[Memory/M] Homo Homini Lupus Est

Nothing like a friendly face.

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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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Tom Cooke
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Sat Apr 13, 2019 11:10 pm

šŸ™ž angler's alley / old rose harbor
on the 9th of bethas, 2718, at night.
Image
Clocking cold night. Frost clung to the dust-caked glass of the windows, settled ā€“ glistening ā€“ over the old bricks, the twisting dead vines, the mottled cobbles. Cold, quiet night. Somewhere in Sharkswell, shutters slammed and somebody yelled something unintelligible; things clattered, scraped, broke the silence in paroxysms. Some dog wouldnā€™t shut its head, and itā€™d woken up some other dog, and at intervals their ragged caterwauls twisted out into the cold night air, warped by the tortuous streets and their leaning, crumbling tenements.

In Anglerā€™s Alley, cradled in the crook of a doorway, a beggar stirred. He was like sinew and skin stretched over the knobbly bones of an old tree, and his long, tangled beard was patchy and stained. A heavy shadow was shouldering its way down the street, and he raised his sunken eyes to meet it, disentangling his skinny limbs from his threadbare blanket. Despite the manā€™s massive size, despite his heavy boots, he barely made a sound. He walked with his shoulders drawn up, huddled into his patchy black greatcoat.

As he passed, the beggar reached out a thin hand and plucked at the hem of his coat.

The man yanked the hem of his coat out of the beggarā€™s hand and landed him a swift kick with one boot. Groaning, the beggar scrambled back into his blanket, filthy wooden bowl clattering against the stones. As the man turned, he got a glimpse of his scarred, craggy face, the curl of his lip and the glint of his eyes in the deep shadows cast by his heavy brow. Then heā€™d turned away again, pulling his greatcoat tighter around himself and grunting. He continued stalking single-mindedly down the alleyway as if heā€™d never been distracted.

Tom Cooke was supposed to meet someone here for a job he wouldā€™ve been fair fucking fine to do alone, and he wasnā€™t happy about it. It was a clocking cold night, in the first place, and he was already tense, thinking about what was to come ā€“ and being honest, heā€™d been tense all day. Ne, heā€™d been tense all week: the last eight days had been one bit of chroveshit after another, and he hadnā€™t had a momentā€™s peace, between Clark and Meggie and the gods-damned landlord and the fight heā€™d had with hama that morning. The last thing he needed in this mood was teamwork. Left to his own devices ā€“ if this shipment hadnā€™t been so crucial, this job so urgent ā€“ heā€™d have been at the Mad Queen right now, fucked up out of his mind, borne up on the winds of a warm, pleasant dream. Tangled up in some pretty ladā€™s arms, the whole world forgotten.

Instead, he was out here, meeting gods-knew-who in this shithole, far too cold and sober for his tastes. He stopped underneath a worn, half-broken sign ā€“ it wore a blob of chipping paint in the vague shape of a mortar and pestle ā€“ and leaned up against the doorframe, squinting out into the shadowy, moonlit street, scanning it. A small, black shape wound its way up the alley on the opposite side on four legs, tail flicking.

Tom smiled briefly, reaching into his coat for his flask. He took a long draught, feeling himself warm up; he watched, one eyebrow raised, as the cat stopped in its tracks. It was looking at him, its eyes glassy mirrors for the moon.

ā€œā€™lo, lovey,ā€ he cooed softly. ā€œWhatā€™re you doinā€™?ā€

The cat stood stock-still for a moment, eyes fixed on him. Then it scurried on with hurried steps, snatching the occasional wary glance back at him before it disappeared into the shadows at the other end of the alley. Tom watched it go, taking another drink and then tucking the flask back into his coat.

After a moment or two more of waiting, hands deep in his pockets and shoulders drawn up around his ears, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. There was somebody else in Anglerā€™s Alley with him, somebody approaching. The back of his neck prickled. Lightning-fast, one of his hands darted to the pommel of the dagger at his belt. His eyes flicked over the faces of the buildings opposite him, flicked up and down the alley, and then landed on an approaching figure. He licked at his teeth, stepping out of the doorway carefully.

Then the light fell over the figureā€™s face.

ā€œHulaliā€™s fucking tits,ā€ he snarled, a look of recognition and shock ā€“ and rage ā€“ spasming across his face. ā€œWhat the fuckā€™s this about?ā€
šŸ™
Last edited by Tom Cooke on Mon Apr 22, 2019 11:39 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Luella Blythe
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Sun Apr 14, 2019 3:02 pm





Clouded breath fogged the air where Luella Blythe walked, a substantial shiver running down her spine. It was freezing, almost unbearably so, and the surly pirate could think of about a thousand other things sheā€™d rather be doing. Curled up in front oā€™a fire sounds ā€˜bout right, she thought to herself, shadowy eyes darting back and forth before stepping into the alleyway. Some rum in me hand and some food in me belly, anā€™ Iā€™d be a much happier woman. She grunted. Least Iā€™m gettinā€™ paid.

All around her was the excess of human filth, beggars and vagabonds prostrating themselves for the barest of coinā€¦ or even just for pity, of which Luella had none. She held nothing but contempt and disgust for the disgusting creatures debasing themselves in her direction, pitiful whimpers pleading for a scrap or a penny or whatever she would give. Her lip curled at their plight, lifting her chin and refusing to even acknowledge the voices echoing off the encroaching walls. Luella was here for a purpose. And that purpose was not charity for degenerates.

A seedy place fer a seedy job, she thought, stepping around the immobile form of a passed out drunk, though not before feeling a crunch beneath her heel. A flung out hand positioned just the wrong way, its owner issued only a single moan before falling back into his intoxicated stupor. ā€œIdiot,ā€ she muttered underneath her breath and continued on, doing as best she could to avoid the sight and touch of the alleyā€™s other rather numerous lurkers.

At last, she reached the agreed upon location, an apothecaryā€™s decaying sign clattering above a washed-out doorway. Here, it was a bit quieter and emptier of vagrants, though not so desolate that her presence would be noted. Given her choice, sheā€™d have preferred a nicer spot, preferably one with booze and dice, but even she had to begrudgingly admit this was perfect. No one would ever suspect she and her as yet unknown companion were here for a different reason than any of the other layabouts populating the area. And speaking of her companion, just where were they?

Luella squinted through the dim light at a bulky figure, standing just near enough to their meeting place to give her reason to think that was likely who she was here for. Her hand rested warily on the butt of her pistol, fingers slowly sliding around the grip. Carefully, she eased it from its holster and held it down at her side, the tip of her index finger resting lightly on the trigger. Friend or foe, one could never be too careful, and she had no way of knowing if this was the right person.

Another step and the figureā€™s head jerked up, revealing a manā€™s bearded and scarred face that rang a vague bell of familiarity in the back of her mind. An exclamation of rage accompanied a hand on a dagger, Luella reflexively pulling up her gun and aiming it in his direction. ā€œIā€™d think twice if I was you,ā€ she snarled, deliberately cocking her pistol and meeting his gaze with steely determination in her own. ā€œIā€™ll ā€˜ave a bullet twixt yer eyes before ye can even draw that thing, so Iā€™d suggest ye just put it right back.ā€

There was a long, tense moment before Luella realized exactly who she was threatening, and once she did, she only growled. Tom Cooke, a Bad Brother and one whoā€™d nearly killed her the first time they ever met. Even if sheā€™d won out in the end, there was very little fondness stored in her heart for the grimy bastard. Obviously, he was no happier to see her and from the look on his face, heā€™d recognized her immediately. Quickly, she did the math in her headā€”a fellow Bad Brother here now at the meetup for the nightā€™s jobā€¦ Her snarl only deepened, lowering her firearm with a massive force of will, even if she was far more tempted to just pull the trigger and be done with it.

ā€œYou. You have got to be kiddinā€™ me.ā€

This exclamation of rage and disbelief was followed by a heavy, melodramatic sigh, holstering her gun, but not taking her hand off it. There was little honor among thieves, and she wouldnā€™t trust Cooke as far as she could throw him. ā€œYer the one they paired me up with?ā€ Luella scoffed, shaking her head in disgust. ā€œI thought they actually wanted this shit taken care of. Might as well ā€˜ave just sent me on me own if they wanted it done right.ā€ Her eyes scanned down the crags of his dimly illuminated face, the hint of a smirk playing around the upturned corner of her sneering mouth. ā€œI see ye ent gotten any prettier since last I saw ye,ā€ she commented, a cruel glimmer in her dark eye where she examined the thick line of scar tissue marring his brow.

The pirateā€™s tone was noticeably gloating when she added, ā€œI see ye ent healed up very well, either. Some say scars give ye distinction, but I see they ent helped ye much. Just made an ugly bastard even uglier.ā€


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Tom Cooke
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Sun Apr 14, 2019 6:02 pm

šŸ™ž angler's alley / old rose harbor
on the 9th of bethas, 2718, at night.
The night had just gone from bad to worse. The barrel of that pistol was the first thing heā€™d seen, and heā€™d frozen in his place, his fingers an inch from the hilt of his knife. Standing there, his heart pounding in his ears, he had plenty of time to scan that familiar face. He remembered the ugly sneer on that pretty face, and those clever, cruel dark eyes. Cocky bitch. Heā€™d wondered how heā€™d gotten here, what trap heā€™d fallen into and how he was going to get himself out of it; he turned over the options in his head, grappled to make sense of what he saw. Expected to hear that crack ring out into the night air, expected the smell of gunpowder.

Who the fuck wouldā€™ve set me up?

Then she spoke, and, to his surprise, began lowering her pistol. His eyes widened a fraction as she holstered it; then they narrowed, swept up toward her face again. It took him a few moments to put the pieces together in his head, and once he had, his scowl deepened.

Tom had heard from a friend of a friend that Blythe was one of Hawkeā€™s now, and back then, he either hadnā€™t believed it or hadnā€™t cared. Now, though, at the sight of that straight-backed, proud stance, that tapestry of tattoos, he felt a flametongue of rage. She was quick as a whip and strong as a sapling, and he knew that firsthand, knew the white-hot sting of her blade. Back the first time theyā€™d met ā€“ how long ago had that been? ā€“ heā€™d been younger, stupider, drunk on his status with Hawkeā€™s men; heā€™d thought he could throw around his weight, thought he was indestructible. Thought a little pirate chip couldnā€™t do shit to him.

He knew better now. Blythe was a force to be reckoned with, and heā€™d reckoned with her and nearly died in the process. The scar sheā€™d left on his brow was nothing compared to the one that ached on his right side, the one thatā€™d nearly done him in; he stifled a wince as he remembered it. Sheā€™d nearly skewered him.

Well, all that was done now. That night had taught him an important lesson, and since then, heā€™d lived by it.

He snorted, lip curling.

ā€œNe, Iā€™ll tell you why Iā€™m here.ā€ He raised an eyebrow. ā€œSee ā€“ they want the job done, hey? As in, finished. You know what those words mean?ā€ With a heavy shrug, he stepped out into the alleyway, a cruel gleam in his own dark eyes. He gestured loosely at his head. ā€œA scarred manā€™s an alive man. Think you can manage puttinā€™ these kovs in the harbor proper, ā€™stead of just signinā€™ their heads anā€™ then leavinā€™?ā€

He stared at Luella long and hard ā€“ met her eyes and held them, unflinching and unblinking, as if daring her to do something about it. He took another slow, casual step toward her, his shoulders back and his chin lifted; he was looking down at her from the near foot in height he had over her, sucking his teeth and scowling.

Tomā€™s eyes flicked from her face to her hand at her belt ā€“ curled round the grip of her pistol ā€“ then back to her face. His scowl twitched. He showed her a crooked, mocking smile, one that didnā€™t touch his eyes in the slightest.

ā€œMaybe youā€™re lookinā€™ for a chance to finish the old job tonight, hey?ā€ he said softly. ā€œWell, I got an eye on you, and I ainā€™t forgot nothinā€™. You better watch yourself, too, Luella Blythe. You may be a Brother, but you ainā€™t no kin oā€™ mine.ā€
šŸ™
Last edited by Tom Cooke on Mon Apr 22, 2019 11:40 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Luella Blythe
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Tue Apr 16, 2019 9:10 pm





ā€œYer one tā€™ talk,ā€ Luella snapped back, stepping forward just as he did in their little flexing contest. She might be a woman, but she was far from weak, and ā€œeasily intimidatedā€ had never been a phrase used to describe her. ā€œYe boast ā€˜bout finishinā€™ jobs anā€™ creatinā€™ dead men, yet here I am, hale anā€™ whole.ā€ Her free hand thumped her chest, eyebrow raising in his direction. ā€œI walked away from thaā€™ job, same as ye did, anā€™ as I recallā€¦ My crew was thā€™ one tā€™ leave wiā€™ thā€™ goods! Yā€™happen tā€™ forget that liā€™l detail?ā€ A gloating expression dared him to contradict her, that self-satisfied brow raising higher into her forehead. ā€œSo do ye really think ye ought tā€™ sound so pleased wiā€™ yerself? ā€˜Tween thā€™ two oā€™ us, seems to me I got a bit more oā€™ a leg tā€™ stand on wiā€™ gettinā€™ jobs done.ā€

Her nose wrinkled in annoyance, dark, calculating eyes never leaving his. ā€œAnā€™ as far as you goā€¦ā€ She shook her head and spit to the side. ā€œIf I was here tā€™ finish ye off, Iā€™dā€™ve done it already, ā€˜stead oā€™ standinā€™ ā€˜round wiā€™ all this jawinā€™. Iā€™m ā€˜ere fer a job, same as ye. Anā€™ no matter what ye think oā€™ me, I keep mā€™ word. ā€˜Specially where thā€™ Brothers are concerned.ā€

You may be a Brother, but you ainā€™t no kin oā€™ mine.

Luella fought the urge to laugh, only barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes. If that ent an understatementā€¦ ā€œFeelinā€™s mutual, Cooke. Quit tryinā€™ tā€™ prove ye got thā€™ bigger cock, and letā€™s jusā€™ get this shit over with, aye?ā€

The pirate stepped back, at last, releasing her grip on the pistol and crossing her arms over her chest. As sheā€™d said, she wasnā€™t trying to waste time. They needed to get to the matter at hand, and standing around here threatening and posturing wasnā€™t going to accomplish thatā€¦ no matter how gratifying it might be. Plus, the sooner they got it doneā€¦ the sooner they could rid themselves of each other. And a good clockinā€™ riddance at that.

Her face relaxed just enough to give her less of a sneer, clearing her throat and shifting her attention to why they were here. ā€œThey gave me a name anā€™ whaā€™ weā€™re after. Said they didnā€™ wanna give up everythinā€™, jusā€™ in case I was ā€˜compromised.ā€™ Said yeā€™d know the rest.ā€ Her gaze searched his face as if to verify this was true before nodding, apparently satisfied with what she saw.

ā€œWeā€™re goinā€™ after a shipment oā€™ Drakeā€™s Tongue, carried in by some luggers thinkinā€™ they can take a chunk oā€™ the Kingā€™s territory.ā€ The twisted expression on Luellaā€™s face made it clear just what she thought of that, snorting before she continued, ā€œA Hessean crew, led up by some bastard by thā€™ name oā€™ Ernal Loshtif. Our sourceā€™s best guess was a small group. No moreā€™n three men. Said a pair oā€™ us should be able to take ā€˜em on well enough, long as weā€™s careful.ā€

Luella looked at Cooke expectantly, waiting for him to fill in the blanks. ā€œYe know where weā€™re 'eaded? Somehow I doubt weā€™re meant to find ā€˜em in this alleyway.ā€


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Tom Cooke
Posts: 1485
Joined: Fri Dec 21, 2018 3:15 pm
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Wed May 01, 2019 6:38 pm

šŸ™ž angler's alley / old rose harbor
on the 9th of bethas, 2718, at night.
They were toe to toe, now, closer than heā€™d ever wanted to get to this chip since sheā€™d sliced him open. He hadnā€™t expected Luella Blythe to step back, but stepping forward was gutsy; then again, if he knew Blythe had anything, it was guts. He respected that well enough, he had to admit, chagrined ā€“ mightā€™ve even liked her for it, if the sight of that cocky little sneer hadnā€™t made his head ache. As it were, Tom crossed his arms, staring down at her, dark eyes unblinking.

She had a point, gods damn it, and he didnā€™t like it none. So he didnā€™t say anything, just kept chewing the inside of his lip, face souring something fierce. When she finished ā€“ ā€œletā€™s just get this shit over with, aye?ā€ ā€“ he hesitated, anger flashing in his eyes. But he jerked his head in a reluctant nod, grunting.

ā€œAye. The sooner we get this over with, the better. Cā€™mon.ā€

Pausing for a moment to spit on the ground, he pushed roughly past her, stalking back up Anglerā€™s Alley.

On the way, he nodded, still absorbing what sheā€™d said. ā€œErnal Loshtif,ā€ he repeated, eyes narrowing. A black cat, mangy and skinny as a rail, skittered across their path; he wondered if it was the one from earlier, but there wasnā€™t any time to think about that. He was trying to think of where heā€™d heard the name ā€˜Ernal Loshtifā€™. Sounded Hessean enough, like Blytheā€™d said, butā€”?

Tom shook his head; wherever heā€™d recognized the name from, itā€™d already disappeared into the mists of his head. ā€œWeā€™re headed to a warehouse on the waterfront,ā€ he said after a moment, ā€œlittle ways down from Shookā€™s, owned by a kov named Hamish Doyle. Name you might recognize, given heā€™s been workinā€™ for Hawke for the past five years. One of his mates, another one of ours ā€“ or was, before I fuckinā€™ cotted ā€™im ā€“ was in on it anā€™ decided to squeal. Good for ā€™im, eh?ā€ A brief, mirthless grin.

Cantile was quiet this time of night, except for the rats, which squeaked and skittered at their silent approach. While they walked, he took the time to tie his hair up. Windows were dark, lightly-frosted in the wet Bethas chill; up on the second floor of a house they passed, a candle burned low in a window, the only light on the street. Something was making Tomā€™s skin crawl, but he couldnā€™t figure what. He felt like they were being watched.

They were almost to West-and-Long, the streets looking better-paved and the houses prettier, when Tom moved in a little closer to Blythe. ā€œI think weā€™re beinā€™ followed,ā€ he muttered, barely audible.

They passed an alleyway, bathed in shadow, and he managed to snag a glimpse of it before he continued staring ahead. A figure ā€“ a dark blur ā€“ had just slipped back into the shadows; Tom wouldā€™ve sworn heā€™d seen the glisten of eyes in the light of a distant streetlamp. Then, behind them, a scuffle sounded, though he didnā€™t turn around, didnā€™t give any indication heā€™d noticed.

His eyes slid over to Luella; he gave a slight nod, as if to say, You ready? His hand was moving toward the pommel of his knife, slowly, casually.

šŸ™
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