Penny

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

Jocasta opened her mouth, a clever lie already forming on her lips. Unfortunately the guard closest to a panic button was already lurching toward it, either having recognized the prisoners, or simply too nervy to wait a few seconds for clarification. Quick as lighting Jocasta yanked the needler from its pouch, thrust it out one handed and fired. The miniaturized weapon made a whack, whack, whack, as it fired combining the air splitting report with the hum of the acceleration coils, sounding like the worlds most spiteful sewing machine. The man going for the alarm jerked and fell sideways, blood grouting from the joint between his chest plate and his helmet. Everything was suddenly happening at once. The guard closest to Jocasta tried to swing the barrel of his rifle to bear even as his lips twisted to shout for help. Jocasta cut her arm down, parrying the barrel away with her own weapon. The plasma rifle went off with a sun bright flare that made the hair stand up on everyone's neck. The ravening plasma bolt struck one of the ceramic riot shields and refracted splashing up over a number of cardboard containers which immediately began to burn. Jocasta fired her needler as she finished her parry, putting three needle sharp spikes into the boot and lower leg of her assailant. The man reeled back in time for his chin to meet Markus's pistol but as it came forward, cracking him back so hard the chin strap of his helmet broke and bounced free. The bloodied guard now unconscious crashed into his partner as he tried to clear his own weapon and he went down in a tangle of limbs.

An alarm began to shriek, a fire alarm ironically, and the roof erupted in a torrential downpour of fire suppressing foam. The stuff had a reeking chemical tang and somehow managed to be both slippery and clingy. Jocasta tried to back up to get room but her feet went out from under her and she crashed to the ground, her needler still shimmering with the waist heat. Markus fired into the pair of downed guards with a quick snap snap that made both bodies spasm and lay still.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

"Do your wizardly powers give you any idea which direction we should be going? Kasimir demanded. Emmaline looked around the strange landscape. The flowers were growing thicker and larger by the moment, not to mention considerably more alien. The air was heavy with pollen and perfume that made Emmaline want to sneeze.

"Actually they do," Emmaline admitted, stepping carefully around a wrist thick stamen that probe blindly for her.

"Mind sharing that information with me?" Kasimir asked.

"Left," she said pointing vaguely into he forest. Kasimir looked skeptical, turning slowly and keeping the point of his sword in a low guard. A pair of squirrels chittered from a nearby elm tree, their eyes massive and faintly luminescent. Everything about this place was beautiful and menacing.

"How do you know?" Kasimir pressed as Emmaline set off in the direction she had indicated. She looked back over her shoulder.

"We are in a theatrical backdrop, exit is always stage left."

______________

The landscape drew slowly steeper and bare rock emerged through the leaf mold. The rocks divided up into numerous small pools, in which lotus like flowers floated serenely. The trees here were of no type Emmaline had seen, large broad leaves of deep green with purplish veins. The trunks were covered with ambler sap which coated them like old honey or incipient amber. There were shapes beneath he sap, human shapes. Emmaline saw a naked Imperial woman, eyes staring wide in ecstatic pleasure in her syrupy psuedodeath. Another cascade of sap contained a handsome man with staring horrified eyes.

Emmaline... the wind seemed to whisper.

"Did you hear that?" Emmaline demanded, spinning rapidly around to try to find the source of the sound.

"All I hear is the wind," Kasimir said then paused... "and maybe surf, why what..."
"Would you be quiet, I'm trying to listen!" Emmaline hissed, exasperated. Kasimir rolled his eyes but fell silent for a moment while she listened. The sap continued to run from the trees, slowly growing too thick to make out the people trapped beneath, rending them dark shadows against the sticky amber slime.

"It's not surf," Emmaline said after a moment, "it's applause. The show must have started."

"That is hours away," Kasimir objected, then fell silent, "of course we are in an insane painting so why should time work normally."

Emmaline ... she spun around, catching a glimpse of the white hart at the edge of the treeline.

"Aureum Fulmen Lucis!" Emmaline shouted, thrusting out both hands with fingers interlocked and palms turned out. The hart bounded away a moment before a golden beam of light the thickness of Emmaline's forearm scythed through the woodland it had occupied a moment before. One of the trees touched by the beam exploded with a shattering crash and chunks of syrup, wood and the unfortunate victim it had entombed rained down, waking great splashes from the pond. Emmaline slewed her beam after the retreating hart but it had already vanished among the trees.

"We have to follow it," Emmaline decided, heading off after the hart.

"Oh sure lets follow the monster," Kasimir griped.

"Feel free to stay here," Emmaline called. Kasimir glared at her back but followed a moment later.

______

Nor did the landscape grow more pleasant as they moved up hill in the direction the hart had fled. The trees gave way to large thick trunked flowers. They were in riotous colors in every shade and pattern imaginable. Emmaline had the uncomfortable impression of of women with their head and shoulders planted in the soil, an impression uncomfortably amplified when a dozen bees, the size of large dogs emerged from a glade. Instead of stingers the insects bore very large but very human phallus, if human phallus had been ebony black. They began to 'pollinate' the flowers furiously and Emmaline felt a dull vibration beneath the earth, though whether it was screaming or moaning she couldn't fightly say.

It can be both Emmaline... the voice in her head promised.

They wouldn't come to the forest, so we have bought the forest to them...

"We are running out of time," Emmaline breathed, holding out both hands against a sudden rush by the bee things, though they seemed focused enough on their task.

"If we don't get out of here fast, I'm afraid something very bad is going to happen in the palace..."

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

"Well, if you insist on taking all the fun out of it, it's over there," Jocasta told him, hooking her thumb towards the refresher.

Twenty minutes later, Jocasta too was changed into a similar worker's uniform, though despite her best efforts, it clung to her more than was optimal. The fusion beamer, like Markus’ sword, had been confiscated when they had been captured, so she armed herself with a K-21 Argosy Needler — a weapon between a pistol and a submachine gun. Finished in bone-white polymer, it electromotively fired tiny metal darts. Each projectile was small, but at close to Mach 7, the little hollow points were more than capable of putting a man down.

"Not much penetrating power," Markus cautioned her as she checked the battery pack on the weapon.

"She might not look like much, but she’s got it where it counts," Jocasta riposted, reaching into her duffel and withdrawing a U-shaped attachment with three noticeably large caliber rounds, clipping it to the nose of the needler. A telltale light lit up and the underslung launcher made three clicks as it ran its diagnostic.

"Tungsten jacketed slugs, all the penetration a girl could ask for," Jocasta explained, tucking the weapon into a pouch on her belt that looked like it should contain a multitool or a vacuum wrench.

Markus eyed her preparations with a mixture of admiration and skepticism. "So now we can go kill the bastard?" he groused. Jocasta shoved her remaining clothing into her duffel and slung it over her shoulder. Markus stared at her for a moment in disbelief.

"That hardware must weigh 200 pounds," he objected. Jocasta bounced the bag as though it weighed nothing.

"Hey, maybe I really work out," she winked. People were familiar with counter grav when it was used in ships, but it really was amazing what you could do with it when you put your mind to it.

"But to your killing the bastards point, fear not, your manhood shall soon be restored to you!" she promised grandiosely.

"My manhood is just fine; it’s my sword I want," Markus growled.

"Potato, potago," she replied blithely, leading the way out of the hotel as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

______________

"Badge check!" Jocasta called to a file of workers as they headed towards the service entrance to Gallanis compound. Unlike the main entrance with its gates of wrought iron and force field generators, the service entrance was unprepossessing — little more than a set of security blast doors and a checkpoint. Like the front door, however, it was well defended; a duraplas pillbox squatted opposite the checkpoint, a heavy automatic weapon protruding ominously to cover the approach. It was located a level below at the end of a long axial corridor that connected it to the docks so that goods and personnel could be brought in without disturbing his Lordship's gardens. The workmen, garbed in more or less the same clothing as Markus and Jocasta, looked up with a combination of irritation and fear as Jocasta stepped forward, producing a handheld computer with a scanning wand.

"Idents out, move along," Jocasta called, scanning the chip of each workman as they passed. Each time, her scanner lit green and bleeped its approval. One of the workers stepped close with an appreciative glance.

"What’s all this about?" he asked, giving her a bit of a leer for good measure. Jocasta didn’t look up from the holographic display on her scanner.

"I don’t know, something about a pair of dangerous and attractive mercenaries escaping his nibs' clutches," Jocasta replied with blithe disinterest that made Markus wince. She scanned the worker's chip and was rewarded with another approving bleep.

"Did Clem send you?" the man asked, apparently idly. Jocasta didn’t look up.

"Clem? Is this some sort of lower echelon joke I’m too well paid to understand?" she asked in a bored voice. The worker glared at her, glanced at Markus, who gave him a 'what can you do' shrug, and then returned to the line.

"So you scanned their IDs," Markus noted, "can you make up false ones to get us in?"

"Already have," Jocasta replied. There was a whirring as her scanner produced a plastic label. Jocasta slapped it across Markus’s right breast; it adhered to the fabric to form a name tag: Watson. She repeated the process, labeling herself Holmes.

"Watson and Holmes?" he asked.

"Just something a random name generator threw up," Jocasta replied innocently.

"So now we just bluff our way in?" he asked. Jocasta giggled.

"Of course not; they are expecting us!" She assured him.

"How can they be expecting us if you just faked these IDs?" he asked.

"Well, if you insist on knowing how the sausage is made, I broke up an appointment file into bits and uploaded it to each of those worker IDs. When the guards scan them, it goes into the mainframe; it just looks like junk. Except once it is in there, it will reassemble, and voilà, we are invited guests."

"Don’t they do genetic testing?"

"Of course, but we are already in their database," she chuckled, "I just relabeled our arrest files." Markus shook his head and set off towards the checkpoint. Two armed security troopers approached them with wands and scanned them. Despite the fact they were both heavily armed, the scanners made no complaint.

"In and out, Commissioner Holmes," the guard cautioned as he stepped back and waved the door open.
"Are you certain you need your secretary?" he asked, eyeing Markus up and down.

"The Starry Lady alone knows it’s better than him wandering around by himself," she replied in a put-upon voice. The guard nodded and let them through the door.

"Secretary?" Markus asked in a low growl.

"Hey, you want to pick the covers, you got to come to the meetings," Jocasta replied as they headed deeper into the compound.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

"Why eez evairyone een zis citay tryeng to keehl me?" Eleanor complained bitterly as Kasimir led her away by the arm. Attention seemed to be largely focused on the ongoing melee, cheers half-drowning out the crash of steel in the gardens behind them.

"I think they might have been trying to kill me that time," Kasimir objected.

"Oui, cairtain-lee, but you are vairy annoyeng, et zat peoplé would went to keehl you eez... 'Ow do you sai... On-lee natural," Eleanor replied, unable, even in her fear, to resist jibing at the Middenlander.

"Nice," Kasimir replied, shaking his head in disbelief at the woman. He continued to drag her deeper into the castle towards her chambers.

"But me, ai would névair 'urt a f-lee, on-lee come to try et raize lé ransom fair mon dair papa..."

"Ulric’s teeth!" Kasimir exploded. "Is there anyone left in the city you haven’t swindled with your story or your hip…"

Eleanor stopped dead as they passed the archway leading to the grand ballroom. Her sudden resistance broke Kasimir’s grip, and he stumbled. Eleanor ducked into the ballroom, and Kasimir followed.

"What is wrong with you, woman? We need…" He fell silent as he saw that the interior of the ballroom was filled with theatrical props: velvet curtains, beautifully painted backdrops, racks of clothing, mirrors, and masks. Men and women in expensive motley were hurrying about, setting up for the play later in the evening. A large sign had been hoisted above a makeshift stage. It read in large gilt lettering: Selkirk Theatrical Company.

"Kasimir!" Emmaline called urgently, bile churning in her stomach as she spun in time to see a giant of a man in what looked like half an acre of motley swing a heavy wooden serving table at the Middenlander. He whipped around at her warning, taking the blow across the shoulders instead of having his skull stove in. Kasimir flew through the air, crashing into Emmaline and sending the pair of them careening into a gorgeously painted backdrop of a forest complete with a white hart with a slender, almost beautiful face.

Emmaline landed on soft loamy earth, the sweet smell of woodland in late spring filling her nostrils. There was something else in the air, but she was prevented from savoring it by Kasimir’s limp body landing atop her and driving the air from her lungs. She punched and kicked at him in blind panic until finally she was able to roll free, panting to fill her panicked lungs. Kasimir lay limp in the dirt, and she snatched up his sword, gripping it with both hands. She was in a forest; of the troupe of performers, there was no sign, nor any sign of the ballroom they had been in mere seconds before. The sky could be glimpsed through the canopy above, a gorgeous riot of orange and gold clouds underlit by a setting sun. Emmaline became aware of a myriad of small flowers ranging from bright red to pale pink, some no larger than her thumbnail. All of them seemed to be turning to face her with the slow, inevitable logic of plants. The birdsong was languid, almost choral, yet it held a hint of menace all the same. Icy fear gripped Emmaline’s guts and brought a coppery taste to her lips. Wherever they were, it wasn’t Middenheim, and it was no natural place.

"Kasimir!" Emmaline hissed, "Kasimir!" The bastard son of the Count of Middenheim wasn’t stirring, though his chest rose and fell. A trickle of blood ran out of his right ear, dripping to the ground where an enterprising honeysuckle plant dipped its gorgeous flowers to sample the vitae. Emmaline kicked him hard in the ribs, eliciting a grunt but no more.

"Oh, for Ranald’s sake!" she cursed and thrust the point of the blade into the dirt. Emmaline was no Jade Wizard who could mend ruptured organs and knit shattered bones, but she knew a few basic cantrips, mostly for use on herself after too much ale. She placed both hands on Kasimir’s face and spoke the incantation. The magic came greasy and unpleasant, but strong for all that. Kasimir shuddered, and his face twitched as the spell began to take effect. A sudden crashing through the undergrowth startled her, and she pulled the sword free from the dirt just in time to see a gorgeous white hart bound into the clearing. At least it looked gorgeous at first, sixteen hands tall with fur as white as midwinter snow. The longer the eye lingered, however, the less wholesome it appeared. As the beast circled, Emmaline noticed that its feet were not hoofed but rather ended in slender blades which punctured the earth. Its lips were oddly human-like, as were its lavender eyes, for all that they were the size of a doe’s. Despite the pleasant day, its breath seemed to steam from its lips. It had a heady scent, animalistic and hot, which set Emmaline’s heart pounding and loins twitching. Despite appearing to be a doe, it was very clearly also in possession of certain masculine traits. She tracked it with the point of her sword, turning slow circles in the leaf mold above Kasimir’s prostrate form.

"Shoo!" she called out, her voice an uncomfortable croak. The deer-thing made an undulating noise that had something of laughter to it. Kasimir too began to chuckle, but it cut off in a wracking cough. The deer took a step towards Emmaline, but she yelped a spell, and the blade of the sword erupted in flame. The arcane light lit the trees and leaves a brilliant white gold, and the flowers and leaves shivered as though trying to move away. The deer took a mincing step backwards and then turned and crashed away through the underbrush. Emmaline held the sword aloft for another few moments and then lowered it, the flame extinguishing. With disgust, she yanked her shoes away from flowers which had been trying to wrap themselves around her.

"I was right, you’re as much Brettonian as I am an orc," Kasimir crowed, his voice pained.

"To be fair, there are certain resemblances to an orc you can trade on: dim wits, bad manners, a certain smell," Emmaline replied tartly.

"I was right!" Kasimir crowed, then yelped in pain as Emmaline half-helped, half-hauled him to his feet.

"YOui, you are buku clevair," she responded in her Eleanor voice. She lashed out with the sword, chopping two inches off an oak branch that had been in the process of slowly trying to grasp Kasimir.

"Perhaps you can use your doubtlessly prodigious talents to help figure out a way out of this place."

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

They docked in a considerably more disreputable part of God's Eye than they had previously visited. The automated grain freighter hit the docking ring with enough force to start a shower of rust from its ill maintained frame. Fortunately the unloading process as also largely automated, and while there was a workman in charge of keeping an eye on the machinery, he had his feet propped on his console while he perused a pornographic holocube. Jocasta and Markus slipped past without any difficulty. The industrial areas of God's Eye were thinly manned, consisting largely of transshipment facilities in which raw materials from the planet below were loaded into bulk freighters that weren't able to enter a proper gravity well.

"We are going to need someway to blend in," Markus pointed out as Jocasta led the way out of the industrial area and into the more populous working class sections. Fortunately it was nearly dawn station time and there were few people abroad save for the very drunk or the destitute and drug addled. Jocasta didn't reply but led the way to a slightly nicer looking hotel. She produced a data syringe that opened one of the rear doors and took a maintenance elevator several floors up. Jocasta peeked around the door before stepping into a plushy carpeted hallway and hurrying several doors down. The door opened at her touch and she gestured Markus in.

"Casa dolce casa," she said as she flopped onto a large bed in the center of the room. There were several outfits, more or less equivalent to her longue singer dress hung in a closet as well as a spacers duffel containing some weapons, technical equipment and several thousand dablunz in plastic transport cases.

"A safe house?" Markus asked.

"What else?" Jocasta replied, "this is where I prepped to infiltrate that meeting. I was going to come back here once the job was done to get my stuff but..."

"And no one traced it?" Markus asked skeptically.

"Who would even bother to look?" she scoffed, "besides I hired someone to pay cash for it, no way to link it to me."

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

"Eet does sound seeh-l" Elanor agreed, a smile on her lips to show she was joking. In truth she could sympathize with Kasimir. Most of her short adult life had been spent in service to one scam or another, with only a few months in the College when Albrecht was away or two sick to invent new mischief for her. She supposed it might be different for her because she knew that at some point the scam would end and so all things were temporary. On the field below a pair of nobles were taking the field, both wielding swords. This was a duel between men who had quarreled over a woman, using the days spectacle to settle a score. In Altdorf this would have been settled with pistols, or with knives in an alley, but the taste for such blood sport was less acute this far north.

"An électair counts son, even a bastard un, must 'ave many oppairtunitees much risk much ruard," she observed as the two men below began to hack away with their blades. Emmaline was no judge, but they seemed to have more enthusiasm than skill. She wondered idly if she might pretend to be the bastard daughter of an Elector count at some point, it would have the advantage of not compelling her to adopt such a ridiculous accent.

"What about you? Are you happy here?" Kasimir asked. Eleanor tittered with amusement.

"Given zat mon lovair 'as already been keehled, ét zumone 'as tried to keehl mé twice, ai cannot sai ai am exact-lee 'appy," she giggled, a touch of nervous hysteria in her voice. She felt she should tell Kasimir that the cultists had mentioned killing him too, but she couldn't figure a way to do it without destroying her pose.

"Tryeng to gathair ransom eez exhausténg when ai 'ave nothéng to tradé but coy glancés, and ai miss mon 'omeland," she expanded, the sentiment true, though she was thinking of the taverns and play houses of Altdorf rather than the drafty keeps of Brettonia. She had gathered considerable wealth by her own standards, mostly in jewelry and other small gifts. She even had a few promissory notes for gold which in theory she could draft on banks. True wealth had been offered to her, but only in exchange for marriage and land. This she would have promised, though not delivered, but any actual moves in that direction would reveal her fraud. She was starting to feel the prickling in her palms that meant that this seem had nearly been mined dry. She thought about the arrogant Lucien Shroder. Maybe not quite mined try. One more score. One more and then she would be out of this flee infested nest of provincials if she had to ski over the winter snows. One of the nobles screamed as his opponent hacked down into his neck with a spray of arterial blood. The crowd howled their approval.

"Eez la mélee abut to bégin?"

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

Jocasta trotted back ten minutes later with both men in tow. Jocasta waved enthusiastically at the spot where Markus was hidden. Her whole demeanor thrummed with excitement.

“Oh Darling, they’ve agreed to help us!” she called. Markus stepped out of cover, his weapon lowered but not pointed.

“Geesh he got worked over worse than you said,” the nearest of the workers declared. Jocasta threw her arms around Markus’ neck and kissed him enthusiastically. One of the men audibly snickered.

“We can get you on the transport princess but it wont be too comfortable,” the second worker declared.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Jocasta effused, “my fiancée and I shall be forever in your debt!”

“Fiancée?” Markus whispered as the workers turned to head for a utility hatch into the star port proper.

“I’m Gallanis’ daughter and I’m eloping with you, my father sent thugs to rough you up,” Jocasta whispered, condensing as much information as she could into the few private seconds before they stepped through the door.

“You’re claiming to be who?!” Markus demanded but there was no more time to talk. They were ushered into a break room permeated with the smell of catalytic cooking and old coffee. Several rather pornographic images were hung on the walls, though they were cracked and faded with age. They were offered coffee and food, simple ration bars and made comfortable for the half hour before the orbital transport rattled down.

“Best of luck,” the worker called as he ushered them up the ramp and into the cramped hold that was normally used for technicians and stand by pilots.

“This thing is flown by a computer so no one will know you are here, you will have to handle getting off yourself,” he cautioned.

“I’ve never had a problem getting myself off,” Jocasta assured him with blithe innocence. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t and I’d kind of like to keep it that way,” the worker replied, “happy to help out, but I don’t need angry daddies coming after me.”

____

“Ok what in the name of the Red God was that?!” Markus demanded as the ship rocked skywards on its antiquated thrusters. The air was thin and flavored with diesel but breathable enough.

“I told I was running off with you because my father just couldn’t understand my love,” she announced, throwing a hand to her forehead dramatically.

“And that worked?” he demanded. Jocasta chuckled.

“Of course, there isn’t a workman in the world that wouldn’t be pleased to fuck over his land lord if he thought he could get away with it,” she explained. “It’s even a good cover for the shuttle crash, obviously my previous plan to escape my father’s evil clutches didn’t work.” Markus stared at her in amazement and then shook his head.

“Do you have a plan for once we get back to God’s Eye?” he asked. Jocasta nodded.

“Rest assured, your quest to recover the Sword-that-is-emblematic-of-your-penis is in good hands. Though you know, my vote is for doing something insane like leaving and then buying a new one some other place without getting killed.”

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Eleanor coughed and spluttered for a moment in an unladylike fashion. The sugar that had gone down her windpipe burned most unpleasantly, and it took her a few moments to compose herself. There was no wine to hand, but there was a barrico of ale, so she dipped a mug and drank deeply. It was the first time she had drunk ale since assuming her pose as Eleanor de Aberville, and she had to admit that it tasted good. Eleanor finished the mug, then wrinkled her nose performatively, as though objecting to the flavor. She looked over at the remaining bon-bons with some distaste.

“Ai 'ave decidéd to share mon bon-bons wiv evairyon,” she declared magnanimously.

The melee was held in a section of the palace gardens which had been cleared for the purpose. A square had been set up, its borders marked with rope and a layer of sand spread within its confines. Seating had been erected around it to allow the great and the good to watch the entertainment. One side was reserved for commoners; by tradition, these were supposed to be the apprentices of smiths, fletchers, armorers, and other martial trades. Over the years, most of these folk had found it more profitable to ‘enroll’ burgers and other merchants as apprentices for a few days and, for an exorbitant fee, allow the merchants to hobnob with the nobility for a few hours.

"Zat must be lé fattest blaksmiv ai 'ave evair seen,” Emmaline remarked as she took her seat. Kasimir was seated beside her, much to the annoyance of a minor aristocrat whose seat he had taken. News of her meeting with the Count had obviously raised her status, however, because the young man wasn’t making an issue of it beyond a sulk.

“He does look like he could use a little time pounding iron,” Kasimir agreed. Part of the pantomime was that the merchants had to dress as the apprentices they pretended to be. To a master of disguise like Emmaline, their attempts were pitiful, as even the most authentic of them was in cloth that would cost a month's wages for a tradesman, intentionally distressed to look work-worn and shabby. She suspected part of the reason the nobles tolerated it was to laugh at their grasping inferiors.

Further discussion was interrupted as horns sounded and two men rode into the square from opposite ends. One wore the regalia of a White Wolf, while the other wore mail in the Reikland style. The latter’s armor was battered and battle-worn, and his shield, quartered with the arms of Reikland and one of the southern lords (Denbirch, or Vassalheim maybe; the numerous scuffs in the paint made it hard to tell). Each knight had a herald who announced them. The White Wolf was named Ulf Hammersmit, while the southerner was revealed to be Sir Jonas Krieger.

“Ai thought zis was supposed to bé a mel,” Emmaline whispered.

“There are several single combats first; we don’t joust like your people, not in Middenheim anyway,” Kasimir replied, a slightly skeptical emphasis on ‘your people’. The crowd cheered as a bell was struck and the two combatants charged in. Krieger held a long sword and shield, while Ulf brandished a great two-handed hammer. The two combatants thundered together, horses kicking up sand as they spurred forward. Ulf stood in his stirrups and swung an overhand blow, but Krieger raised his shield at an angle and shed the blow. The crowd were, naturally enough, partisans of the White Wolf and booed vociferously as the steeds passed one another and wheeled around. This time the horses crashed together, their momentum arrested as they reared. Blows flicked back and forth as the horses stamped and circled, Ulf using the haft as well as the head of his hammer to defend himself.

Krieger drove the lip of his shield down hard on Ulf’s thigh. The Ulrican roared and jabbed his hammer at his opponent's visor; Krieger parried, his sword flying free from his hand. He ducked down beneath a stroke aimed at his head and then shoved at Ulf with his gauntlet. The Ulrican seemed to wobble, then crashed to the dirt as his saddle slid off the back of his mount, its straps neatly severed by a small knife that glittered in the Reiklander’s hand. A roar of disapproval went up from the crowd, nobles and merchants alike. Eleanor distinguished herself by cheering and clapping with delight.

“So much for the Land of Chivalry,” Kasimir griped.

“A jen-tellman can be clevair as wéll as bravé; eet doés 'im non 'arm. Maibe you should try?” Eleanor retorted.

"You said before you wanted to ask me a question?" Kasimir asked, changing the subject abruptly. Eleanor didn’t answer for a moment, her eyes twinkling as the furious White Wolf shook his fist at the retreating Reiklander.

“Ai was goeng to ask you if you waire 'appy hair.”

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

Many people would have been overwhelmed by the sudden barrage of questions, but Jocasta nodded her head enthusiastically. For someone who spent so much time with the dead, Jocasta was annoyingly gregarious with the living. That was perhaps a little unfair, as she talked incessantly to the corpses in the morgue as well, though with somewhat fewer responses.

“The cut was deep, through my man’s abs and through the liver.” She made a pantomime stab with a pen in an underhand grip, coming upwards at a slight angle.

“Probably not aiming for it specifically, just a happy accident,” she burbled, putting her hands beneath her shirt and wiggling them to mimic her stomach bloating with an internal hemorrhage. She toppled backwards theatrically, only to be caught by a pair of her skeletal hands that slowed her fall while she waved her arms, as though plunging off a rooftop. For a moment she lay still, playing dead, then bounded back to her feet. Her head swiveled like a gun turret to fix on Adri.

“I didn’t know you were an Ink Skink!” she all but squealed, pronouncing the words more like ‘ank’ and ‘skank’.
“What forum are you on? Wait, are you Calligrafitti289? She does have a boring cop voice. What have you got: lamp black or carbon black? Are you a salt or a vinegar?” Jocasta demanded.

“How does it feel to have put Alcander back in his ‘most boring investigator’ slot?” she asked, hooking a thumb over her shoulder to indicate a specimen fridge covered in magnetic words. Centermost was a list of all the names of the Sunday Group, starting with Emmaline and ending with Ardi. As they watched, one of the hands scuttled over and moved Alcander’s name down to the bottom, pushing Ardi up into second last.

“If we can focus…” Eleanor cut in, clearly working to hold onto her patience.

“Oh… right, what was the question?” Jocasta asked, completely unabashed.

“Carbon or iron, I believe,” Eleanor responded dryly.

“Oh, iron gall obviously. I did say it was 16th century Turkish; carbon ink went out of common usage in the early Byzantine period, although some monasteries…”

“Iron gall?” Eleanor interrupted, knowing that if she were left to her own devices, the necromancer would run on for hours once her enthusiasm was engaged. Jocasta blinked as though suddenly exposed to bright light.
“Iron sulphate and nut gall, from oak trees, duh,” Jocasta said as though exasperated that she needed to clarify such an arcane point. She gave a dramatic wink to Adri in quest of solidarity.

“Alright,” Eleanor replied.

“Let’s run down what we can, then start paying a visit to local associates. Fasel didn’t steal for himself, which means someone hired him.”

“Hey this isn’t a hentai thing is it?” Jocasta asked, “you know squids and ink and everything?”

“Is that a positive or a negative in your book?” Alcander needled. Both necromantic hands presented their middle fingers in response.

“Moving on,” Eleanor interjected hastily.

“Ardi, shake the tree and see what you can find on the local contact angle. Blythe see what you can find on occult uses of ink. Alcander, you are on weapons and counter measures. If this thing has taken multiple victims we should be ready for anything.”

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

Zoya came on deck into the scene of increasing agitation. Behind them the storm clouds were thickening, beginning to pile up on the horizon. The sea was beginning to roll beneath their feet with the promise of the squall to come. The captain was on the quarter deck, staring back at the approaching weather with a frown on his face. Gil didn't want to fight, but neither was he willing to allow himself to be embarrassed in font of his mates.

"I aint afraid of no fancy pants thief fondler," he blustered, "you wanna fight we will fight." The sailors cheered and they began to form a ring on the foredeck. The bosun tried to break it up but quickly gave it up as the excited sailors crowded him out. Coins clattered to the deck as bets were placed.

"No blades!" one of the older sailors shouted, then pulled to yard long belaying pins from the bulwark and tossed them to the deck between the putative combatants. Gil snatched up one of the belaying pins and slapped it into his palm.

"Going to back off if you cant use your fancy knives?" Gil taunted.

"Gentlemen!" Zoya tried to call, but the sailors shouted her down, keeping a tight shoulder to shoulder ring around the fighters.

"Best let it go," the Captain, suddenly at her shoulder advised her. "We need this over and done with fast so we can get men aloft to reef sail."