Like Clockwork

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Oisin Ocasta
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Sat Jun 29, 2019 4:18 pm

Midday - 11th of Hamis, 2719
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The air had been thick with mist when Oisin had left the comfort of his apartment this morning, and it had not abated since, merely transformed into a new form as he'd meandered his way towards the smoke-choked skies of the Soot District. Oisin's finer clothes - relatively speaking - had been left behind, in favour of a more worn and practical ensemble, a tired but servicable long coat providing rudimentary protection against the layer of dust and ash that seemed to coat every surface in sight, including, or so it felt, the inside of Oisin's lungs.

When he had left the Painted Ladies, he had done so with purpose: a mission of sorts, a hunt through Vienda's shade and shadow for a quarry that made a concerted effort to avoid notice. It was an effort and desire that Oisin could empathise with, but circumstances did not permit him to sympathise. It was a separation that Oisin had once found a struggle, but one that he had grudgingly established a capacity for over his decade as a mercenary. Sympathy doesn't yield results: those were the words of wisdom from his old Sergeant, carved into his psyche by verbal knifepoint again and again, until the words became a permanent scar. Back then, it had been a requirement of survival: for Oisin's mercenary peers, there was often less to separate them from the enemy than from their employers, and even a momentary hesitation born out of sympathy could cost a life, or lives, or concords from their company. Sympathy, empathy, morality: that was the work of a politician, not a mercenary, and they had no more business engaging in it than they did farming or midwifery.

Today, the rationalisation was different, but the need for separation was the same. Don't let the people get in the way of the story, that was the new lesson he was tasked with learning. These weren't people, these were rich people, and the backlash from the secrets and scandals that the Kingsway Post would publish and reveal was merely a matter of social economics, the offset for their power and privilege that helped keep the social order in balance. Oisin wished that he believed that with more conviction, and hoped that the intended lesson would not take as many years to learn as the last.

Oisin peered down at the pocket watch balanced upon his fingers, a flick of a thumb releasing the latch and letting the faceplate swing upwards to reveal the time. The hands slowly ticked their way towards noon - or at least, close enough to make no difference. His quarry had been here for some time, but Oisin had patiently waited for a moment that he had selected in advance: if a man chose to spend his morning drinking, that was his business, and it would frankly have been uncivilized to confront him any sooner and make it clear that such things were known. Besides, there were benefits to patience, especially in situations like this: the longer Oisin's potential source marinaded in his beverage of choice, the looser his tongue would hopefully be.

With a bump of a shoulder that propelled him away from the shaded doorway where he'd idly leaned, Oisin set off across the street in measured strides. The pocket watch in his fingers clicked closed, and with a flourish it was swung by the chain, a pendulum looping over itself in a clockwise arc, once, then twice, before plummeting into a waistcoat pocket with practised precision. He halted for a brief moment as a beast-drawn wagon crossed his path, doffing the brim of a non-existent hat in greeting to the driver, whose lingering gaze paid Oisin more heed than he might have liked. Undeterred, the reporter resumed his course, his eyes deviating from the doorway ahead for just long enough to reaffirm the words painted on the painted sign swinging above: The Clockwork Stag.

The doorway was like a portal to another world, the dreary drabness of the Soot District chased away by the warmth and vibrance that was cultivated within. The Stag's welcoming embrace did not distract Oisin, however: he'd seen it before, and while his visits weren't enough for him to consider the establishment familiar, it at least wasn't unknown. That was important for a multitude of reasons, not least of which was the obvious benefit of a journalist being well-acquainted with the city's various bars.

A familiar face caught his eye, a soot-faced boy in his mid-teens, loitering on the periphery of the establishment that his youth would not allow him to engage with more fully. Oisin returned the nod of recognition that the boy offered with one of his own, and a few more strides brought them within arm's reach. Limbs extended, a handshake briefly shared, a single coin discreetly passed from one palm to the other without a word. The silence persisted, the boy's eyes indicating towards a distant corner, and then the boy was gone, scampering off through the doorway, the faintest breeze of cold air rushing in before the Stag sealed itself once more.

A few brief and transactional words were exchanged between Oisin and the barkeep, and before long there was a glass in Oisin's hand, and he was weaving his way through the mismatched chairs and tables to the corner that his contact had directed him towards. Without salutation, query, or hesitation, Oisin dragged a creaking chair out from the otherwise vacant table and deposited himself into it, lounging as comfortably as the rickety furniture would allow, his attention turned outwards to room, eyes perusing the sparse noontime patronage of the Stag.

"You're a hard man to find," Oisin announced off-hand, his attention still aimed elsewhere, deftly avoiding any socially mandated engagement in eye contact or any other such pleasantries. It was better that way: less to worry about, less to consider, less to distract. His hand raised the glass to his lips, the amber contents washing across his tongue, a faint grimace following in its wake. The booze was cheap, and awful; thankfully Oisin's time as a mercenary had left his taste buds well acquainted with both. "And you certainly aren't anywhere someone might expect to find you. Are you lost, Mr. Vauquelin, or just hiding?"
Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Thu Jul 04, 2019 5:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Tom Cooke
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Sat Jun 29, 2019 11:30 pm

the clockwork stag 🙫 the dives
during midday on the 11th of hamis, 2719
Was barely half an hour after noon. Might’ve been shame in it, if he’d had any shame left to feel; only eleven days into Hamis and the Vyrdag’d bled him dry, with its high halls, its endless cleared throats, its flurry of judges’ black robes like the wings of crows. Despite all the attempts to suppress it, news of Dorhaven was creeping down out of the Wrathwine on the heels of the refugees, and the turn of the Symvoulio to Mugroba lay round the corner like a sleeping hatcher. At one hearing, an incumbent from Fen Kierden had gone puce and passed out.

In the middle of all this, Tom had no godsdamn clue what he was doing. Shame, he reckoned, was for folks with names, and he didn’t have one of his own. If the shame was anybody’s, it was Vauquelin’s, and Vauquelin was dead. Good for him. As things were, he was just trying to stay afloat in this unholy knot of unknowns, and he reckoned nobody’d blame him for slipping off to the Dives for a day of anonymity, peace, and strong drink. These days, it was the closest he ever got to feeling like himself.

Tom hadn’t been to the Stag since Dentis, and if anybody there recognized Anatole, they knew better than to say anything. Wasn’t as if the place was hopping this time of day, either. Still, he felt the sharp darts of glances, heard the mumbles, saw the wide berth they gave him and his field. Even rumpled as he was – a little artificially; he’d had to have a clean shave for a meeting early that morning – even in common clothing, he stuck out like a sore thumb among the Soot District’s factory and dock workers.

So he’d tucked himself into a corner, and they’d all left him alone. It was enough just to get out of the mist, out of the chill that clung to him and made Anatole’s bones ache. It was enough just to sit down and have a drink and listen to the low burble of midday at the Stag.

He was just nursing his second glass of whisky when he saw a shape weaving toward him among the scattered tables and chairs. Looking at him from the corner of his eye, Tom couldn’t tell much about him; he seemed almost studiously nondescript. Sucking at a tooth irritatedly, he looked sharply away, made to ignore the approaching man – and then stiffened, trying to keep the surprise off his face. A glamour brushed up against the frayed edges of his field, and Tom would’ve sworn it was a familiar one.

Chair legs scraped against the floorboards. The man pulled up a chair and dropped into it and then spoke, and the sound of his voice drew Tom’s eyes to his face immediately. For a moment, he barely registered what the wick had said; he stared at the other man, and an awful wince spasmed across his face, stifled behind a hasty drink.

Here? Of all places? Here? My fuckin’ luck.

Hell, it’d been – how long’d it been? Between ten and fifteen years, maybe; felt like it’d been a lifetime, and for one of them, Tom reckoned, it had been. He studied Oisin’s face, wondering at all the ways time had shaped it. So much time had passed, it was hard for him to put his finger on what was different. The wavering candlelight seemed to pick out new creases; shadows lingered, bruised and tired, in new places. His bearing was much the same, though, quiet and thoughtful, careful beyond his years. Something about him had sharpened, maybe, but it was more of the same. It occurred to Tom that Alioe only ever really deepened the lines that were already there.

He found himself wanting to apologize right off the bat, but he didn’t know why. Not for anything in particular. For being a kenser’s erse, maybe. For being too young and mung to appreciate an honest-to-the-gods friend before mercenary work swept him off on the Tincta Basta to Mugroba and gods knew where else.

He let the pause stretch out into silence, chewing at the inside of his gum and thinking what to say. It wouldn’t hurt to let Oisin know that he knew who he was. Keep him on his toes, whatever he was here for. He hated that it had to be that way, but he’d been dealt his hand, and there was no asking the Circle (or the Cycle) for a new one. He didn’t know what Oisin could possibly want from Incumbent Vauquelin, didn’t even know what the kov was doing in Vienda, but he didn’t think he’d been sought out for a friendly drink.

“I happen to be lost, Mr. Ocasta, since you ask” – the quirk of a red eyebrow – “and that’s the way I like it. I hope nobody sent you to drag me kicking and screaming back Uptown. I put up a fight, I’ll have you know.” He looked the wick up and down, as if sizing him up. “Don’t know that you could take me,” he added drily.

He took a long drink, ice jangling against the glass as he set the tumbler back down on the table. Propping his head up on a fist, Tom offered Oisin a fox’s smile, but there was something tense and sad in it. His left eye twitched, and he massaged it with his fingertips, taking a deep breath.

“What can I do for you?”
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Oisin Ocasta
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Sun Jun 30, 2019 12:33 pm

Midday - 11th of Hamis, 2719
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The unexpected mention of his name pinched at the corner of Oisin's eyes, but that was the only external reaction he allowed to show. Behind those eyes, their attention still largely focused on the other patrons, his mind rifled through rationalisations and explanations, constructing a fort of benign possibilities to defend against any irrational concerns that might try to exploit the moment. Anatole Vauquelin was a man with connections, and it was never wise to underestimate just how much such a man might know; and given their respective lines of work, there was a certain prudence in Mr. Vauquelin being aware of who might arrive seeking questions, just as it was prudent for Oisin to be aware of who he might seek out to ask.

Still, the recognition rankled him, the comfortable blanket of anonymity that Oisin so fondly wrapped around himself like outerwear stripped away with such offhand ease. It reshaped the battlefield as well, redefined the terms of the conversational engagement between them: and engagements still to come, potentially. It had been Oisin's understanding that he would be unknown, and unnoticed, just as he had always been. Perhaps to some extent, he still was. Yet, he had always understood that this would not always be the case. It wasn't hubris that led him to such a belief, but merely an understanding of what his actions would lead to. Journalistic writings aside, Oisin's first step in this new career had been to set out and build a foundation of familiarity: familiar faces, familiar names, familiar sources, and familiar avenues for information. That familiarity worked both ways, and Oisin knew it would only have been a matter of time before he became familiar himself, recognised as a man who asked too many questions, if nothing else. That would come with a price, but also with value: but it was a scenario that Oisin had seen as distant, something he would have time to adapt to, and prepare for.

Perhaps that was not the case. Perhaps Vienda did not function the way he had expected to. His belief, his assumption, had been that in a city as vast as this, it would be easier to go unnoticed amid the crowds and the noise. Back in Old Rose Harbor, back in the villages he had experienced in Mugroba, there was a certain sense that everyone knew everyone: or at least, that everyone knew someone who knew everyone, or who was everyone's cousin, or who had once seen everyone doing something untoward with someone else. In a city like Vienda, that was not supposed to be the case. There were supposed to be too many people, too many names and faces for anyone to know everyone, and too much of a crowd for people to care all that much about what those second, third, and fourth-hand acquaintances might have done and said. Clearly, Vienda did not work that way after all. Clearly, this was an understanding that Oisin would need to revisit.

Now, however, was not the time. Another sip was taken, before Oisin peeled his eyes away from The Clockwork Stag, and turned them on his conscripted drinking companion.

"If someone wanted you dragged back to the more sophisticated parts of the city, I'm hardly the sort of person they'd send."

There was no need to elaborate on that particular implication: the fact that his breast pocket contained a copy of the required documentation that confirmed his legal permission to reside in the city made it all too clear how the Galdori felt about the Wicks who lived in their midsts. If Mr. Vauquelin knew his name, then he certainly knew the social stigmas that came attached to it, and even if he did not, the two were seated close enough that the specific texture of Oisin's field was unlikely to have gone unnoticed.

"My interest is more in what brings you down here," he elaborated, his words chosen with the utmost care. "A concerned third party, If you like: concerned about what might be going on that has a man in your position so far removed from where one might expect him to be."
Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Thu Jul 04, 2019 5:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Sun Jun 30, 2019 4:21 pm

the clockwork stag 🙫 the dives
during midday on the 11th of hamis, 2719
He felt pinned by Oisin’s eyes – like a butterfly to corkboard.

Of course, there was no recognition in them. Tom hadn’t expected there to be; the months he’d spent like this had taught him, none too gently, to stop expecting mung miracles like that. But he was a man, flesh and blood and feeling, and he couldn’t stop it from hurting any more than he could tell a wound to stop bleeding.

Unable to meet the other man’s eye, he turned his gaze out across the Stag. “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied lightly, sounding a little put-out despite himself. He scanned the empty tables with their chairs akimbo, watching Burns wipe them down; he snuck another glance at a gaggle of men over by the bar, dock workers by their talk, who’d just collectively burst into laughter. Over by the stairs, draped in shadows, a tall, thin man with straw-colored hair tuned a scuffed-up guitar.

It was awhile before Tom spoke again. He’d thought using the wick’s name had put him at an advantage, but now he realized he’d made a mistake. Oisin hadn’t batted an eye at it, and now he wondered if Vauquelin had reason to know him; he hadn’t given away even a sliver of information about his intentions or affiliations, after all. Concerned third party. Now Tom, despite being wholly in the dark, had professed to know him, and now he’d have to play the same guessing-game that he played in every other arena of his life.

He turned the words over and over in his head – third party, third party; his mind stuck on the phrase – wondering just who was paying Ocasta’s salary these days. Last Tom knew, he’d found work with a company because he’d patched up their sergeant; he’d never been a tough, and he’d never run with the local families. Still, a decade and some was a long time to be serving abroad with fighting men. There was no reason why he couldn’t’ve found work with Hawke, or worse, with whoever in hell was behind the Drain. Was his presence here meant as a warning – more of this sort of behavior and Hawke would have no use for him? Or was his employer yet another unknown contact of Vauquelin’s? An enemy or an ally?

For all his anxiety, Tom was used to living at the point of a knife. He didn’t let any fear creep into his expression, but the smile did drain from his face; his lips evened out in a thin line.

“I believe a man’s permitted to drink where he pleases.” His tone was low and measured. He didn’t yet look over at Oisin; his eyes were still wandering about the pub. He snatched the tumbler off the table, ice clinking, fingers white-knuckled. “Whoever sent you, I’m not interested in dancing around the issue. Today, I’m planning on getting plastered in peace. If you’ve got threats to make, make them and then leave. You can tell your concerned third party what you like. Understand?”

Now he met Oisin’s eye with a steely look. His lip twitched as if in preamble to a snarl. It was the kind of look he’d’ve given a kov in life, if that kov’d come a little too close to him on a bad day. He didn’t suppose it was too intimidating now, not with Anatole’s face, but it was his way, and he didn’t know any other.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Mon Jul 01, 2019 9:14 am

Midday - 11th of Hamis
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Under normal circumstances, Oisin might have found Vauquelin's display intimidating. Perhaps he would have even been right to: he certainly wasn't arrogant enough to believe that he could go toe to toe with a Galdori and their magic if it came to that, and they were hardly in the kind of public place or indiscreet surroundings where someone might be discouraged from turning to violence as a solution. Yet, Oisin did not feel those things. He surely would later, when hindsight allowed and insisted that he dissect and assess what had transpired here in intimate detail, but such sensible, self-preserving thoughts were held at bay by a far simpler state: confusion.

Anatole Vauquelin had been armed with Oisin's name, and Oisin could not fathom a scenario for such that wouldn't also come coupled with an understanding of who he was. Once you knew that, once you understood the nature of his work and the desires of his employers, his intentions here were obvious. He was a reporter, a journalist, a purveyor of stories, and secrets, and truths. Or at least, that was the premise. The reality was admittedly something a little less lofty: the Kingsway Post was hardly the most prestigious institution, and was much more interested in an enticing scandal than an artfully-composed soliloquy, but everyone had to start somewhere.

Deducing why a reporter might be interested in speaking with an influential individual like Anatole Vauquelin was hardly a complex task, then. Or at least, that was the presumption that Oisin had carried with him into The Clockwork Stag. The display before him left him questioning that belief quite intently. If Vauquelin's objection was simply to being disturbed, then why the sudden heel-turn, why the delay before the hostile rejection of Oisin's company? Had the preamble simply been manners, and tolerance, which had found themselves quickly exhausted? Or was it deeper than that, some strand of hostility towards Oisin himself, or more likely what Oisin represented: some prior bad experience with the fourth estate, some burning resentment for stories previously told, some deep-rooted suspicion of reporters and their journalistic intent?

But no, that wasn't quite the sentiment that Vauquelin had conveyed, was it? Oisin considered his words, breaking them into fragments, analysing the jigsaw pieces in turn. I believe a man's permitted to drink where he pleases. Was that it? Was that Vauquelin's belief, that his presence here in The Clockwork Stag was somehow going to be spun into a scandal? Admittedly, such an act was likely not beneath the Kingsway Post, particularly on a slow news day, and Oisin had in part hoped that the hypothetical threat of such a story might serve as leverage towards more interesting information: he would not have approached Vauquelin in such a compromising environment if he hadn't hoped or presumed that shame might serve as an ally of sorts. If that was the root of Vauquelin's hostility, then it was a reaction he had provoked, one he deserved.

There was more to it, though. If you've got threats to make. Was that how a political figure such as Vauquelin viewed the work of the press: an effort to threaten the powerful with secrets revealed? If so, to what possible end? What was it about journalists and their threadbare existence that might lead people to think they were somehow profiting in all this? Tell your concerned third party what you like. Curiouser still. Had Oisin not been certain that Vauquelin knew who he was, the most obvious explanation for all of this might have been mistaken identity. But if Vauquelin had the name, then surely he had the circumstances in his employment. So why did this conversation treat his employer as an unknown quantity? Was there more to this situation than Oisin understood? Was there more to the Kingsway Post than Oisin understood? Some rivalry? Some personal feud between Vauquelin and Barnaby? Some hidden connection between Vauquelin and the Galdor who held the Post's leash?

Oisin sucked on his teeth, the pressure between his tongue and lips breaking the seal with a wet click. Another sip of his drink was taken, slow and purposeful, like a man moving cautiously so as not to startle and provoke a wild animal. He did not speak until the glass found its way back to the surface of the table once more, though he did allow his posture to shift, his attention turned away from the other patrons, and towards his companion more fully.

"I have no threats to make, Mr. Vauquelin."

The words were calm: calmer than one might have expected, given the circumstances. But Oisin Ocasta was not unaccustomed to danger, and no stranger to being in the sights of someone a hair's bredth from intentions of violence or harm. Oisin had twelve years of such experiences, and had been intimidated by far more threatening men than Anatole Vauquelin. It was not confidence, and it was not bravado, merely the dulling effect of experience, and the reinforcement of tolerances. Once you'd been face to face with a spinewolf, it was much harder to be scared of a rat.

"I'm not sure what perception you have of my employer, nor do I much care. I cannot account for, nor apologise for any of that. Whatever past grievances you have, with the Kingsway Post or anyone else, they are with them, not me."

His brow furrowed slightly, fingers abandoning his glass so that they could interlace together, resting gently against the worn wood of the table between them. A soft sigh escaped, a gentle clensing of the lungs and of the mind before he spoke again.

"There is a term with which I became quite familiar during my time in Mugroba. Need To Know. It is a term that the military uses to control information. It comes from the belief that the rank and file - the humans whose lives are placed on the line - cannot be trusted to know the whole story, cannot be trusted to maintain vital secrets, cannot be trusted to do what needs to be done if they were provided with a proper perspective on the task at hand. Mercenaries like myself, we had our own term for that premise: we called it bullshit."

He shifted slightly in his seat, contemplating his options for analogy. Anatole was not the kind of man who seemed as if he might be swayed by talk of society in terms of parents and children, and to liken the population the Galdori looked down upon to animals in need of care and consideration felt a little too on the nose. Discussing moral obligation with a Galdori was like discussing vegetable farming with a shark; and any legal obligations, any social obligations, where whatever the Galdori damn well decided that they were.

"Our society," Oisin continued cautiously, "Is built on trust. The Galdori trust Humans to wage their wars. The writ in my pocket shows that the Galdori trust a Wick such as myself to live and work in their city. The Human populace is asked to trust that Galdori rule is in their best interests, even if the negatives are all that they can see. But trust? Trust is a fragile thing. Easily broken. Easily lost. And, perhaps more often than any other, such trust is often lost when people disagree over what they need to know. Friendship, marriage, armies, society - it makes no difference. Trust is supposed to go both ways, and nothing erodes it faster than learning that you have been lied to, or that an important truth has been concealed for too long."

The furrowed brow lingered for a moment longer, before Oisin's fingers broke apart, and his drink was retrieved once more.

"Ask yourself this, Mr. Vauquelin: when the truth about Dorhaven begins to come out, will you be satisfied that you and your compatriots told the populace what they needed to know? And perhaps, more importantly, are you confident that the populace will feel the same way?"
Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Thu Jul 04, 2019 5:57 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Mon Jul 01, 2019 1:12 pm

the clockwork stag 🙫 the dives
during midday on the 11th of hamis, 2719
The Kingsway Post,” he repeated before he could stop himself, the steely look sliding off his face and leaving it blank. “You’re a journalist.” Gods damn me, I’ve done it again.

To keep anything else from coming out of his mouth, he took a drink. Then he looked at Oisin levelly as he spoke, absorbing – to be generous – about every third word. Something about Mugroba, he reckoned, something about his mercenary work. Trust. Something-something humans, fragile trust, easily lost. Was he on about marriage now? Putting the tangle of his thoughts aside, Tom forced himself to focus on Ocasta’s voice; there’d be time to undo the knot later. As everything he was saying sunk in, his lip twitched.

Tom still couldn’t focus. The Kingsway Post.

It made sense, he supposed. Made a hell of a lot of sense. Oisin was no Adam Spencer, all press and press and press, all pins and needles and back-you-into-a-corner twists of phrase, but he was just about the sharpest kov Tom’d ever known. He’d had a way of making a man talk just by sitting there. Despite himself, despite that politician’s loathing of reporters that’d sprouted up in him since he’d started living as Anatole, he found himself feeling pleased. He didn’t know what to do with the feeling. It made him want to clap Oisin on the back like he had when he’d still been half a foot taller – made him want to buy him a drink. (Even if it was the Post. There’d’ve been a friendly jab about that.)

He didn’t do any of those things, of course. He gave him a lingering look, then took another, longer draught of his cheap whisky, setting the glass back down on the table almost delicately. He’d drained it to dregs and slushy ice. The burn of it fortified him, and he took a deep breath, nodding and scratching at his jaw.

“Beg your pardon, sir. For a second there, I, uh – took you for somebody I knew once. Forgive a politician’s paranoia; it’s rainy season, and then with the massacre, everybody’s nerves are shot to hell.” He shifted in his seat to turn more fully toward the wick, making an effort to loosen up. The smile he offered him was wan and grim, but genuine. “Truth be told” – and he really was telling the truth – “I come down here to drink because nobody down here recognizes my face. That’s it, plain and simple.” There was nothing plain and simple about it, however.

A deep sigh escaped him; he felt deflated. He wasn’t trusting enough to let his guard down, but it did seem plausible, this Kingsway Post business. Maybe he’d even built up a reputation for himself (for Anatole), what with all his correspondence with Spencer and the Weekly. That being the case, he had only to play ignorant golly until Ocasta decided to leave him alone. He was getting good at that.

And this was the Oisin he knew, after all, which was a strange and mixed sort of consolation. The wick had always been in the back of his mind, even after all these years, and there was something heartening about knowing he was alive and well. Well as you could be in this blasted city, anyway. He had a writ, and so Tom reckoned he was doing better than most. What precious little information Oisin’s spiel had given him about his time overseas had piqued his interest, and yet again, he found himself wanting to buy them both another round. Spend some time catching up, friendly-like.

That’d never happen, but it was funny to imagine how it’d go on the other end. What, me? I died, an’ it’s a damn shame, but now I’m doin’ jus’ fine. Little the worse for wear, is all.

His eyes wandered away from Oisin’s face, studying the room emptily. “Whatever you think I know, I’m just another Viendan incumbent,” he went on, tone carefully devoid of feeling. “You’d do better to ask one of my colleagues from Wraithwine, though they may be too busy grieving to comment. What makes you think I’d have anything to say to you?”
Last edited by Tom Cooke on Thu Jul 04, 2019 4:23 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Tue Jul 02, 2019 11:01 am

Midday - 11th of Hamis
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"What makes you think you're the only one I'll be asking?"

Oisin's counter was offered with a shrug, but the casual offhand nature belied the thoughts that were churning away beneath. There had been surprise there, when Mr. Vauquelin had reacted to his place of employment, or at least, the kind of reaction that suggested the information was new. Oisin found that troubling, and more so given the somewhat precarious nature of the explanation Mr. Vauquelin had tried to offer. Much as the incumbent might have liked him to forget or dismiss it, there was no escaping the fact that he had identified Oisin by name: and yet now, he was suddenly surprised to learn who Oisin actually was; what he was.

A swirling maelstrom of thoughts tumbled through Oisin's mind, stray notions dragged beneath the surface by riptides as every word the Galdori had thus far uttered was called into question. I took you for somebody I knew once. It might have been plausible, had Vauquelin not been so accurate in the name he had greeted Oisin with. A flicker of something, a fleeting notion, sparked in the depths of Oisin's mind, and he stifled it quickly, not even daring to indulge the orphan's hope of what Vauquelin having known someone who shared his name might mean.

Such thoughts were irrelevant, though, or at least, not currently relevant. They were ancillary to his purpose, distractions from the mission at hand. Oisin was here for information about other matters, not himself; and here, perhaps, to cultivate Mr. Vauquelin as a potential source, someone familiar enough to perhaps be of use in the future. Challenging Vauquelin's lies, or deceptions, or misdirections, or confronting the random happenstance of onsetting senility, or whatever deeper explanation there might possibly be for the events that had transpired, such actions would be of no service to him now. All he could do, all that was valuable in the moment, was play along and indulge.

Besides, given time, most secrets and questions had a habit of being exposed and answered, whether the interested parties wanted them to be or not.

Oisin let his brow furrow into another signature frown, this time one of friendly concern rather than any other sort of scrutiny. "If I might make a suggestion, though? While people around these parts may not recognise your face, a man of your, ah -" Oisin chose his euphamism carefully. "- stature? Does not always go entirely unnoticed. Certain kinds of people pay attention to such out-of-place things, and while some like myself may do so for benevolent ends, and only wish to talk? Some may have other ideas."

Oisin allowed himself to trail off, and wrestled against a kneejerk urge: something reckless, bait thrown into the water, in the hopes of luring out an admission or confirmation that he might not otherwise have been able to achieve. It was the kind of risk that mercenaries took all the time. Of course, in those circumstances, Oisin had usually been the one chastising them in hindsight, and patching up whatever holes in themselves had been earned as a result.

"The people behind Dorhaven, for example. I'd hate to think what might happen if such a person stumbled across a prominent Galdori in such an out of the way corner of the city."
Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Thu Jul 04, 2019 5:54 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Thu Jul 04, 2019 5:17 pm

the clockwork stag 🙫 the dives
during midday on the 11th of hamis, 2719
He’d been prepared for his usual routine. Wasn’t hard to pretend to be drunk when you spent so much of your time drunk anyway; a little slurring, a few stumbling, out-of-order words, some careless fumbling – it was second nature. He was tired and he was raen, and he did half that shit anyway. That, or he could’ve pretended to be senile, or flooding moony, or any one of his usual stand-bys. You ran these prying kovs in enough circles and they’d leave you alone. Oisin or not, he was a reporter, and the more time you spent around a reporter, the more risks you took.

And then Oisin spoke again, and his eyes darted back to the wick’s face.

“And what, pray fucking tell, d’you mean by that?”

It was out of his mouth faster than he could prevent it by clamping his mung jaw shut. A man of my stature’s about to knock your floodin’ block off, he thought – and, thankfully, didn’t say. More than a little of the Rose had crept into his accent, broadening the vowels and slurring the consonants. He blinked at Oisin, eyebrows raised, then cleared his throat.

He looked as if he were surprised it’d come out of his mouth, as if he’d been momentarily possessed. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, slower. He just barely managed to pour his words back into the urbane, mild-mannered accent he’d been practicing for months; still, he couldn’t help a hard edge to them, a few little slips.

“Forgive me,” he amended, smiling thinly, “but if you were anybody else, I’d think you were threatening me.” His fingertips lingered on his tumbler, tapping at the chilly, condensation-damp glass. There wasn’t any more to drink, but he reckoned he’d had enough. “Do you always do it this way? Sitting your erse right down and making yourself at home, spilling out all sorts of rubbish before you’ve even introduced yourself? Or are you so concerned for my golly well-being that you just couldn’t wait?” His tone wasn’t exactly angry, though; it had a warmth, an amusement, that hadn’t been there before, and there was a spark of something in his eyes.

With a creak of old wood – and the wobble of an uneven chair-leg on the floorboards – he sat back in his seat. He crossed his arms, tilting his head and regarding Oisin for a moment; he tapped his chin with a finger. The fraught buzz of his porven field was as irritable as ever, fizzing at the edges of the wick’s.

Suddenly, he snorted. “You’d’ve done better to start with one of my better-tempered colleagues. Or maybe you’re used to this by now, working for the Post. Mr. – was it Ocasta after all? Was I right?” He narrowed his eyes, that fox’s smile back on his thin face. He continued, a bit lower, “‘The people behind Dorhaven’, indeed. Do you suppose our friend over there with the guitar’s planning on following me out and sliding a knife between my ribs? Or perhaps they’ve slipped something into my whisky. I believe there are better ways of murdering an incumbent – and better incumbents to murder.”
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Oisin Ocasta
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Thu Jul 04, 2019 6:57 pm

Midday - 11th of Hamis
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The outburst caught him off balance, though not for any reason he could quickly identify. He had expected some sort of reaction, some sort of rise - even the accusation of a threat hadn't been unexpected. Oisin's prepared response tumbled from his thoughts however, knocked from his tongue by the intangible something that made Mr. Vauquelin's words so eerily familiar. It was something in the tone, something in the accent, something. No matter the person, everyone that Oisin had ever encountered was a story, just waiting to be transcribed and chronicled. But this? Something about the man felt untrue to character, inconsistent with the chapters that Oisin had thus far read. The attempt to once again shrug off the knowledge of Oisin's name, this time as if it were a lucky guess, deepened the dissonance between story and portrayal.

To his credit, Oisin took it in stride, filing away his observations to be unpacked and processed later.

"So you're confirming the allegations that the Human Resistance movement is behind the attack?"

It was a rhetorical question, and a retaliation. When news about Dorhaven had first begun to trickle in, the newspapers had been muzzled, ensuring that the powers that be would be in complete control of the narrative. It was they who had put out the word blaming humanity, reinforcing the same rumours and suspicions that had begun to cultivate all on their own. After all, who else was there to pin the blame upon? True or not, they were the culprits that fit the carefully crafted narrative: the story that people were willing to believe was often the only one that ever mattered.

Oisin shrugged off the statement as the off-hand jab that it had been, tempering his tone to more gently handle the Galdori who, by his own admission and protest, was not as receptive to bluntness and honesty as Oisin might have hoped. "I have no interest in threatening an incumbent," he assured. "My intent was merely to point out that your presence here is precicely why I am more interested to talk to you than one of your peers."

He leaned back in his seat, mirroring the Galdori's pose somewhat, though not out of any deliberate intent to mock or mimic. A small sigh escaped him, more of a breath, really, as his altered perspective allowed him to take in the full details of the man. He had already learned a great deal, not least of which was the apparent fact that the Galdori had short temper to match his short stature. Interesting too that Oisin's playful barb had struck a nerve: height was an ironic criterion that helped distinguish the Galdori from the so-called lower races, something that Oisin might have expected to be considered a point of pride. Certainly, he knew from personal experience that height could be a source of antagonism and aggression from Humans towards the shorter Wick cousins who grew up among them, but it was hard to imagine that such hostility was endured by young Galdori - surely, anyone foolish to attempt such a thing would not have survived long after. Yet, Mr. Vauquelin had taken it personally, reacted as if he himself found his height objectionable - enough to be sensitive about it, at least.

Those thoughts Oisin kept to himself, but the rest he offered openly, fingers lacing together in front of him as he delivered his assessment of the qualities that made Anatole Vauquelin 'interesting'.

"I'm here talking to you, Mr. Vauquelin, because you are here. While yes, there are certainly other incumbents who sneak away from the public eye, and who could be approached discreetly, their motivations for such, and the activities they are surely engaging in, are potentially a little too mentally scarring for my tastes. Some things cannot be unseen, or unheard, and even if they absolutely must be, it would be unwise and indecent to endure such a thing so close to lunch."

The sentiment was conveyed with a faint shudder, as much for comic effect as it was genuine. Oisin watched carefully, observing how the incumbent might react to the unsavoury allegation. Not that there was anything unsavoury about engaging the services of a sex worker: after all, sex was just another commodity, and arguably a more natural and necessary one than much of what else the wealthy chose to spend their concords on; but the words 'Kingsway Post' lingered in the air between them like a bad smell, and it was unlikely to be the conventional urges of unmarried men to which a reporter like Oisin was alluding. Would the incumbent share in Oisin's amused perspective, or would it trigger another modest flare of Vauquelin's temper?

"You, on the other hand, are not here in anonymity with a hooker's thighs around your ears. Amid this crisis, with danger and suspicion in the air, you have ventured here, to the bottom of the barrel, seeking only a quiet drink. That leads me to suspect two things, Mr. Vauquelin: one, that you are reasonably confident that the Humans of this establishment and this neighbourhood are not, as you put it, going to slide a knife between your ribs; and/or two, something about this current business has you really, really in need of that drink."

Oisin's thumbs drummed against each other for a few silent moments. "Perhaps you'd like to help me decide what conclusions to draw from those observations?"
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Tom Cooke
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Thu Jul 04, 2019 8:23 pm

the clockwork stag 🙫 the dives
during midday on the 11th of hamis, 2719
Confirming th—?” Tom’s lip twitched and his eyes narrowed. Before Oisin’d even done speaking, he’d hissed a curse between his teeth and looked abruptly away. There it was: old Oisin Ocasta was a proper fucking reporter, after all. No point in arguing, he reckoned, shooting the wick another brief, irritated glance – long enough to see the nonchalant expression with which he shrugged off the comment.

Hadn’t meant any more than chroveshit, anyway. In Intas, when he’d been all wound up and ready to go off like a godsdamn firecracker, he might’ve shouted or gotten up and left, or mustered up a flailing attempt to defend himself. The Vyrdag had taught him well, though. Trying to argue with a man like this was like trying to argue with a netche; you couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Even if, by some miracle, you managed to make yourself heard, you’d get your words fed back to you all trussed up in somebody else’s agenda.

A man like this. Tom looked back at Oisin with something like hurt in his eyes, quickly masked. He studied the other man’s face. For the first time, he thought it’d changed more than it’d stayed the same, and, despite himself, he felt betrayed. Even still, he knew he was a hypocrite. The past decade might’ve worn new lines into Oisin’s face, might’ve sharpened his wit against its many whetstones, but at least they were his lines and his wit and his voice.

Oisin’s long (and admittedly circuitous – had he always been this godsdamn wordy?) explanation, concerning certain other incumbents, caught Tom off guard. Despite himself, a smile crept into his expression, warming as the wick went on; then, finally, he shook with genuine laughter. “Fair enough,” he replied, still smiling faintly. “Plenty of other reporters to document the escapades of those old goats. No need to sacrifice your lunch.”

He tried, and failed, to summon up his anger again. The joke left him good-humored, as most jokes did, no matter the circumstances. A knot of hurt still throbbed at the bottom of his heart, but for awhile, it was easier to listen to this strange man and hear the Oisin he used to know. So now he listened intently, nodding as the journalist finished.

His tone was brusque, a little bitter, but not angry. “You’re answering your own questions, Mr. Ocasta. Whoever was behind the massacre – and I’m not confirming or denying a damned thing, seeing as I know about as much as you – I drink down here because I’ve got nothing to fear from these people. I don’t go picking fights with the dockers, and I don’t” – he raised his brows, glance flicking significantly up and down the wick – “go sidling up to strangers and asking questions. I don’t go flaunting my wealth, either, though if I did get robbed, I think I’d survive, don’t you? Besides, do you know what kind of—”

He broke off, grunting and waving a hand dismissively; he shook his head. Sitting up in his seat, he propped his head up again, peering at Oisin across the table with a troubled look. Yes, I do need a drink. Badly. Most days. We all do. It’s rainy season, and our ‘glorious kingdom’ is as unsettled as it’s ever been. You don’t need an incumbent to tell you that; just ask the refugees from Dorhaven. Plenty of humans died there, too.”

Suddenly, his expression soured again. He sucked at a tooth, pausing. That old hurt bubbled back up in him.

“But I suppose you stand to profit from all this, so you’ll be drinking to celebrate. The Post has never cared about the truth or trust, eh? You can quote me on all this – selectively and out of order.” Tom snorted.
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