, I want you to take a very good look at this. Consider it a peace offering.” Marco reached into the gap in his breastplate and pulled out a piece of parchment wrapped in twine. He blew into his palm, casually floating the scroll into the beauty’s hands. He knew what information she would find within, because he had written the document himself. On it he had written in great detail the time, location, and methods that the Volti planned to use in one of their future operations, as well as the name and appearance of one of their members his squad had killed in the course of thwarting it. It was a plan that was not meant to go into motion for months to come, and their organization was still attempting to gather the resources necessary to carry it out. It should have been impossible for the Century to know.
She did not hide her reaction, though her mask did, to a degree. “Oh my,” she mouthed, before folding it crisply and tucking it into a pocket. If there were any chemical signals to pick up on that would’ve told him more about her reaction, they were well-hidden. “I Conoscitori devono amarti,” she observed. There was a simple nod of acceptance, then: “So, my question: why do you come to me?”
”I propose an exchange. In return for my sword arm and any information I can deliver on the Century’s movements, I want you to let me into the organization.” Marco leaned back, causing the boat to rock backwards. Now that he wasn’t under the gun he could afford a measure of relaxation. ”I know it may seem strange given the position I am in, but I have my reasons for wanting the Dieci Volti to succeed. Do you want to make a deal?”
She shrugged, removing her mask, and pursed her lips. If this face was to be believed, she was in her early to mid thirties and strikingly beautiful, with a small mole beneath one eye. “Ah,” she replied, “what I want is but a little fish in a great sea, zi’. What the Dieci Volti need comes first.” Without a detectable draw, she leapt into his boat, standing mere feet from him. “Scusa, Giac.” she nodded at the boatman and he nodded back. “You understand that, in a group like this one, you don’t ‘join up’.” She was studying him and making no secret of it. A bit of a blush came into her cheeks. “This is good intel.” She patted the pocket in her cloak where she’d slipped the note. “It has my attention and will get others’.” She blinked a couple of times. “But we operate on trust.” She shook her head. “There is no other way for us. I need your reasons in plain speech and…” She smiled. “then you get a question if you like.”
Marco sighed and slowly got onto his feet. He was hoping this woman wouldn’t ask the difficult questions, but it seemed he had no choice but to be as straightforward as possible. With a swift motion he removed the helmet concealing his face. The Century who spoke with the authority and confidence of a man appeared no more than 15 years old, but while his face was soft and boyish, his eyes were deeply tired.
“If you demand the truth then fine, I’ll make this quick.” Marco took a breath. ”The world is going to burn, and YOU are the only group of people I could think of who might be able to stop it. The amount of blood that has been shed between our people is a drop in the bucket compared to the calamity that is about to befall the entire human race. Your leader the Traveler, although we call her the enemy, she is a real hero. She knew all of this to be true. And now, so do I.”
Her face lost its playfulness quickly and Liscia appeared less surprised at what he was saying and more at the fact that he was saying it. “So you know our great purpose,” she observed, mouth a grim line, “but the century are no laughing matter.” She tilted her head. “Why not try to work through them?” She shook it tightly. “After this, I have no more questions.”
Marco hesitated to answer at first. He appeared to be thinking about something. His eyes quietly shifted between Volto Rosso and her manservant. After a few seconds of silence the century licked his lips and, slowly, began to speak. ”I trust my brothers and sisters in the Century without question, and I know that if I revealed the existence of our enemy to them, they would join me.” Marco crossed his arms and nodded. “What I don’t trust is the integrity of our leadership.”
He suggestively pointed a finger upwards. ”I think someone is corrupted. Someone up high. Some of our archbishops perhaps, or even… ” Marco covered his mouth in disgust as he interrupted himself. ”No, I dare not suggest that…!”
Liscia smiled, predatory. “Your Optimate.” Her bright red lips formed a crescent against her pale skin and black hair, the mask moving as if it were her true face. “Leaders are a cancer on those they command, robbing the commons of their agency and initiative.”
For a moment, she and the boatman exchanged a look. Then, she twisted back to Marco, tilting her head. “The only way to lead is by example. Anyone else,” she spat, “is just a parasite.”
The boats bobbed gently on the darkened waters and the boatman shifted the oars a bit for stability. “I believe you, even if I don’t trust you all the way.” She shrugged. “More sophisticated operations have come about before - and failed - to take down the Dieci Volti.”
“I believe the last attempt was made by the church.” Marco sighed. “We received several of that individual’s fingers before getting him back in a box. Many of us disagreed with that stupid plan.” He uncrossed one of his arms and pointed at her. “But enough about that. Will you agree to work with me?”
“Veleno,” she mused aloud, mostly under her breath. “Your ill-begotten attempt placed command magic in the hands of Hugo Hunghorasz, but…” The mask smiled again, toothily, this time. “Also into ours.” The smile fell away, to be replaced by a scowl. “Or, rather, that of our ‘leader’.”
There was a hint of fog about, and the air was muggy as it often was in this place at this time of year. The boatman’s eyes watched each of the other two figures.
“To answer your question, though, the Dieci Volti value actions more than words.” She nodded slowly, mask fading to still and stony. “You may work with us, as an initiate, first, like any other.”
Marco placed his helmet on his head and tightened the neck straps. ”So be it, but let us not waste any time. If you think there is any work you can entrust me with now, I am ready to move at your command.”
“You’re not a quick learner,” Liscia remarked, “are you?” She regarded him for a moment. “This is not your century. We do not command, here.”
A small gust of wind licked at her hair, causing it to flutter slightly. She sighed. “Those of us who know tell you about a threat or opportunity. You either follow up on it or don’t.” She shrugged. “Miss a few and you have scruples.” The mask pursed its painted porcelain lips. “Miss too many, and maybe you’re not in line with us.”
There was an extended pause. Then: “The people of Palapar are soon to overthrow the colonial tyrants who own them,” she began. “I and others know it for a certainty that they cannot take much more.” Volto Rosso regarded him steadily.
“A rebellion?” Marco rubbed his helmet. “And which side do you hope to see victorious?”
The mask narrowed its eyes. “The people,” its bearer responded, almost before he’d finished. “Always, the people, darling.” She smiled again. “You’ll find us less utilitarian than those you’re used to working for.” She shook her head. “Most of us, anyhow.”
Marco could feel sweat beading on his forehead. He was honestly perplexed by her responses. If this was the type of fraternity he was dealing with, it would take a long time for him to shake the rigidity of his military training. ”I see. I will try to take that to heart.”
She nodded. “Please try. You won’t be alone there either, so don’t worry.” Now that she’d accepted him and he, apparently, the opportunity, her voice had become a blanket to soothe. “Volto Blu - Soldato - will be there with you. He’s new to the position and one of our most radical members, but I trust that he will show you what you need to see.” She ended on a cryptic note, their surroundings suddenly taking over: still, silent, and isolating.
”Soldato? Heh, I wonder why they call him that,” Marco replied in good humor, while Liscia smiled at the remark through her mask. “I think you’ll be able to make your own judgment soon enough,” the Volto purred. “But now, much of a pleasure as it has been, it’s time to part.” She regarded the boatman for a moment and he nodded. Then, she reappeared on her own craft. The cloaked man raised a hand and the ghost of a smile and, the next thing that Marco knew, he was standing onshore.
The only other person around at present was his boatman sitting on the other side with a strange looking pistol aimed at his chest. Its alien appearance suggested it was either a completely custom job or a stolen piece of technology. Marco was not enough of a firearms expert to know the difference. All he knew was that the masked fellow did not trust him one bit. However, it was not this man’s trust that the young Century wanted to earn. Someone much more important was coming, and their conditions for coming to meet him were that he come alone, unarmed, and without any harm done to his porter. He would have to trust that the hooded gunman had a disciplined trigger finger.
Marco would have liked to check his timepiece or stretch his legs after such a slow boat ride, but he was afraid that any sudden moves on his part would give his porter an excuse to open fire. ”Mi scusi signore.” He addressed the boat man. ”Che ora è?”
The man only answered by fingering the hammer of his gun.
Rude bastard. Marco thought to himself. Everyone was so much kinder when the world was ending... Not that he could blame his chaperone for his hostility. He had the unfortunate lot of escorting one of the church’s elite shocktroopers. They got along with the Traveler's agents like oil and water. If Marco looked closely enough, he could almost see the henchman’s hands shaking with adrenaline. It was obvious who posed more of a threat to the other’s life right now. A Century was an existence that could casually deflect cannonballs without breaking a sweat. Even the most advanced pea shooter in the world wouldn’t save this guy if Marco truly wanted him dead.
Just as the tension between the two enemies had begun to reach its peak, Marco finally spotted a dim lantern light creeping up on the horizon. At the same time, the small fishing boat he was sitting in began to drift towards that light. He looked at his chaperone, but that man’s hands were nowhere near the oars. Someone was pulling the ship along the water with magic, he could feel it.
They sure kept me waiting. Marco thought. Were they hoping I would give up and go home?
The two ships finally stopped once they were perfectly parallel to each other. In the lantern’s orange glow, Marco could make out the faint outline of a single individual.
“Marco Terranova?” The Volti addressed him.
”And no other. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” Marco replied.
“Clearly not poor Giacomo,” it answered, with a hint of puckishness. “Va tutto bene, Giacomo,” the woman addressed her subordinate. “Lo prenderò da qui. Grazie per l'aiuto.”
After a moment of hesitation, he lowered the pistol.
“You speak with one of the Dieci Volti, naturally.” She wore a red mask and, beneath her cloak, an outfit that accentuated her shape. She tilted her head as if considering. “Volto Rosso, in this case.” She did not beckon him over quite yet. “You went to quite the lengths to contact me,” she observed. “Why?”
”Before I tell you why I am here, I want you to take a very good look at this. Consider it a peace offering.” Marco reached into the gap in his breastplate and pulled out a piece of parchment wrapped in twine. He blew into his palm, casually floating the scroll into the beauty’s hands. He knew what information she would find within, because he had written the document himself. On it he had written in great detail the time, location, and methods that the Volti planned to use in one of their future operations, as well as the name and appearance of one of their members his squad had killed in the course of thwarting it. It was a plan that was not meant to go into motion for months to come, and their organization was still attempting to gather the resources necessary to carry it out. It should have been impossible for the Century to know.
She did not hide her reaction, though her mask did, to a degree. “Oh my,” she mouthed, before folding it crisply and tucking it into a pocket. If there were any chemical signals to pick up on that would’ve told him more about her reaction, they were well-hidden. “I Conoscitori devono amarti,” she observed. There was a simple nod of acceptance, then: “So, my question: why do you come to me?”
”I propose an exchange. In return for my sword arm and any information I can deliver on the Century’s movements, I want you to let me into the organization.” Marco leaned back, causing the boat to rock backwards. Now that he wasn’t under the gun he could afford a measure of relaxation. ”I know it may seem strange given the position I am in, but I have my reasons for wanting the Dieci Volti to succeed. Do you want to make a deal?”
She shrugged, removing her mask, and pursed her lips. If this face was to be believed, she was in her early to mid thirties and strikingly beautiful, with a small mole beneath one eye. “Ah,” she replied, “what I want is but a little fish in a great sea, zi’. What the Dieci Volti need comes first.” Without a detectable draw, she leapt into his boat, standing mere feet from him. “Scusa, Giac.” she nodded at the boatman and he nodded back. “You understand that, in a group like this one, you don’t ‘join up’.” She was studying him and making no secret of it. A bit of a blush came into her cheeks. “This is good intel.” She patted the pocket in her cloak where she’d slipped the note. “It has my attention and will get others’.” She blinked a couple of times. “But we operate on trust.” She shook her head. “There is no other way for us. I need your reasons in plain speech and…” She smiled. “then you get a question if you like.”
Marco sighed and slowly got onto his feet. He was hoping this woman wouldn’t ask the difficult questions, but it seemed he had no choice but to be as straightforward as possible. With a swift motion he removed the helmet concealing his face. The Century who spoke with the authority and confidence of a man appeared no more than 15 years old, but while his face was soft and boyish, his eyes were deeply tired.
“If you demand the truth then fine, I’ll make this quick.” Marco took a breath. ”The world is going to burn, and YOU are the only group of people I could think of who might be able to stop it. The amount of blood that has been shed between our people is a drop in the bucket compared to the calamity that is about to befall the entire human race. Your leader the Traveler, although we call her the enemy, she is a real hero. She knew all of this to be true. And now, so do I.”
Her face lost its playfulness quickly and Liscia appeared less surprised at what he was saying and more at the fact that he was saying it. “So you know our great purpose,” she observed, mouth a grim line, “but the century are no laughing matter.” She tilted her head. “Why not try to work through them?” She shook it tightly. “After this, I have no more questions.”
Marco hesitated to answer at first. He appeared to be thinking about something. His eyes quietly shifted between Volto Rosso and her manservant. After a few seconds of silence the century licked his lips and, slowly, began to speak. ”I trust my brothers and sisters in the Century without question, and I know that if I revealed the existence of our enemy to them, they would join me.” Marco crossed his arms and nodded. “What I don’t trust is the integrity of our leadership.”
He suggestively pointed a finger upwards. ”I think someone is corrupted. Someone up high. Some of our archbishops perhaps, or even… ” Marco covered his mouth in disgust as he interrupted himself. ”No, I dare not suggest that…!”
Liscia smiled, predatory. “Your Optimate.” Her bright red lips formed a crescent against her pale skin and black hair, the mask moving as if it were her true face. “Leaders are a cancer on those they command, robbing the commons of their agency and initiative.”
For a moment, she and the boatman exchanged a look. Then, she twisted back to Marco, tilting her head. “The only way to lead is by example. Anyone else,” she spat, “is just a parasite.”
The boats bobbed gently on the darkened waters and the boatman shifted the oars a bit for stability. “I believe you, even if I don’t trust you all the way.” She shrugged. “More sophisticated operations have come about before - and failed - to take down the Dieci Volti.”
“I believe the last attempt was made by the church.” Marco sighed. “We received several of that individual’s fingers before getting him back in a box. Many of us disagreed with that stupid plan.” He uncrossed one of his arms and pointed at her. “But enough about that. Will you agree to work with me?”
“Veleno,” she mused aloud, mostly under her breath. “Your ill-begotten attempt placed command magic in the hands of Hugo Hunghorasz, but…” The mask smiled again, toothily, this time. “Also into ours.” The smile fell away, to be replaced by a scowl. “Or, rather, that of our ‘leader’.”
There was a hint of fog about, and the air was muggy as it often was in this place at this time of year. The boatman’s eyes watched each of the other two figures.
“To answer your question, though, the Dieci Volti value actions more than words.” She nodded slowly, mask fading to still and stony. “You may work with us, as an initiate, first, like any other.”
Marco placed his helmet on his head and tightened the neck straps. ”So be it, but let us not waste any time. If you think there is any work you can entrust me with now, I am ready to move at your command.”
“You’re not a quick learner,” Liscia remarked, “are you?” She regarded him for a moment. “This is not your century. We do not command, here.”
A small gust of wind licked at her hair, causing it to flutter slightly. She sighed. “Those of us who know tell you about a threat or opportunity. You either follow up on it or don’t.” She shrugged. “Miss a few and you have scruples.” The mask pursed its painted porcelain lips. “Miss too many, and maybe you’re not in line with us.”
There was an extended pause. Then: “The people of Palapar are soon to overthrow the colonial tyrants who own them,” she began. “I and others know it for a certainty that they cannot take much more.” Volto Rosso regarded him steadily.
“A rebellion?” Marco rubbed his helmet. “And which side do you hope to see victorious?”
The mask narrowed its eyes. “The people,” its bearer responded, almost before he’d finished. “Always, the people, darling.” She smiled again. “You’ll find us less utilitarian than those you’re used to working for.” She shook her head. “Most of us, anyhow.”
Marco could feel sweat beading on his forehead. He was honestly perplexed by her responses. If this was the type of fraternity he was dealing with, it would take a long time for him to shake the rigidity of his military training. ”I see. I will try to take that to heart.”
She nodded. “Please try. You won’t be alone there either, so don’t worry.” Now that she’d accepted him and he, apparently, the opportunity, her voice had become a blanket to soothe. “Volto Blu - Soldato - will be there with you. He’s new to the position and one of our most radical members, but I trust that he will show you what you need to see.” She ended on a cryptic note, their surroundings suddenly taking over: still, silent, and isolating.
”Soldato? Heh, I wonder why they call him that,” Marco replied in good humor, while Liscia smiled at the remark through her mask. “I think you’ll be able to make your own judgment soon enough,” the Volto purred. “But now, much of a pleasure as it has been, it’s time to part.” She regarded the boatman for a moment and he nodded. Then, she reappeared on her own craft. The cloaked man raised a hand and the ghost of a smile and, the next thing that Marco knew, he was standing onshore.
After his meeting in Revidia, Marco was quickly caught up in a whirlwind of preparation. Thanks to the “tip” he received, which Liscia made abundantly clear were NOT orders, he decided his next move was to go to Palapar and help drum up support with the locals. After hearing about the rebellion, the Century vaguely recalled learning about the troubles between Palapar and Virang, but because his institution was not personally involved in the turmoil happening overseas there was little useful information he could call upon. Quentism had a weak presence in that part of the world, and the only informants the church had in Palapar were a handful of missionaries who were quickly forced to return home as soon as the first casualties began to appear. In short, Marco was about to witness an unknown side of history firsthand. It was extremely fortunate for him to be given this opportunity, as the Century immediately realized how aiding the rebellion could further his goals in the current timeline.
Marco hoped he would be able to learn more about Volto Blu on the ride to Palapar, but things didn't work out the way he hoped. A boat ride to Palapar from the mainland would have taken at least a week, and there was no such time to spare. They had to risk the use of a portal and get started immediately or else they would be too late to have an impact on the uprising. Each of them had hastily made arrangements to sort out their alibis and means of arrival before linking up at the agreed upon rendezvous. In Marco’s case, he was supposedly on his way to provide protection for the chapel in light of the recent unrest and, officially, was on a charter ship en route to a port rented out by the Virangish coffee merchants. Nobody on his side would suspect that he was already present in Palapar as a double agent. As long as he kept his face and name hidden, he could continue to maintain his good standing with the Centuries without suspicion.
”Look there, a guard post. Are you sure you want to try this here? We could get ourselves locked in the pillory.” Marco pointed to a sentinel carrying a spear and lantern, who was posted next to a large brickwork building that stood out like a sore thumb among the wooden huts occupied by the Palaparese laborers.
The hooded figure walking alongside him chuckled and patted Marco on the shoulder. ”Locked up? No, my friend, we’re not getting locked up. We’re going to stir up a little trouble tonight, and no-one is going to get in our way.” Soldato peered at his fellow conspirator through a mask of steel. ”What’s the matter Red Jack? Afraid of a little danger?”
”It is not danger I fear, but the consequences of courting it. Neither of us can afford to fail tonight.” Marco grumbled. Red Jack, that was the code name he was given for this mission. He was no Volti, at least not yet, so a temporary alias was needed in order to conceal his real name. For the sake of hiding the organization’s presence in the country, Soldato chose to call himself Black King in solidarity with his new partner. The names were fitting given their respective standings in the group. He may have been the newest member, but as a true Volti he was in some way Marco’s superior. While neither of them were at liberty to give each other commands, to Marco’s great relief, it would be foolish for the young knight to disregard his ally’s plans. Espionage was not the captain’s strong suit, so it was unlikely he would choose to act on his own without a good reason.
”Of course, of course…” Soldato chuckled.
The two foreigners entered the Thirsty Bull under the cover of a storm. From what Soldato was able to gather from questioning the nearby residents, this was an infamous gathering place for Palapar’s laborers, dockhands, and sailors. The booze was cheap, and as far as dives went it was kept clean enough. Seeing outsiders was a rarity though, so the agents of the Volti had to act with caution, as they would not be hard to pick out among the other patrons.
The wooden doors of the Thirsty Bull were thrust open, allowing a cold gust of wind to blow into the room, followed by a pair of outsiders that the Palaparese had never seen before. One man was armed and armored in the way of the Revidian cuirassiers, his face hidden under the visor of his metal helmet. Standing next to him was a gentleman who covered his head and body with a hooded cloak, which should have drawn little suspicion on account of the heavy downpour.
A red in the face sailor, who appeared to have had too much alcohol in his veins, stumbled towards Marco with a cup in hand. “Oy! What are ye, one of Virang’s mercenaries? Take tha’ helmet off and show some manners you!” His arm flailed towards the Century’s face in a clumsy attempt to grab his head gear, but before Marco even had to move to protect himself one of the man’s mates came to collect the drunken mess.
“That one’s a Revidian you idiot! Do you want to make us even more enemies!?” The sailors quickly made themselves scarce. Once the annoyance had been cleared away, Soldato and Marco were free to approach the bar. They each took a seat and ordered drinks, and after giving their money a suspicious bite, the bartender poured the strange pair a cup of demon water. The Revidian pulled his visor up just enough to free his mouth and took a sip. He would have felt ripped off by the taste if the swill wasn’t so cheap. Stealing a glance at his partner, Marco noticed the Volti didn’t even bother to take the mask off, and yet his cup was somehow empty already.
The two nursed their drinks for a few minutes while listening to the chatter around the tavern. One spirited conversation seemed to catch Soldato’s attention, who patted Marco’s shoulder and pointed at a group of merchants and craftsmen. It was hard to hear over the drunken revelry of the other patrons, but it wasn’t hard to pick out the general points of the debate. Low wages, high prices, draconian law enforcement, and preferential treatment for the Company’s men. The locals were trapped by the oppression of legislation, and the combination of poor income and high taxes meant it was impossible to undertake any kind of competitive enterprise in Palapar that could rival the strength of the Company and Virang.
The Company... Marco already knew a bit about the northern coffee trade, but thanks to the information he received from Soldato he was now up to speed on the political climate as well. While they weren’t an official arm of the Virangish government, the Royal Palar Trading Company was, unofficially, an extension of their economic and military power in the region. If anything or anyone threatened to destabilize the Company’s control over Palapar’s economy, an armed response was all but guaranteed. Without outside support, the citizens of Palapar would have no hope of overcoming the massive gap in fighting power between them and their oppressors.
And that’s where we come in. Marco thought as he finished the last of his rum. Before he could ask for a refill, Soldato suddenly got out of his seat and motioned for him to follow. Marco set his cup down and followed his partner’s footsteps as they approached the gathering of rowdy men. He could hear the Volti speaking to them, but Marco’s attention was mainly focused on watching their surroundings. Someone had to keep an eye out for danger.
"Good evening, gentlemen, lovely night is it not?" Soldato introduced himself. I was curious, do you want to get back at those Virangish dogs?
They'd been in the middle of a rather spirited discussion when the outsiders had decided to introduce themselves. "Aye, and he said - with a straight face - that it wasn't worth making a fuss over!" one man, large and bearded, roared, his face and voice incredulous. There were shouts of support and shaken heads at the sheer audacity of those RoCo. goons. "Well I'll be damned," the man continued, "If that in't worth making a 'fuss' over, then what is!?
"They raised their fees on suppliers again last week," added a quieter voice in a more cultured Virangish accent. "You don't make a profit anymore if you pay your workers fair wages and offer fair prices." A few eyes turned his way. The man was tall, spare, and scholarly, with round-rimmed glasses and better clothes than the others.
"Eh, you can just pass it onto us!" spat the first man, who seemed rather deep into his cups. "Or the rich fuckers on the other side of the sea." He shook his head angrily and downed some more of his mystery drink. "Can't even buy the stuff they make us pull offa the trees," he spat.
"Hey!" said another voice, this one belonging to a strong-looking man who seemed a bit older than the twentysomethings and perhaps half-Constantian. "You remember he's one of the good ones." He placed a firm hand on the drunk man's shoulder. "He's helped a lot of us out over the years."
"Well good for him." spat the first, "or bad, I guess." He shook his head. "One decent guy can't do nothin' on his own and we need something to change now."
"Alab isn't wrong, you know," said a fourth voice, and it came from a smaller man, his voice a bass rumble. "Every time that we don't dig our heels in, that we just let them get away with things that seem small, they take more."
"And when we fight back without a plan, they use it as an excuse to make more rules and give us less," the large man replied.
"Both can be equally true," replied the Virangishman, "but it's good to see you here taking Anok's advice."
"How much?" replied the fourth man to Anok, and the larger man regarded him now, waiting for further elaboration. "When you were hurt - what was it - ten years ago?" Anok nodded. "When you were hurt, how much did you get?"
"Five hundred." Anok scowled. "It was enough for my family until I found work again."
"And now you make less than you used to."
"Now I work less than I used to."
"And what has Kilat's family gotten?" demanded Alab, slamming his now-empty cup on the table for emphasis or a refill or both. It was at that point of the conversation that the two figures who hid their faces appeared and posed their question.
"Aye," one replied to Black King. "That's not a bad idea, but who the fuck are you!?" he shook his head, face red and voice loud. "'Round here we don't hide our faces behind masks like lit-"
"Silence, Alab," warned Anok. "Do not disgrace your mother's teachings." Eyes searched the newcomers and each other.
"These men could separate your head from your shoulders before you could finish your sentence," concluded the man with the deep voice, "Though I doubt that's why they're here if they are who I think they are."
Anok scowled uneasily. "Speak your piece, then, as Dani says." He appeared skeptical. "We have had many would-be rebels before, and they've only made things worse." He crossed his arms. "But that is a mask of the Dieci Volti." Did he believe that Soldato was the genuine article? Did the others? Their tone of voice made it hard to guess.
"Wonderful! Seems introductions are not needed." Marco could hear the good cheer in Soldato’s voice. "Well, gentlemen, me and those who are with me are here to strike against Virang and free Palapar. Unlike many of those would-be rebels with their hopes of fighting against bad practices and for a better future, I'm not here to bring back the so-called good times."
After allowing the words to sink in, Soldato continued to explain his intentions to the men in a rather poetic fashion. Their interests aligned with his, and they had much to gain from working together to fight off Virang’s oppression. As for Marco, the words went in one ear and out the other. It didn’t really matter to him what was being said as long as it was convincing enough to bring these men to their side.
There were some who could get onboard with Desmond's admission of converging self-interest. He looked the part and they wanted some kind of action. Some were just drunk and angry and would've taken any excuse to storm out that door and carry out an act of violence. Others were less impressed, and as the discussion took a turn for the worse, Marco could no longer ignore what was being said between the two sides.
"That man is a killer who cares no more for you than your cruel and corrupt masters do," said the lone Virangish voice in the room. He was seated at a corner table, glasses glinting in the light of a lantern. "If you work for him, you will throw any of the righteousness of your cause away. You will forfeit the support of reasonable people in Virang and abroad who can see what is happening here and are waiting for the right moment to act in your interest."
"Sit down, Virangish devil!" roared Alab, bolting to his feet. He was taller than he'd looked before, and he glowered at the lanky man with the glasses.
"I am not your enemy..." He clenched a pipe between his teeth and struck a match.
"Yet you sell the fruits of our land for your profit," interjected Dani, in his low rumbling voice.
"...Nor this masked murderer's," the Virangishman concluded, "though he has unilaterally chosen my people as his."
"You are not master here! You have no voice among us!" Alab threatened.
The lanky man had lit his pipe. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "I have a voice wherever I am brave enough to speak with it."
"He will gut you like a fish, or I will!"
"My people have hurt enough of yours already. I am sorry for their actions."
Alab pushed his chair out and marched towards the corner booth. "Then give back all the money you stole!"
"Enough, Alab!" shouted Anok, rising to his feet or - rather - foot. The large burly man's left leg ended in a stump a few inches below his hip, and he leaned on a single crutch. "Ghazi has been nothing but a friend to us. He pays his workers well. He buys us drinks. He sets fair prices."
"And yet, a true friend might work to change matters for his less fortunate counterpart," Dani suggested.
"But nothing has changed!" shouted Alab, leveling a finger at the Virangishman. "You feed us crumbs and words and rely on a cripple who is in your debt to speak for you! You shouldn't be here! None of you should!"
Dani sipped from his flask, watching from the bar with narrowed eyes. Anok twisted where he stood and began to hobble over. "I speak of my own free will and sense of -"
Ghazi held a hand up to forestall him. "I thank you, old friend, but there is no need to put yourself at risk on account of me." The Virangishman snuffed his pipe and began to put it away in a small ornamented case. "I had hoped to be of use to you, but I see my presence may cause more harm than good." On the top of his head, he settled a blood red fez. "I will leave as soon as I am finished my drink." He reached for his walking stick. In front of him sat a half-full bottle.
Others were fired up and emboldened by drink and Desmond's and Alab's speeches, though. All of their attention was on the budding confrontation. "You will leave now, dog!" the younger man roared, and time seemed to move slowly. He struck forward, straight for the bottle, and his hand sent it spiraling towards the Virangishman.
Marco was the one who finally stepped in to intervene. Until he knew which of these men would be the most useful to the operation, he couldn’t allow anyone to come to unnecessary harm. With a flick of his wrist, he nudged the bottle with a sliver of Kinetic energy, sending it off course just enough to make it look like Ahab had simply missed his target. Then he jumped between the quarreling men, holding one hand towards each of them in an attempt to create some distance.
”Now hold on just a moment! There is no call for such violent actions until everyone has said their piece!” He shouted.
Alab seethed and very nearly struck Red Jack, and perhaps he would've were it not for Anok. "Think, Alab! If you strike these outsiders, the guards will come." That pulled him up short, barely, with a few others echoing the warning. "If you are on our side," the young man suggested, raising his chin challengingly. "Then show us how you deal with this." he flicked a hand in Ghazi's direction.
Throughout the entire ordeal, the Virangishman had not so much as flinched, and he didn't now. He reached for his drink as if it was still there and, when it was not, he heaved a little sigh. "I appear to have spilled my drink," he remarked. "How clumsy of me." He shook his head ruefully and began to scoot out of the booth. "Please allow me to pay for this mess." He started to reach into an inside pocket of his cloak.
Marco's instincts took over as soon as Ghazi reached inside of his cloak. Suspicion of a hidden weapon or similarly dangerous object drove him to suddenly turn away from Alab and grab Ghazi’s arm. There was a second of pause as he realized how strange his behavior looked, so in the spur of the moment Marco pulled out a handful of coins from his pockets and slammed them on the table. ”No need. Respectfully, your generosity rings hollow given that your profits come from the blood and tears of these people before you.” After pulling that line out of his arse, Marco glanced desperately at Soldato from behind the cover of his helmet. They needed a transition out of this situation, and they needed one now.
Ghazi didn't fight it. Perhaps he could not or perhaps he simply knew that he was outmatched. "Perhaps Alab speaks for you all," he remarked, still perfectly well-behaved. "Perhaps the sudden guarantees of these men you do not know speak louder than my actions of the past ten years." He shrugged, eyes sweeping the room but, for a moment, “Red Jack” could've sworn he noticed something: they lingered for just a little bit too long on Dani, and something brief but meaningful passed between the two men.
A handful, near the back, found the courage to speak up against Alab, finally. Ghazi was not like the other Virangish. Ghazi bought them drinks. Ghazi had donated to their families when they had lost a loved one. Others, however, shouted him down. "Now, sir," he challenged, amid the cacophony, "Are you going to hold me here and punish me for the crime of being Virangish, or do I still have my freedom?" For the first time, the mild-mannered man's eyes narrowed. They darted Soldato's way and then back to Marco.
At the height of tension, the Volti raised his hand, gesturing for a minute of silence. When it was quiet enough for his voice to be heard, he spoke.
”That depends.” Marco saw his partner make a gesture at Ghazi. "My hatred is not towards men and women who carry blood that comes from Virang. Only those who wish to forward its backwards practices for 'prosperity'. Those are the Virangish people. The rest who come from that land are the used, the abused, and the ones who need to choose. So-" Soldato leaned against Ghazi’s table, and his voice grew dark.
"-Are you Virangish?" Then he gave another option, his voice lightening up a little, "Or, are you Palaparese?"
Ghazi, despite looking like a harmless beanpole, would not be easily intimidated. His eyes narrowed and he did not flinch from Desmond's gaze. "I could speak to you of the rolling green hills north of Izan, of the songs that the washerwomen sing as they work, of the village festivals and the merry songs and the shy first dances and blushing glances of the preteens. I could go on at length about the old men who gather around the hookah in the morning to speak of the news of the day, or the sweat and tears of the artist as he works on a great mural for the idasque just the same as the old woman who knits colourful stockings for her granddaughter." He shook his head sadly. "Might I speak of the taverns by the docks where men little different from these gather to drink and commiserate, or the rocky hills where shepherds watch over their flocks, warding off wolves and dragons so they might shear their sheep and trade the wool for the food that they and their families need."
Ghazi crossed his arms obstinately. "All of those things are Virang, not only the cruelty that you see from a select few parasites who have taken their evil from my country and brought it to Palapar. I am ashamed of those men and how they represent my people, and I grieve for what they have done here, but I am Virangish and not ashamed to be. Do what you will." He spread his arms, palms upward, in a gesture of nonthreatening acceptance.
Then came a reply. "So, are you here merely to flee and have been run down by them anyway in this place so far from your home, or will you do more than just talk, Ghazi?" It was Dani, coming up beside the masked man and crossing his arms.
"There are many ways in which a man might help another man," the Virangishman answered cryptically, "And many in which he might hurt him." He nodded, eyes darting about. "For some, you might take his strength." They settled momentarily on Anok. "For another, perhaps his pride and sense of freedom." He gazed straight ahead at Dani. "For still more - and most, I believe - you hit them in the coinpurse." he regarded Alab last. "Those who have little money will feel every slight against it with a rightful and burning desperation, and taking what little they have may well push them over the edge."
He snorted and shook his head ruefully. "But for those who are greedy, it smarts nearly as much, for it is what they value most." He leaned his head in the direction of the harbour, where a huge new shipment of coffee was ready to go out on three galleons the next morning. "Imagine how much it would do to those money-grubbing creatures if something were to happen to those goods they value more dearly than people's lives." His eyes narrowed once more, and they passed about the space. "Now, you tell me: should I stay or should I go?"
Soldato allowed Ghazi to speak his piece, and after he was done talking, the Volti pointed a finger. "Finding men like you is hard to come by. Even if you carry blood from the same land as those men". He nodded in affirmation. "So please, stay. I believe you staying would be good. For many reasons".
"He is one of them!" Alab spat, but he was in the minority now, and “Black King's” support seemed to have been the final word in swinging it. "Sometimes allies look like enemies," Anok told the man, pulling him briefly aside. "You know I know this well." He pressed a hand to Alab's chest. "Pick your shot wisely."
Dani's gaze swept the room. "He is right and, now that we have... professionals helping us, we should make ourselves heard." He twisted towards the Virangishman. "Ghazi, you said there was a shipment ready to go out?"
Ghazi nodded. "Worth a fortune."
"We should take it!" shouted one patron.
"We could resell it!" another agreed.
"On what market?"
"I want none of their stinking money," Alab spat. "I just want them gone."
"Well then, I'll spend it!" the first man shot back with a rueful laugh.
"If we spend it," said Dani, his low voice cutting through the din, "Then we are traceable and little more than thieves." He shook his head. "If we want to make a statement, we will dump the whole lot and watch them scramble like tamarins to recover their whole stinking hoard." He grinned wickedly.
Marco had nothing to add to the discourse, so he stayed silent as the men made their plans. He was used to leading soldiers on the battlefield, not skulking about in the dark. This business was wholly unfamiliar to him, and so far he had resigned himself to playing the role of a bodyguard and enforcer to Volto Blu. His only interest was preventing any casualties on both sides unless someone's death served to further Black King's rebellious scheme. He didn't really care whether they took Ghazi's side or Alab's, no matter what he said to keep their tempers in check. All that mattered was that they find a way to hit Virang where it hurt, and that his contact with the Volti survived.
I must admit, the kid has a way with words. Until now I have only spoken to the Volti with my sword, but after working with one this closely, I've begun to understand how they are so capable of fostering dissent. Marco smirked.
Soldato was clearly not one to look the gift horse in the mouth. Ghazi’s eloquence could have its uses. He was, fundamentally, a man of action and a clear course had presented itself.
It was a manic euphoric sort of energy that carried them out of the Thirsty Bull, then. Despite the rain, despite the darkness, they tumbled into the streets, a horde of fifty or so men and a handful of women. Some shouted, some sang. Some walked with a quiet stern sense of purpose. They walked unerringly for the harbour, for the ships laden with product stolen from their soil and destined for foreign markets where it would be sold for hundreds of times what they had been paid to grow it.
The hammering downpour drenched them. They did not care. The muddy streets sucked at their feet. They were not bothered. The ambient noise of the storm muffled their cries for fairness and justice. This, perhaps, was for the better. The guard station, with its uniformed Virangish soldiers, was dangerously close, and were they to find out what was happening, it would simply not happen.
Having a mob at the Volti's disposal was useful, but these were civilians they were working with, not trained soldiers. Most of them had had something to drink, and there wasn't a hint of discipline to be found among any of them. Even the pouring rain wouldn't be enough to suppress the noise of their shouts and footsteps once they reached their destination. If the group was to approach Ghazi's marked ship without being detected, measures would have to be taken to mask their approach. While both men were dangerous in their own right, Marco was the clear winner compared to Soldato when it came to raw magical power, so it was agreed that he would provide the stealth while Soldato worked to knock out the ship's security. It took all of his concentration and capacity to create a sonic bubble large enough to squash the sound of fifty men and women marching across the street and stomping up the boarding ramps, but he got the job done. However, as long as he was channeling the spell he wouldn't be able to help his partner with his own task. Soldato was on his own as the Century entered a deep meditation in order to sustain his spell for the rest of the night. He would not learn the specifics of what occurred on the ship until morning...
Marco hoped he would be able to learn more about Volto Blu on the ride to Palapar, but things didn't work out the way he hoped. A boat ride to Palapar from the mainland would have taken at least a week, and there was no such time to spare. They had to risk the use of a portal and get started immediately or else they would be too late to have an impact on the uprising. Each of them had hastily made arrangements to sort out their alibis and means of arrival before linking up at the agreed upon rendezvous. In Marco’s case, he was supposedly on his way to provide protection for the chapel in light of the recent unrest and, officially, was on a charter ship en route to a port rented out by the Virangish coffee merchants. Nobody on his side would suspect that he was already present in Palapar as a double agent. As long as he kept his face and name hidden, he could continue to maintain his good standing with the Centuries without suspicion.
”Look there, a guard post. Are you sure you want to try this here? We could get ourselves locked in the pillory.” Marco pointed to a sentinel carrying a spear and lantern, who was posted next to a large brickwork building that stood out like a sore thumb among the wooden huts occupied by the Palaparese laborers.
The hooded figure walking alongside him chuckled and patted Marco on the shoulder. ”Locked up? No, my friend, we’re not getting locked up. We’re going to stir up a little trouble tonight, and no-one is going to get in our way.” Soldato peered at his fellow conspirator through a mask of steel. ”What’s the matter Red Jack? Afraid of a little danger?”
”It is not danger I fear, but the consequences of courting it. Neither of us can afford to fail tonight.” Marco grumbled. Red Jack, that was the code name he was given for this mission. He was no Volti, at least not yet, so a temporary alias was needed in order to conceal his real name. For the sake of hiding the organization’s presence in the country, Soldato chose to call himself Black King in solidarity with his new partner. The names were fitting given their respective standings in the group. He may have been the newest member, but as a true Volti he was in some way Marco’s superior. While neither of them were at liberty to give each other commands, to Marco’s great relief, it would be foolish for the young knight to disregard his ally’s plans. Espionage was not the captain’s strong suit, so it was unlikely he would choose to act on his own without a good reason.
”Of course, of course…” Soldato chuckled.
The two foreigners entered the Thirsty Bull under the cover of a storm. From what Soldato was able to gather from questioning the nearby residents, this was an infamous gathering place for Palapar’s laborers, dockhands, and sailors. The booze was cheap, and as far as dives went it was kept clean enough. Seeing outsiders was a rarity though, so the agents of the Volti had to act with caution, as they would not be hard to pick out among the other patrons.
The wooden doors of the Thirsty Bull were thrust open, allowing a cold gust of wind to blow into the room, followed by a pair of outsiders that the Palaparese had never seen before. One man was armed and armored in the way of the Revidian cuirassiers, his face hidden under the visor of his metal helmet. Standing next to him was a gentleman who covered his head and body with a hooded cloak, which should have drawn little suspicion on account of the heavy downpour.
A red in the face sailor, who appeared to have had too much alcohol in his veins, stumbled towards Marco with a cup in hand. “Oy! What are ye, one of Virang’s mercenaries? Take tha’ helmet off and show some manners you!” His arm flailed towards the Century’s face in a clumsy attempt to grab his head gear, but before Marco even had to move to protect himself one of the man’s mates came to collect the drunken mess.
“That one’s a Revidian you idiot! Do you want to make us even more enemies!?” The sailors quickly made themselves scarce. Once the annoyance had been cleared away, Soldato and Marco were free to approach the bar. They each took a seat and ordered drinks, and after giving their money a suspicious bite, the bartender poured the strange pair a cup of demon water. The Revidian pulled his visor up just enough to free his mouth and took a sip. He would have felt ripped off by the taste if the swill wasn’t so cheap. Stealing a glance at his partner, Marco noticed the Volti didn’t even bother to take the mask off, and yet his cup was somehow empty already.
The two nursed their drinks for a few minutes while listening to the chatter around the tavern. One spirited conversation seemed to catch Soldato’s attention, who patted Marco’s shoulder and pointed at a group of merchants and craftsmen. It was hard to hear over the drunken revelry of the other patrons, but it wasn’t hard to pick out the general points of the debate. Low wages, high prices, draconian law enforcement, and preferential treatment for the Company’s men. The locals were trapped by the oppression of legislation, and the combination of poor income and high taxes meant it was impossible to undertake any kind of competitive enterprise in Palapar that could rival the strength of the Company and Virang.
The Company... Marco already knew a bit about the northern coffee trade, but thanks to the information he received from Soldato he was now up to speed on the political climate as well. While they weren’t an official arm of the Virangish government, the Royal Palar Trading Company was, unofficially, an extension of their economic and military power in the region. If anything or anyone threatened to destabilize the Company’s control over Palapar’s economy, an armed response was all but guaranteed. Without outside support, the citizens of Palapar would have no hope of overcoming the massive gap in fighting power between them and their oppressors.
And that’s where we come in. Marco thought as he finished the last of his rum. Before he could ask for a refill, Soldato suddenly got out of his seat and motioned for him to follow. Marco set his cup down and followed his partner’s footsteps as they approached the gathering of rowdy men. He could hear the Volti speaking to them, but Marco’s attention was mainly focused on watching their surroundings. Someone had to keep an eye out for danger.
"Good evening, gentlemen, lovely night is it not?" Soldato introduced himself. I was curious, do you want to get back at those Virangish dogs?
They'd been in the middle of a rather spirited discussion when the outsiders had decided to introduce themselves. "Aye, and he said - with a straight face - that it wasn't worth making a fuss over!" one man, large and bearded, roared, his face and voice incredulous. There were shouts of support and shaken heads at the sheer audacity of those RoCo. goons. "Well I'll be damned," the man continued, "If that in't worth making a 'fuss' over, then what is!?
"They raised their fees on suppliers again last week," added a quieter voice in a more cultured Virangish accent. "You don't make a profit anymore if you pay your workers fair wages and offer fair prices." A few eyes turned his way. The man was tall, spare, and scholarly, with round-rimmed glasses and better clothes than the others.
"Eh, you can just pass it onto us!" spat the first man, who seemed rather deep into his cups. "Or the rich fuckers on the other side of the sea." He shook his head angrily and downed some more of his mystery drink. "Can't even buy the stuff they make us pull offa the trees," he spat.
"Hey!" said another voice, this one belonging to a strong-looking man who seemed a bit older than the twentysomethings and perhaps half-Constantian. "You remember he's one of the good ones." He placed a firm hand on the drunk man's shoulder. "He's helped a lot of us out over the years."
"Well good for him." spat the first, "or bad, I guess." He shook his head. "One decent guy can't do nothin' on his own and we need something to change now."
"Alab isn't wrong, you know," said a fourth voice, and it came from a smaller man, his voice a bass rumble. "Every time that we don't dig our heels in, that we just let them get away with things that seem small, they take more."
"And when we fight back without a plan, they use it as an excuse to make more rules and give us less," the large man replied.
"Both can be equally true," replied the Virangishman, "but it's good to see you here taking Anok's advice."
"How much?" replied the fourth man to Anok, and the larger man regarded him now, waiting for further elaboration. "When you were hurt - what was it - ten years ago?" Anok nodded. "When you were hurt, how much did you get?"
"Five hundred." Anok scowled. "It was enough for my family until I found work again."
"And now you make less than you used to."
"Now I work less than I used to."
"And what has Kilat's family gotten?" demanded Alab, slamming his now-empty cup on the table for emphasis or a refill or both. It was at that point of the conversation that the two figures who hid their faces appeared and posed their question.
"Aye," one replied to Black King. "That's not a bad idea, but who the fuck are you!?" he shook his head, face red and voice loud. "'Round here we don't hide our faces behind masks like lit-"
"Silence, Alab," warned Anok. "Do not disgrace your mother's teachings." Eyes searched the newcomers and each other.
"These men could separate your head from your shoulders before you could finish your sentence," concluded the man with the deep voice, "Though I doubt that's why they're here if they are who I think they are."
Anok scowled uneasily. "Speak your piece, then, as Dani says." He appeared skeptical. "We have had many would-be rebels before, and they've only made things worse." He crossed his arms. "But that is a mask of the Dieci Volti." Did he believe that Soldato was the genuine article? Did the others? Their tone of voice made it hard to guess.
"Wonderful! Seems introductions are not needed." Marco could hear the good cheer in Soldato’s voice. "Well, gentlemen, me and those who are with me are here to strike against Virang and free Palapar. Unlike many of those would-be rebels with their hopes of fighting against bad practices and for a better future, I'm not here to bring back the so-called good times."
After allowing the words to sink in, Soldato continued to explain his intentions to the men in a rather poetic fashion. Their interests aligned with his, and they had much to gain from working together to fight off Virang’s oppression. As for Marco, the words went in one ear and out the other. It didn’t really matter to him what was being said as long as it was convincing enough to bring these men to their side.
There were some who could get onboard with Desmond's admission of converging self-interest. He looked the part and they wanted some kind of action. Some were just drunk and angry and would've taken any excuse to storm out that door and carry out an act of violence. Others were less impressed, and as the discussion took a turn for the worse, Marco could no longer ignore what was being said between the two sides.
"That man is a killer who cares no more for you than your cruel and corrupt masters do," said the lone Virangish voice in the room. He was seated at a corner table, glasses glinting in the light of a lantern. "If you work for him, you will throw any of the righteousness of your cause away. You will forfeit the support of reasonable people in Virang and abroad who can see what is happening here and are waiting for the right moment to act in your interest."
"Sit down, Virangish devil!" roared Alab, bolting to his feet. He was taller than he'd looked before, and he glowered at the lanky man with the glasses.
"I am not your enemy..." He clenched a pipe between his teeth and struck a match.
"Yet you sell the fruits of our land for your profit," interjected Dani, in his low rumbling voice.
"...Nor this masked murderer's," the Virangishman concluded, "though he has unilaterally chosen my people as his."
"You are not master here! You have no voice among us!" Alab threatened.
The lanky man had lit his pipe. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "I have a voice wherever I am brave enough to speak with it."
"He will gut you like a fish, or I will!"
"My people have hurt enough of yours already. I am sorry for their actions."
Alab pushed his chair out and marched towards the corner booth. "Then give back all the money you stole!"
"Enough, Alab!" shouted Anok, rising to his feet or - rather - foot. The large burly man's left leg ended in a stump a few inches below his hip, and he leaned on a single crutch. "Ghazi has been nothing but a friend to us. He pays his workers well. He buys us drinks. He sets fair prices."
"And yet, a true friend might work to change matters for his less fortunate counterpart," Dani suggested.
"But nothing has changed!" shouted Alab, leveling a finger at the Virangishman. "You feed us crumbs and words and rely on a cripple who is in your debt to speak for you! You shouldn't be here! None of you should!"
Dani sipped from his flask, watching from the bar with narrowed eyes. Anok twisted where he stood and began to hobble over. "I speak of my own free will and sense of -"
Ghazi held a hand up to forestall him. "I thank you, old friend, but there is no need to put yourself at risk on account of me." The Virangishman snuffed his pipe and began to put it away in a small ornamented case. "I had hoped to be of use to you, but I see my presence may cause more harm than good." On the top of his head, he settled a blood red fez. "I will leave as soon as I am finished my drink." He reached for his walking stick. In front of him sat a half-full bottle.
Others were fired up and emboldened by drink and Desmond's and Alab's speeches, though. All of their attention was on the budding confrontation. "You will leave now, dog!" the younger man roared, and time seemed to move slowly. He struck forward, straight for the bottle, and his hand sent it spiraling towards the Virangishman.
Marco was the one who finally stepped in to intervene. Until he knew which of these men would be the most useful to the operation, he couldn’t allow anyone to come to unnecessary harm. With a flick of his wrist, he nudged the bottle with a sliver of Kinetic energy, sending it off course just enough to make it look like Ahab had simply missed his target. Then he jumped between the quarreling men, holding one hand towards each of them in an attempt to create some distance.
”Now hold on just a moment! There is no call for such violent actions until everyone has said their piece!” He shouted.
Alab seethed and very nearly struck Red Jack, and perhaps he would've were it not for Anok. "Think, Alab! If you strike these outsiders, the guards will come." That pulled him up short, barely, with a few others echoing the warning. "If you are on our side," the young man suggested, raising his chin challengingly. "Then show us how you deal with this." he flicked a hand in Ghazi's direction.
Throughout the entire ordeal, the Virangishman had not so much as flinched, and he didn't now. He reached for his drink as if it was still there and, when it was not, he heaved a little sigh. "I appear to have spilled my drink," he remarked. "How clumsy of me." He shook his head ruefully and began to scoot out of the booth. "Please allow me to pay for this mess." He started to reach into an inside pocket of his cloak.
Marco's instincts took over as soon as Ghazi reached inside of his cloak. Suspicion of a hidden weapon or similarly dangerous object drove him to suddenly turn away from Alab and grab Ghazi’s arm. There was a second of pause as he realized how strange his behavior looked, so in the spur of the moment Marco pulled out a handful of coins from his pockets and slammed them on the table. ”No need. Respectfully, your generosity rings hollow given that your profits come from the blood and tears of these people before you.” After pulling that line out of his arse, Marco glanced desperately at Soldato from behind the cover of his helmet. They needed a transition out of this situation, and they needed one now.
Ghazi didn't fight it. Perhaps he could not or perhaps he simply knew that he was outmatched. "Perhaps Alab speaks for you all," he remarked, still perfectly well-behaved. "Perhaps the sudden guarantees of these men you do not know speak louder than my actions of the past ten years." He shrugged, eyes sweeping the room but, for a moment, “Red Jack” could've sworn he noticed something: they lingered for just a little bit too long on Dani, and something brief but meaningful passed between the two men.
A handful, near the back, found the courage to speak up against Alab, finally. Ghazi was not like the other Virangish. Ghazi bought them drinks. Ghazi had donated to their families when they had lost a loved one. Others, however, shouted him down. "Now, sir," he challenged, amid the cacophony, "Are you going to hold me here and punish me for the crime of being Virangish, or do I still have my freedom?" For the first time, the mild-mannered man's eyes narrowed. They darted Soldato's way and then back to Marco.
At the height of tension, the Volti raised his hand, gesturing for a minute of silence. When it was quiet enough for his voice to be heard, he spoke.
”That depends.” Marco saw his partner make a gesture at Ghazi. "My hatred is not towards men and women who carry blood that comes from Virang. Only those who wish to forward its backwards practices for 'prosperity'. Those are the Virangish people. The rest who come from that land are the used, the abused, and the ones who need to choose. So-" Soldato leaned against Ghazi’s table, and his voice grew dark.
"-Are you Virangish?" Then he gave another option, his voice lightening up a little, "Or, are you Palaparese?"
Ghazi, despite looking like a harmless beanpole, would not be easily intimidated. His eyes narrowed and he did not flinch from Desmond's gaze. "I could speak to you of the rolling green hills north of Izan, of the songs that the washerwomen sing as they work, of the village festivals and the merry songs and the shy first dances and blushing glances of the preteens. I could go on at length about the old men who gather around the hookah in the morning to speak of the news of the day, or the sweat and tears of the artist as he works on a great mural for the idasque just the same as the old woman who knits colourful stockings for her granddaughter." He shook his head sadly. "Might I speak of the taverns by the docks where men little different from these gather to drink and commiserate, or the rocky hills where shepherds watch over their flocks, warding off wolves and dragons so they might shear their sheep and trade the wool for the food that they and their families need."
Ghazi crossed his arms obstinately. "All of those things are Virang, not only the cruelty that you see from a select few parasites who have taken their evil from my country and brought it to Palapar. I am ashamed of those men and how they represent my people, and I grieve for what they have done here, but I am Virangish and not ashamed to be. Do what you will." He spread his arms, palms upward, in a gesture of nonthreatening acceptance.
Then came a reply. "So, are you here merely to flee and have been run down by them anyway in this place so far from your home, or will you do more than just talk, Ghazi?" It was Dani, coming up beside the masked man and crossing his arms.
"There are many ways in which a man might help another man," the Virangishman answered cryptically, "And many in which he might hurt him." He nodded, eyes darting about. "For some, you might take his strength." They settled momentarily on Anok. "For another, perhaps his pride and sense of freedom." He gazed straight ahead at Dani. "For still more - and most, I believe - you hit them in the coinpurse." he regarded Alab last. "Those who have little money will feel every slight against it with a rightful and burning desperation, and taking what little they have may well push them over the edge."
He snorted and shook his head ruefully. "But for those who are greedy, it smarts nearly as much, for it is what they value most." He leaned his head in the direction of the harbour, where a huge new shipment of coffee was ready to go out on three galleons the next morning. "Imagine how much it would do to those money-grubbing creatures if something were to happen to those goods they value more dearly than people's lives." His eyes narrowed once more, and they passed about the space. "Now, you tell me: should I stay or should I go?"
Soldato allowed Ghazi to speak his piece, and after he was done talking, the Volti pointed a finger. "Finding men like you is hard to come by. Even if you carry blood from the same land as those men". He nodded in affirmation. "So please, stay. I believe you staying would be good. For many reasons".
"He is one of them!" Alab spat, but he was in the minority now, and “Black King's” support seemed to have been the final word in swinging it. "Sometimes allies look like enemies," Anok told the man, pulling him briefly aside. "You know I know this well." He pressed a hand to Alab's chest. "Pick your shot wisely."
Dani's gaze swept the room. "He is right and, now that we have... professionals helping us, we should make ourselves heard." He twisted towards the Virangishman. "Ghazi, you said there was a shipment ready to go out?"
Ghazi nodded. "Worth a fortune."
"We should take it!" shouted one patron.
"We could resell it!" another agreed.
"On what market?"
"I want none of their stinking money," Alab spat. "I just want them gone."
"Well then, I'll spend it!" the first man shot back with a rueful laugh.
"If we spend it," said Dani, his low voice cutting through the din, "Then we are traceable and little more than thieves." He shook his head. "If we want to make a statement, we will dump the whole lot and watch them scramble like tamarins to recover their whole stinking hoard." He grinned wickedly.
Marco had nothing to add to the discourse, so he stayed silent as the men made their plans. He was used to leading soldiers on the battlefield, not skulking about in the dark. This business was wholly unfamiliar to him, and so far he had resigned himself to playing the role of a bodyguard and enforcer to Volto Blu. His only interest was preventing any casualties on both sides unless someone's death served to further Black King's rebellious scheme. He didn't really care whether they took Ghazi's side or Alab's, no matter what he said to keep their tempers in check. All that mattered was that they find a way to hit Virang where it hurt, and that his contact with the Volti survived.
I must admit, the kid has a way with words. Until now I have only spoken to the Volti with my sword, but after working with one this closely, I've begun to understand how they are so capable of fostering dissent. Marco smirked.
Soldato was clearly not one to look the gift horse in the mouth. Ghazi’s eloquence could have its uses. He was, fundamentally, a man of action and a clear course had presented itself.
It was a manic euphoric sort of energy that carried them out of the Thirsty Bull, then. Despite the rain, despite the darkness, they tumbled into the streets, a horde of fifty or so men and a handful of women. Some shouted, some sang. Some walked with a quiet stern sense of purpose. They walked unerringly for the harbour, for the ships laden with product stolen from their soil and destined for foreign markets where it would be sold for hundreds of times what they had been paid to grow it.
The hammering downpour drenched them. They did not care. The muddy streets sucked at their feet. They were not bothered. The ambient noise of the storm muffled their cries for fairness and justice. This, perhaps, was for the better. The guard station, with its uniformed Virangish soldiers, was dangerously close, and were they to find out what was happening, it would simply not happen.
Having a mob at the Volti's disposal was useful, but these were civilians they were working with, not trained soldiers. Most of them had had something to drink, and there wasn't a hint of discipline to be found among any of them. Even the pouring rain wouldn't be enough to suppress the noise of their shouts and footsteps once they reached their destination. If the group was to approach Ghazi's marked ship without being detected, measures would have to be taken to mask their approach. While both men were dangerous in their own right, Marco was the clear winner compared to Soldato when it came to raw magical power, so it was agreed that he would provide the stealth while Soldato worked to knock out the ship's security. It took all of his concentration and capacity to create a sonic bubble large enough to squash the sound of fifty men and women marching across the street and stomping up the boarding ramps, but he got the job done. However, as long as he was channeling the spell he wouldn't be able to help his partner with his own task. Soldato was on his own as the Century entered a deep meditation in order to sustain his spell for the rest of the night. He would not learn the specifics of what occurred on the ship until morning...
