[M] Just Business [Closed]

Corwynn never minds his own business. Like, ever.

Old Rose Harbor is Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld.
User avatar
Corwynn
Posts: 114
Joined: Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:03 am
Topics: 7
Location: Ol' Rose
Race: Galdor
: The Taxman
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Fri Mar 01, 2019 1:49 pm

37th of Achtus, 2718
THE ATTIC | EARLY EVENING
Image
Snow fell with gentle persistence on the Rose, coating streets and clinging to the docks, covering everything dirty with a pristine white blanket of softness. It looked good, like putting clean, expensive sheets on a whorehouse mattress. Bundled against the below-freezing chill in a well-tailored black wool coat, a comfortable cap, and wrapped up in a scarf some retired gem of a whore knit him years ago, Corwynn made his way through the glorious fluff and the breath-stealing wind, lightly dusted in the stuff just like his home. He knew where he was going, and tucked under his arm just so was a leather satchel full of paperwork.

Papers written in a hand he already knew.

Was there a lingering caution about visiting The Attic now, now that the blond gunman was aware of what Resha's apprentice was capable of? What that passive was capable of? A little, but the galdor was always full of a healthy dose of caution. Except when he wasn't. It was after hours, anyway. This was important, and the Taxman was impatient when it came to tying up loose ends.

Hardly anyone was out in this weather at this house after the sun had set hours ago, the streets made of ice and slush. The gutters frozen. The snow fat-flaked and heavy, clinging to fair eyelashes and melting on warm, sea-worn features. From the top of one boot sparkled the opalescent handle of a knife—the knife that had been shoved into his guts a few weeks prior—and at his hip, as always, was his well-loved pistol. Because, this was the Harbor and this was the life he'd chosen ... even if he was just going to chat.

Or something.

Relentlessly hungry to get to the bottom of this Hessean gang business, to watch every single one of the tanned, freckled luggers bleed out at his feet for nearly murdering him and slandering his King in the process, Corwynn had taken today for himself. For research. He'd just have to endure the dark-haired young man with his sharp, damaged ego and more than just slightly uncomfortable diablerie to get the work done. At least he was easy on the eyes—Circle forbid if the pompous creature had been born any uglier than his attitude.

It was a kindness, really. And one Cor was the type to ... appreciate.

Crystalline gaze wandered over the sign, the bookstore perhaps closed but the King's business never one to bother with such formalities. Well, to be fair, it was his personal business tonight. While Silas had, of course, been reasonably concerned that his favorite gunman had almost been gutted in the Black Dove in front of a bunch of onlookers, he didn't have time to waste on petty vengeance when there were plenty of bigger predators like the Drain attempting to destroy what they'd built together for the Bad Brothers and the economy of the Six Kingdoms.

It was really only because he'd been raised a galdor with actual manners that the blond gunman even knocked first before curling four fingers of his right hand around the handle, calloused knuckles rapping on wet wood, shoulder leaning against cold brick, clearing his throat in a cloud of hot breath,

"Corwynn here. A bit of an after hours request, if you don't mind." The baritone of his voice indicated that he didn't care of anyone minded, blue eyes scanning the street while he hovered, cautious, while he nudged at the door, the walk from Sherry's Peninsula all the way here long and chilly enough to add a sharpness to his impatience.

If the shop wasn't locked, he'd let himself in without further warning, pausing to kick snow from his boots in the foyer and tug the cap from his short-cropped blond curls, shoving is wet shape into a pocket and looking around at book spines and shelves. Fingers would begin at buttons of his coat and loosen the scarf while he crossed the room and tossed the leather satchel of bundled papers on the counter like he deserved immediate customer service, announcing without fanfare,

"Just a few questions. That's all."
word count: 742

User avatar
Leander
Posts: 57
Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2018 1:21 pm
Topics: 10
Location: Old Rose Harbour
Race: Passive
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Dizzy
Contact:

Thu Apr 11, 2019 11:36 am

37th Day of Achtus
Image
Early evening meant Leander was already a few drinks into his day. Heading to a bar later was likely an inevitability, but he had long-since reached the stage that, just to function, he needed alcohol to sustain him. It was both a physical and a psychological need. Psychologically, everything just felt a little easier, slower. Physically… well a few hours without alcohol and he would experience withdrawal symptoms, the first of which would be shaking hands.

Tremors were a big problem for a counterfeiter, so that was his excuse, at least. He needed it to work. In the dark of the back room, Leander continued to work away on the last project Resha had set him (and would no doubt claim credit for if it was any good) the young passive appreciated the peace and quiet of the early evening. The shop was closed, and Resha was out.

The peace was not long-lasting, though. The front door - a door that should have been locked - banged as it closed behind someone. Leo paused, ink pen hanging over the half-forced document on the desk, and glanced towards the door. Corwynn’s voice called out. If Leander had possessed the strength to crush the fine woodwork handle of his pen with his bare hands, Resha would have lost one of his tools. It had been a while since Leo had been nearly overcome by such a primal reflex, but the deplorable Brother brought out the very worst - and best - emotions in him.

We’re closed,” the boy bit out harshly, not moving from his seat in the back room, for not even Corwynn would gain special treatment... despite whatever threats he held over the younger man. Leander turned back to his work, examining it as he tried to remember what he had been doing before the interruption. Then he sighed and placed down the nib onto the table beside the parchment.

The boy pushed himself up from his chair with a long-suffering exhale of air and rounded the table to exit the dimly lit room to app rear in the doorway of the main floor. “Consultation hours are during the mornings, your questions will have to wait until then.” He fought to keep his expression impenetrable, his tone clear of emotion. The passive didn’t know how well he succeeded, but he refused to be bullied into submission by this brute of a man.

Gnarled and crippled as he was, Corwynn clearly only understood that power came from violence, or threats - promises - of unending suffering. “I hope you have a pleasant evening, Sir,” Leo politely dismissed the man before turning away, back to his work.

word count: 466
Image
User avatar
Corwynn
Posts: 114
Joined: Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:03 am
Topics: 7
Location: Ol' Rose
Race: Galdor
: The Taxman
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Thu Apr 11, 2019 1:13 pm

37th of Achtus, 2718
THE ATTIC | EARLY EVENING
"To the clocking public, aye, but to the Bad Brothers? Like hell you are." The blond galdor grunted his objection to such a swift dismissal, blue eyes narrowing at the satchel he'd tossed so unceremoniously onto the counter while he busied himself shrugging off his coat, making it obvious he had absolutely no intention of going back outside any time soon.

Leander's unamused and petulant form appeared in the doorway, the boy managing to keep his tone disapproving and firm. Corwynn, being the ersehole he was, grinned wickedly back at him, leaning his elbows against the counter and tangling his fingers together, "My mornings are booked, Leo. I've got taxes to collect and fresh cargo to tariff. Now will have to do. I'm sure you won't mind the—"

Cutting himself short with a hiss as the young passive had the nerve to not only dismiss him and wish him good night but to also turn his back and walk away, the Bad Brother stood quietly for a moment, neither moving nor objecting to the audacious rudeness. His jaw clenched. His field rippled with an arrogant wave of indignation.

"—oh, for fuck's sake."

Leaving his collection of various papers right there on the counter as if they had every right to be there, Corwynn did not immediately pursue Leander, instead turning and stalking his way to the door, making sure his steps were far more audible than necessary, but also making sure the sound of locks being turned toward the secured position were as obvious as possible.

Closed. Indeed. Fine and well.

But the blond galdor wasn't fucking going anywhere.

With that, the privileged creature snaked his way behind the counter—over it, really—spry and fueled hotly by a very fiery need to set to motion his investigation of the Hesseans who'd nearly left him another body in the Black Dove, utterly unconcerned about some passive's sense of duty or loyalty to business hours when in the Harbor that never slept anyway,

"No. I won't be waiting." He announced as if it wasn't already obvious enough, an edge to the baritone of his voice while he followed the dark-haired young man without any hesitation, "This isn't business hours sort of business, thank you, and my evening would be made much more pleasant by your assistance, Leo, than it would be by you pissing me off with your coy attempt at insolence. It's not as cute as you think it is, to be fair."

It would have perhaps been far too easy to snatch for Leander, to curl sea-worn fingers into a bicep or a collar, but Corwynn refrained, choosing instead to stop just within his own arms' reach of the passive, crystalline gaze sharp and frustrated. He sighed, however, broad shoulders sagging visibly and ramscott field softening tangibly in his proximity, "I'm not here on Hawke's time. I'm here on mine. This is the hour or two I have to spare, and I'd clocking appreciate it if you gave up a bit of yours now. Not later. I'll pay—if that's what motivates you."
word count: 567
User avatar
Leander
Posts: 57
Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2018 1:21 pm
Topics: 10
Location: Old Rose Harbour
Race: Passive
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Dizzy
Contact:

Fri Apr 12, 2019 11:24 am

37th Day of Achtus
Image
It was a thrill, to say the least, for Leander to turn his back on the other man. To feel that rush of superiority, consequences be damned, made whatever came next worth it. The fact that he hadn’t been immediately grabbed and flung back against the front desk was enough for him to know he’d riled the golly. He didn’t even grimace at Corwynn’s use of his diminutive name, something he had always quick to correct the other man on in the past.

Deciding it would be the most effective ploy to return to his work if he wanted to appear unruffled and in control himself, he ignored the swears and harsh language from the other man and calmly sat at his desk. ‘look busy seemed to be the aim of the game, as there was no way he could continue to work while he strained his ears to listen for sounds in the next room. Heavy footfalls towards the door, the obvious sound of rusted metal grinding against rusted metal to signal the locking of the door. The passive’s heart pounded in his chest as he waited for the inevitable.

But Corwynn was near silent as he vaulted the front desk and entered the back room. Despite himself, the forger glanced upwards. It was impossible not to, with such an imposing force filling his space: size aside, Corwynn filled the room with his sheer presence and Leo could do nothing but give the man his full attention.

He wanted to tell the Brother that he didn’t give a tinker’s damn whether this was Hawke’s business or Corwynn’s. There was no secret that Leo despised peach in equal measure: they were one in the same, landless King and right hand, playing at power in a city unworthy of being fought over. The dig at Leo’s manner, as if Corwynn believed he deserved better, slammed the final nail into the coffin. He wanted subservience? Pissing golly obviously demanded reverence simply for breathing in the vicinity of another. Fine.

The nib was placed back on the workstation again and he stood, all apologetic smiles and grace. “Oh, I was unaware of how busy your schedule was,” The sharp shift in demeanour happened seamlessly; Leo played at the amenable servant far better than any other other role he undertook in his day to day life, far bette than trying to attract evening partners, at least, and he thought he was pretty good at that too. “I beg your forgiveness, Resha is strict at ensuring I have protected time to work through my scribing... this is such time. But.... he’s not around, so what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. It is my humbled honour to be of service.

Money would be nice and all, but under the counter dealings was something Leander was intelligent enough to avoid. Everything he did went through the books, because he knew better than to get tangled up in lies... the risk of being at another’s mercy because they knew of his dealings was too high, not when the city was rife with unsavoury characters who would not think twice about destroying another with a few good words to the right people.

I do not wish to empty your pockets, sir.” He waved the offer aside with a self-depreciative laugh, “I am sure I will not be of any significant help to warrant it, but I will try my best for you. How can I be of service?

word count: 615
Image
User avatar
Corwynn
Posts: 114
Joined: Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:03 am
Topics: 7
Location: Ol' Rose
Race: Galdor
: The Taxman
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Fri Apr 12, 2019 1:43 pm

37th of Achtus, 2718
THE ATTIC | EARLY EVENING
The insolent young man who'd had the misfortune of being born a non-magical creature, stuck in a mold his ego had obviously not been prepared for at the tender age of ten, would have normally been a source of somewhat boundless entertainment for Corwynn. His indignant sort of displeasure amused the older galdor immensely, and yet, for once, the Bad Brother was simply not in the mood. The temptation was there, sure, both to continue to edge the boy in one direction or another or even to reach out and resort to some kind of violence for the sheer self-gratification of it all, but, no, the blond gunman was far to focused to allow himself such paltry distractions.

For now.

One broad shoulder pressed against the door frame into the room where Leo had fled, icy gaze fixed on the dark-haired man who sat for but a heartbeat or two as if he had every intention of going back to work. Only, just as quickly, the younger man stood again, pretending so graciously to have had some repentant change of heart.

It only served to sour Corwynn's mood further, but there was no anger in the thick weight of his field, his countenance gathering where his fair eyebrows met into a scowl, a frown, a look that was strangely bitter instead of furious. He didn't buy the mockery of sincerity one bit, that much was obvious, but it was also clear he wasn't about to take Leander's excuses to heart and leave, either. His whole hand drifted upwards, calloused fingers pressing the bridge of his nose while he leaned there and the passive prattled on, eyes fluttering closed for a moment,

"Leander, listen—"

The older galdor cleared his throat, palm dragging over his stubbled jaw and chin before his hand drifted lower to rub almost absentmindedly over his abdomen, lingering over a fresh scar that was, of course, totally unseen by the man standing so defiantly before him, "—this is a really fun game. Normally, I'll admit, I might enjoy antagonizing you too clocking much, and I deserve this turn about, I really do. Sometimes, it's even kind of cute, to be fair. But right now? Gods, I don't want to fuck around. And I really don't want to shoot you. I don't want to deal with the fallout of that."

Corwynn, in his typical hatcher-may-care fashion, left that idle threat hang in the air between them without apology, the shift in his hips as he straightened purposeful and direct enough to reveal the firearm that was always slung there, comfortably at the ready as if he needed it at all as a galdor brimming with magical potential,

"You don't have to put on this—" His less than whole hand, four fingers and a knotted scar, waggled in Leo's direction as if he was indicating some theatrical costume that simply wasn't on par with the performance about to go on stage, "—this act. Of course my schedule is fucking busy. Of course Resha keeps you fucking busy. But are you apologetic? No. No need to pretend for my sake. As if you're the most disagreeable bastard in the harbor—please. I'm here of my own accord when I'm very aware of other duties I could be attending to, so we're just about on even keel. Almost."

His tone implied he knew they weren't. His expression creased into just enough of a smirk to reveal he didn't fucking care. Crystalline blue hues washed over the ruffled, younger creature in all of his illusion of having the upper hand simply because Leander had been given the opportunity to refuse, both of them aware he hadn't been given the actual choice. The illusion had been enough, however, and there was something about the way the passive laughed that was both curiously interesting and horribly infuriating.

Corwynn didn't waste any more words, lifting his satchel between them and removing a stack of papers: ships' cargo records, port of call tallies, several lists of tariffs from both Laus Oma in the Muluku Isles and Old Rose Harbor, and there was even a very extensive collection of cargo inventory between Anaxas and Hessean ports of call. There were notes scattered in the smudged layers. Unceremoniously, the Bad Brother dumped the fluttery pile onto the desk Leander stood next to, jaw clenched for a moment as if touching them had actually somehow disturbed him far more than he desired to let anyone see,

"At this particular juncture, fortunately or not, you're probably one of the few clocking bodies I can trust with this shit. Maybe, just maybe, the only one. Imagine that, right? So, fuck off with that chip on your shoulder—I didn't really appreciate being damn-near gutted during a game of cards at the Dove in Dentis, and I'm not about to let a bunch of upstart Hessean gangsters get away with it."

Unfiltered Corwynn was a strange creature who despised his own capacity for honesty and was practically nauseated by the vulnerability he was forced to admit. He'd had almost a season and a half to recover from one damn stabbing, but there was something about the evening that had left more than just a puckered scar in his tanned, freckled skin. Facing his own mortality was something he did on a daily basis, but that singular event had continued to writhe and twist in his thoughts. Now, restless and frustrated, he simply wanted to put the problem to rest by any means necessary. It required showing far more of his true self to this petulant little scrap than he really wanted, but his options were few and he'd already let far too much time slip through his nine fingers already,

"I need to find something in that mess. There's a code in there. Some of it simply has to be forged, fudged, faked. I just—this isn't—your cheating debacle was a lucky clocking guess. This needs more precision."

The older galdor swallowed thickly, field and face a suddenly unreadable landscape,

"Yours."
word count: 1075
User avatar
Leander
Posts: 57
Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2018 1:21 pm
Topics: 10
Location: Old Rose Harbour
Race: Passive
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Dizzy
Contact:

Fri Apr 12, 2019 2:59 pm

37th Day of Achtus
Image
A series of emotions flickered over the galdor’s face. Confusion, irritation, bitterness. His expression seemed to settle of simple tiredness, however. Hawke’s right hand made a show of pinching the bridge of his nose, as if pained by the effort of the conversation and Leo watched, head cocked to the side, in innocent curiosity. He had watched men from all walks of life react to Leo’s pathological desire to actively push people away with words. But he’d not seen this before.

It became quickly apparent how utterly unimpressed Corwynn was by Leander’s little show of abjection, apparently enough that he clearly believed none of it. It was an easy skin to wear, however, innocent but void of enough emotion that he did not need to inject more than he carried on any given day. It was for this reason, more than any other, that he kept up the façade. Easier this than to display the same vulnerability that seemed to be slipping through Corwynn’s own cracks.

It was so much easier to slip on the armour and not have to deal with a bunch of preconceived notions.

Let me see what I can do to help you, Corwynn,” was all he replied, polite and businesslike as he had been before Corwynn drew attention to their runaround games. “I see you are stressed, my apologies for antagonising you. Let it not be said the Attic does not help those in need.” Because, all the while, Leander could see this for what it was: an important body throwing about his weight. No matter how he buttered his words, or pretended like they were equals, such a truth would never be known in this world. The passive himself didn’t have the energy to pretend any different and, while it would always be his natural way to antagonise those who depended respect, Leo drew the line at fantasising that Corwynn truly sought amends, even if for a short while.

The boy was glad for silence as he watched his latest customer pull out a stack of papers and dump them with a thump over the desk. Leo had just enough foresight to snatch the forgery he had been working on off the desk before it was smudged and ruined. Placing that gingerly behind him, he turned to the stack. Nimble fingers worked quickly at the string ties, then pulled the first two from the pile, examining them each with a cursory glance. Settling fully into a world he was comfortable in, he almost forgot it was Corwynn he was listening to as the man continued to explain.

Newly privy to information of a recent altercation, which somehow involved the stack of records and tariffs in front of him, a corner of Leander’s mind glowed with a realisation. If Silas Hawke was the sun of Ol’ Rose, the source around which the agency revolved, then Corwynn was like the proverbial black hole that circled said sun. Nothing got past him. He absorbed everything, but it was rare that any information came back out. He was more than the Brothers, and it made him all the more impressive, if dangerous too.

The young passive’s roaming eyes paused on some letter as Corwynn announced Leo was perhaps the only man he could trust in the city. A swell of... something... crescendoed inside him as his gaze flickered over to the man and away again. But that was the only outward sign Corwynn’s words had had an effect, if that was even the one he was after.

Hell, there was also the unspoken knowledge between them that people paid good coin for the silence of forgers. That, if anything, was more valuable than the work itself. “The agreements of forgers forbids any one of us from directly interfering with the work of another,” he said at last, “save at the invitation, or at least the need of the state.” Another pause. “However it is not unknown for advice to be given, schematics to be examined... in the interest of advancing the craft, you understand. It’s a form of testing to destruction. It’s how we critique each other, as it were.” The blunt message was left unspoken, but Corwynn could be left in no doubt that there was no sum of coins large enough in this world to convince Leo to betray the trust of certain people.

Do you have an idea of what I might find?” The question was asked cautiously: much like his insistence staying true to his own moral compass, Leander’s self-preservation was his most keenly honed skill, and he knew he might just be opening up a world of knowledge that might see him killed. More than that, to give Corwynn information that was useless... well it was unthinkable. “Only, I can tell my own hand and Resha’s with ease, and even that of forgers I have never met. But you understand... people come in search of counterfeiting services for many reasons. There could be forgeries in here that are... well, red herrings, as far as your own desire for answers goes.

Last edited by Leander on Fri Apr 12, 2019 9:37 pm, edited 1 time in total. word count: 883
Image
User avatar
Corwynn
Posts: 114
Joined: Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:03 am
Topics: 7
Location: Ol' Rose
Race: Galdor
: The Taxman
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Fri Apr 12, 2019 3:53 pm

37th of Achtus, 2718
THE ATTIC | EARLY EVENING
There was no real sincerity in Leander's tone of voice, and, had the Bad Brother been honest with himself, he found that familiar distance comfortable, assuring. He didn't really want anyone to care, not in the sort of way meant to offer concern. He wanted the damn passive to do his fucking job, sure, but did he want the young man's pity? Did he want him to be apologetic? Did he need a shoulder to cry on?

Gods, no.

He could go to the Mad Queen and find all the shoulders he wanted had that been the body part he was really looking for.

Was he particularly sorry for pushing the indignant scrap around? For demanding his service at some unnecessary hour? No. Nor could he be convinced he had any need to be. This was just how things were and so long as the insolent apprentice's master continued to pay Hawke his taxes, then things were just fine this way.

"I don't care about your secret club rules, Leo. I've got my own, obviously, and they're taking the helm here tonight as far as I'm concerned." Grunted Corwynn with little emotion other than his already present frustration, the older galdor clearly resisting the urge to roll his eyes and returning to leaning, this time against the desk to watch the other man sift through the rather disorganized stack of stolen, borrowed, murdered-for papers. Restless, he rolled up his sleeves slowly, needing something to do with himself and deciding that fiddling with his firearm would have been an unnecessary threatening sort of posture to take,

"I have no fucking idea what I'm looking for. That's why I'm tossing this shit at you. How many different hands are at work here? There's some various handwriting, sure, but are they all true to each individual? Is there some hint of too many writers? I'm looking for leads. I want to get my hands on some clocking bodies and find where these bastards have taken root so I can dig it out and burn it all to the ground. I'm sure some of those cargo records are fakes. I'm sure there are clues that lead to a place or a person in there. I don't know if the Hesseans are running drugs or slaves or godsbedamned fancy-ersed carpets, but I want to know. Trade goods tell me trade routes. Trade routes tell me ships. Ships tell me captains. And, well, you follow where that leads, don't you, hmm?"

Once his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the act revealing the fading, blue lines of stylized waves tattooed into his tanned, freckled skin, the blond gunman seemed to settle a little, crossing his arms over his broad for a galdor chest and continuing in a quieter, more even tone,

"I'm not interested in chasing down counterfeiters. I just want to know what's fake so I can sift through what's true. Is that something you're capable of or not?"

It wasn't a question so much as a challenge, Corwynn vaguely assuming that Leander feigned humility and enjoyed lingering in his role as servant when he was most likely aiming to surpass his own master in skill eventually. It was an easy position to put oneself in as a passive, though the older galdor was aware he had very little concept of the mindset. He didn't want it, either.

What he wanted was assistance, and if he had to endure more of the young man's grating attitude wrapped in a pretty enough package to get it, fine. Fingers moved to loosen the first button of his fine silk shirt's collar and then the first button of his dark brocade vest, indoors in such a small space far warmer than the frigid temperatures outside. Strong emotions churning up heat in the Bad Brother's veins. Arching a fair brow, he couldn't help but add coyly,

"Perhaps I should come back in the morning and bring this to Resha instead—if this feels like too much for you or if my needs aren't the sort you're interested in meeting." It was impossible for the blond gunman to not make everything sound like an innuendo or a threat, but regardless, he made sure to make his words ring with definite implications that he wanted Leander to feel how keenly he questioned his worth (even if that wasn't really genuine doubt at all) in order to see what the petulant passive would do about it.
word count: 809
User avatar
Leander
Posts: 57
Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2018 1:21 pm
Topics: 10
Location: Old Rose Harbour
Race: Passive
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Dizzy
Contact:

Fri Apr 12, 2019 6:48 pm

37th Day of Achtus
Image
Leander’s eyes levelled against the other man, a gaze which spoke of enough dubiousness against the idea of breaking the forgers’ code. “As I said earlier, sir,” he spoke slowly, as if measuring each word’s weight before uttering it, “we, ah, have a code, one which is not lightly broken.” Piss on any man who thought he could posture his way through life. If Corwynn was so keen to get answers Leo could not give, he had mona on his side to gain them.

Having said that, we enjoy a game of critiquing each other’s work. In dishonourable business, we must each find a means to sleep at night, after all.” Agreeing to disagree, that was the best course of action. He had agreed to assist in whatever way he could, rather than turn down the job instantly. After all, what sort of man would Corwynn think he was, if he was so easily swayed to betray colleagues or clients to the best paying man?

Ten Gods, for all Leander knew, he might stumble upon forgery Silas Hawke himself had commissioned, something Corwynn didn’t know about, and where would that leave them then?

Well,” the passive’s eyes passed over the two writs in his hand, then down at the stack on the table. “You’ve brought me a lot here. And a lot of questions which you seemingly want immediate answers to. These two,” he waved the paper in his hands, “Are genuine, lest some Anaxan forger has found occupation among the merchants themselves. The rest? I could not tell you. But I can promise you this, if there is anything to be found, it won’t appear with you breathing down my neck.” More of Leo’s usual colour appeared: the man was intimidating - among other things - and trying to concentrate on the work at hand was not easy in such circumstances.

Newfound confidence mingling sublimely with professionalism, he took his courage a step further. “And it’s not about whether or not you plan to hunt down other counterfeiters. Other clients have paid for my silence, our silence. Resha would give you the same answer. In fact...” Leander took great insult to the thought that his master would be a better choice. Huh, weird, why didn’t he just send the man in his way and be done with him? “Resha believes in our code more than he prays to the Circle. You’d be lucky to have an honest dialogue with him about something so... dishonest.” He placed the two writs down, separate from the rest, and pulled out a third. This was discarded into the new pile instantly, followed by a fourth and a fifth.

The sixth, he held out to Corwynn to see, index finger indicating to two small red lines which formed a broken semi-circle of sorts across the corner of the paper, “You see these? You would not notice them on the paper, forged or not, normally, but it’s useful in the future. Anaxan officials recently started using serrated prints, so the line is broken, and embossed on the back, feel it, do you see it too? Counterfeiters in other countries have not yet realised this, or do not yet have the technology to reproduce it.” The boy shrugged, flinging the paper aside again and picking up a new one to inspect. “I doubt it’s useful for you today, Anaxan counterfeiters caught on within days and we changed our practises. But Hawke might be interested... I’ve seen enough documents without the embossed, serrated appearance to pass hands in this city, and Hawke should know if he’s being conned.

The information was passed over so innocently, so neutrally, that Leo didn’t even clock on to the fact that he was willingly being potentially useful to the people he swore to hate. Here he was, so in his element that everything else was forgotten. Another was flung into Corwynn’s face. “This too. In Estuan script, we favour a little flick on our ‘j’. The Mugrobi language doesn’t, so when a counterfeiter from across the border tries to forge an Anaxan document, the flick is... over-pronounced I guess.” Leo grinned to himself, “And don’t even get me started on when a wick decides to try their hand at spelling. It’s laughable, really... they can draw all the pretty forgeries they want, but when the writ is spelt wrong...” he shut up, realising many of the Brothers spoke Tek.

A few more papers passed aside, new piles being created, with writs and ledgers and promissory notes he wanted to come back to and look at in more depth is necessary. He saw some of Resha’s work, some of his own, and even some from a human in Vienda only known in the business as ‘the Ghost’.

He finally found something of note. Not because the forgery itself was interesting, it was his... and near flawless at that. But he remembered the afternoon clear as it had been today. “It is no small ask for you to demand I loosen my tongue for a mere grudge. You must think me insane.” Uncharacteristically, with nothing else to do, the boy bit his lower lip, gaze meeting Corwynn’s through his eye lashes for the longest while, debating whether to share what he knew, or hand over the forgery and let Corwynn get on with whatever business he planned.

word count: 936
Image
User avatar
Corwynn
Posts: 114
Joined: Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:03 am
Topics: 7
Location: Ol' Rose
Race: Galdor
: The Taxman
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Fri Apr 12, 2019 11:03 pm

37th of Achtus, 2718
THE ATTIC | EARLY EVENING
"And I don't tend to have much of a problem breaking bodies when I need something done, code or no code." Purred the impatient galdor without hesitation, smirking at the euphemistic implications of the word critique. Leander had a particular way of taking a conversation just a bit further than necessary, however, the dark-haired passive possessing the very unlikable skill of a sharp tongue coupled with a seemingly endless ego causing Corwynn's expression to sour again and his field to tangibly simmer, the sensation not unlike static electricity after tugging off too many layers of wool clothing.

Still, the blond gunman took the snide commentary in stride well enough, hissing a noise of displeasure through his teeth at the accusation that he was at all too close to the younger man for anyone's discomfort. He didn't move.

"Don’t feign being so naive. Resha pays to keep this business. This building. His life. And yours. Which demands a higher price? I'm willing to wager on that if I have to."

Corwynn was aware of his presence. He took pride in his reputation and was more than competent in weilding both his charming and his threatening natures as needed. He was more than willing to leverage the weight of his field or the intimidating heft of his birthright to get what he wanted. He had no qualms about using force to coerce those who didn't bend to his requests and he was not above torture when necessary, his magical heritage giving him a whole host of alternative methods of causing pain and suffering that non-magical beings couldn't even begin to fathom. But, in spite of all this, the older galdor had simply learned to read people, to crawl beneath the surface of others' carefully groomed exteriors like he could crawl beneath the sheets.

Here, in a matter of moments, Leander—who he was quite aware held no kind thought for the Bad Brother—was willingly sharing tidbits of information that was not only valuable to himself and this personal vendetta he was chasing, but the brief educational treatise on forgery techniques in both Anaxas and Mugroba and elsewhere was actually interesting. Corwynn just didn't let his warming interest show on his face.

His sharp, pale blue gaze took in the embossing and serrated edges as the dark-haired passive pointed them out, chewing the inside of his cheek in thought. He considered the idea that not everyone had caught on to the decisions of the Anaxi government to make forgeries more difficult and how obvious the marks would have been if one knew what to look for. The other man spoke with an openness the blond gunman pretended not to notice, but he chuckled at the comments on Mugrobi forgery, unwilling to admit he was aware of that particular mistake when it came to handwriting, if only because of his time at sea as one of Hawke's pirates, forging the Vein into what it was today with his own blood and sweat.

It was not his place to correct Leander on his assumptions about wicks. It was so typical of a sheltered, galdor-bred creature to think that wicks were uneducated trash when there were plenty of them who were far smarter than the galdori he went to school with all those years ago.

Hawke was one of the smarter ones, obviously.

It was the passive's last comment, however, that stirred something far less tame in the broad chest of the older galdor. Something about the way the younger man paused with a piece of paper in his hand, something about the way he stumbled over realizing that he'd talked far too much than he should have been allowed. The way the younger man glanced up at him would have been almost distracting, for irritatingly enough the younger man was an attractive thing despite his petulant attitude and defiant nature, but Corwynn denied himself the pleasure of enjoying the view. For now.

He shifted like the predatory creature he was, leaning up from the desk and moving swiftly, one expensive boot coming to rest on the edge of the young man's chair while one hand curled fingers around an opal knife handle. What should have been a threatening motion was instead a slow, deliberate one, a movement that was perhaps better reserved for an entirely different situation had Corwynn not pulled out a sharp object from against his ankle and turned with surprising speed to slam the blade into the desk, stabbing through the pile of genuine papers until he hit wood and pushing further until the knife stood up on its own.

The blond gunman's expression twisted into a sneer and without moving his leg from the passive's chair, leaning over his knee instead, one scarred, seaworn hand rest upon his own thigh while his five fingers trailed away from the hilt of the knife,

"This is not a mere fucking grudge. I'm not a tow-headed schoolboy still in my green uniform. I'm not a young dumb-ersed pirate on my first starry-eyed run of the Vein. I've lived over two decades in the Rose, which is a clocking lot longer than average, thank you much, and I don't take kindly to nearly being gutted in my favorite shitty tavern. But these bastards threatened more than just myself and even if Silas isn't taking them seriously, I am."

Slowly, Corwynn slid his foot away and stood up, hands reaching to curl fingers into his fancy, fine silk shirt beneath the equally pricey brocade vest he wore. Untucking the fabric from his belts and his well-tailored trousers to show off just enough tanned, freckled skin at his abdomen to reveal the obviously poorly sewn and sloppily healed scar that was still pink and new on the left side of his abdomen, just above the sharp jut of a hip. It should have been fatal, judging by its location and the puckered depth of the now healed injury. Had he been a non-magical being, he would have been a corpse in Lacey’s beached whale of a ship.

Instead, he was going to put an end to an entire gang who’d threatened not only himself, but the Bad Brothers as a collective whole.

"This may be grudge-worthy to some, but—"

Just as quickly as he'd revealed far more of his body than necessary, the blond bastard poured himself further into Leander's personal space to lean closer to his face, one hand on the back of the younger man's chair, "—you're only insane if you think I'll be gentle loosening your tongue after I've bothered to ask so nicely. I don't have to demand anything, not from those who pay homage to my King and certainly not from the likes of you. I can take what I want and you'll say thank you that you're still breathing when I'm through. But I made my asking with far more manners than you deserve, Leo. What is different about that document you're holding from the others?"

word count: 1241
User avatar
Leander
Posts: 57
Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2018 1:21 pm
Topics: 10
Location: Old Rose Harbour
Race: Passive
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Dizzy
Contact:

Sat Apr 13, 2019 12:01 pm

37th Day of Achtus
Image
The series of events that followed Leander’s final utterance was hard to follow. Corwynn moved far closer than was comfortable, a knife appeared from somewhere, it pierced the table, slicing through paper and wood as if air was all that resisted it. For his part, Leo made a conscious decision not to move. To a causal observer, the flinch was so minute that it would be missed, but Corwynn was too close, to attuned now, that he would see the shudder begin in his shoulders and reverberate down his spine as the passive blinked once against the display of violence.

He said nothing initially, watching in mute surprise, his voice stolen from him as he watched the Brother lean away and proceed to derobe. The passive stared at the poorly healed, unable to look away from the near-festering, foul laceration. His first thought was to hold his breath, for surely something so disgusting carried it’s own smell. His second thought wondered how Corwynn was still standing.

Tearing his gaze away from the wound, he forced himself to meet the other’s eyes. The threats flew from the golly’s mouth with the ease and precision of a practised criminal. Leo, through having spend his life around these people, was new to it, and didn’t doubt the veracity of the threads. Corwynn was not the type to waste his breath on empty threats... and he did not seem to enjoy having to repeat himself.

Look...” Look what? Leander swallowed and stared down at the forged ledger in his hand. “Can...

With the man less in his space than he had been all evening, scar still on display, Leo stood back, giving himself room to breathe. “This ledger claims spices were being brought into Old Rose Harbor, I created it a month ago, give or take.” He handed the ledger over, as carefully decorated and lettered as any real ledger. “I know it’s a forgery because I created it.” There were, of course, tell-tale signs that it came from him: a signature, of sorts, than any counterfeiter could read and know if its origin. But he wasn’t about to tell Corwynn what those signatory elements were.

You see it’s for spices, cumin and the like. Other spices, well they were on the original ledger, and the... client wanted another spice added: saffron.” He could get killed for this, he knew, but he would get killed for his silence too. “There’s a new drug, I don’t know it’s name, but the bloke was running his mouth off, cawing about how the Bad Brothers were blind fools. They planned to sneak it in right under your noses.

At the time, Leo hasn’t been drafted into Silas Hawke’s service, he had not yet met the man... and even then, he did the work Resha ordered him to do. Counterfeiters didn’t take sides, unless they were indentured to a single man, which Leo wasn’t. They worked without prejudice, even for the Drain. He didn’t tell Corwynn this though - like any excuse would matter to him. “This ledger is dated five days ago. I suspect they carried more valuable cargo than drugs... but the man was far too smug about this drug which could sneak through undetected from the authorities or the Bad Brothers. An ounce is worth about three quarters of a bird, that’s how sure they are this drug won’t be found. An illegal high that no one can find, and Hawke is missing out on taxes and income.

The boy paused, considering, then, “They’ve commissioned more, that’s what I’ve been working on today. Some ten ledgers, dating once a fortnight for the next couple of months. I don’t know who you got that wound by, or why. But if it’s the Drain, they’re sending you on a wild goose chase, ‘cause this is where they’re making their money now. By summer, I estimate they’ll have enough coin and assets to dethrone Hawke. The right people, that is to say, the criminal underground, seek the most lucrative business rather than safety. Else they’d all be sitting on their grandmother’s knees at home knitting a fancy scarf. This... “Sparrow” knows what the people want, and he’s willing to use you and Hawke and everyone without you even realising it to get to the places he wants to go.

word count: 771
Image
Post Reply Previous topicNext topic

Return to “Old Rose Harbor”

  • Information
  • Who is online

    Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest