[Main Chapter] Taking Stock

Silas Hawke does a bit of cleaning house after a major betrayal.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Mon Mar 25, 2019 9:38 pm

10th of Ophus, 2718
The Palace, Old Rose Harbor
Men ought either to be indulged or utterly destroyed, for if you merely offend them they take vengeance, but if you injure them greatly they are unable to retaliate, so that the injury done to a man ought to be such that vengeance cannot be feared.

Niccoló Machiavelli
ABBC3_OFFTOPIC
Please note: This thread takes place two days after this moderated thread.
Out of the window, palm trees swayed gently in the wind, which blew with a biting chill over the hilltop. Winter was a real bitch this year and the cold was as far more cruel than usual. From here, the opulence of Palace looked out on the whole of Old Rose, requiring a glance downward to see the bustling of the sprawling port town below. Not even the smallest movement of an ant went unnoticed from this palace.

The late morning light streamed in through the thin cotton curtains, stained in beautiful batik patterns with all the colors of the desert, and it was the only hint of warmth against in the richly upholstered chamber. There was a carpet thick with the delicately fingered labor of a thousand servants, rich marble the color of the Bastian sunset, a deep mahogany desk inlaid with gold and silver, and a pair of purple leather boots propped up in a reclined position.

Silas Hawke's long, thin fingers tapped against his jaw as he looked at the pile of bodies on the floor. Some were fatter than others, and those had been laid carefully on the bottom, so as not to wrinkle the luxuriant fabrics the men wore.

He did have such thoughtful thugs. He really, really did.

"Well, good mornin' to ye too, brunno." He remarked casually, as though he were viewing something as upsetting as a patch of wall painted a slightly different color than the rest. There was no hint of concern in his rumored-to-be-ageless features, the sly wick brushing a palm over the bare, tanned skin of his chest while reaching for his cigarette case tucked into the inner pocket of his half-buttoned vest worn over the wrinkled, half-buttoned Hoxian silk shirt. It wasn't as though he'd exactly been sleeping.

"It's like we tried to told y' last week, sir," said his shaved-headed arch-thug, Remses, with a painfully exasperated expression. The short, somewhat squat older man reached up to pinch the surprisingly delicate bridge of their nose, "They was workin' for the other Vein the whole time. Got almost 'alf our staff, now, turnin' numbers around, sneakin' about with our earnin's an' sendin' ships out what don't return. Ye know what we found on the dogs?!"

His thick neck craned back in disgust as he let fly a handful of square, gold coins. They scattered on the marble floor, flying everywhere.

Silas Hawke's delicate eyebrow rose a noticeable half-inch.

"Other Vein? Is that what yer still callin' this spitch?" He quipped, in a voice that rang with danger despite its foppishness. The King of the Underworld looked positively offended, "There's ne other Vein. There's my Vein, of course. The Vein. We call it by name because it is, in fact, the only one. Any other attempt at a "vein" should be referred to as a joke. This Drain on my business has got to clockin' stop. As if Achtus weren't enough of a mess!"

He spat the last words out, and his hired muscle jumped in unison.

"So there's Brimley, Hannaskat, Three-Toe, Solley and Trembles, dead on my floor, and I've not had breakfast yet. Havakda. Have ye boys any good news for me today?"

The thugs looked sheepishly at each other, shuffling their feet.

"Er, m' Mary's with child," offered one, quietly.

"Oh, clockin' excellent," Hawke smirked, speaking briskly, "I sincerely hope she doesn't die of diphtheria. Now get out of my godsbedamned sight."

There was a joint effort to be clear of the room as quickly as possible while Silas slid his feet from his desk. Slumping elbows heavily against the waxed mahogany surface, the wick's bejeweled fingers began to rub his temples, staring glumly at the pile of dead men on the expensive rug..

"Traitors." He mused aloud, finally pulling a long cigarette from the silver engraved case he'd almost forgotten about, lighting it with a snap of his fingers. A thin stream of smoke issued from the lit end. He said nothing more out loud—there was always a chance he was being watched. But it seemed as though he had some replacing to do.

The posts could not be abandoned for long. It would not be proper.

The Vein had to run. Items had to be moved. Money had to be made.

Anaxas was watching, and only the gods knew how many eager erseholes were waiting in the shadows to devour his carefully built kingdom like a bunch of hatchers in the mist.

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