Things that go Bump in the Night

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Flintwinch Street, Uptown
17th of Intas, 2719, 39 minutes past the 27th Hour

T

he night is phosphor-yellow. Along Flintwinch Street the lamps glow too bright. The shadows in alleyways and along the arcades are deep and black and featureless. It is still cold, despite the season. It has not come into its own. Though the breeze from off the river gives the promise of mild days and growing things. Growing things. He has been neglecting his orchids. They are fading, perishing from neglect. He has not had time. There is never enough time.

Shrikeweed checks his watch. Thirty-nine minutes past the 27th hour. Too late. He should not spend so long in Stainthorpe Hall. Too far from home. Too many dark streets. He must stay. There is too much to do. He still lacks staff. What lines he has out have gone unbitten. He will need to cast more widely. But not tonight. Tonight is for home and bed.

He keeps to the middle of the street, away from shadows. Too late for much traffic. He will not be run down. It is near-silent. He will hear any cab or cart along the street behind him. He knows this street, but not at this hour. All the shapes are wrong, the buildings wearing obscuring masks. The phosphor lamps hurt his eyes. Is he going night-blind? Perhaps. Or not. He cannot tell. The glare is too strong.

Sounds in the shadows, Night cats on the prowl. Questionable intents. One squawls, announcing its desperate amorousness. Cats are too wild, too uncivil, too carnal. Bestial. Another sound, a shape in the shadow of the lamps. A rat on its nocturnal business. Quiet, purposeful, civilized. Ludicrously, he salutes it as a fellow citizen. It is too late, and he is too tired. Home. Bed. He needs sleep. He will be fortunate to get five or six fitful hours. That is nothing new. He has not slept well for years. His mind too full of paper and ink.

He picks up his pace. Footfalls ringing on the cobbles. It should take no more than half an hour to reach home.

[Xavier Zhirune]

☾ Flintwich Street, Uptown

jus' a lil' late on Intas 17th, 2719

It had been rather flattering to be invited to play music in Uptown, and it had been even more flattering to be showered with a bit of overly friendly attention afterward. Even if they disliked galdorkind, a few free drinks and a heavy wallet slipped so delicately from a stranger's coat pocket with some clever wandering hands never went unappreciated by Xavier Zhirune—until there were expectations, of course. Until the payout was hardly worth the evening's time, what with supposed taxes and all—on account of the pale Gioran being a wick, of course.

It was easy—too easy—for the albino musician to flirt coyly with others, regardless of gender—even with godsbedamned jent as they all were, totally unconcerned about the jent they still kept as a pet back in the Book and the Bell. Comfortable in their ambiguous fluidity, it was never easy—hardly ever—to explain any details once questions were asked from the few lips that had no qualms becoming more than friendly with the Gioran wick.

Disentangling themselves from yet another complicated situation that would have turned sour eventually, Xavier was perhaps a few too many drinks into the evening, restless and full of post-performance adrenaline that left them loath to make their way back to their room. Perhaps they just needed to find another pub, oud over their shoulder, moonlit strands of hair pulled up into a fashionable for an Anaxi young woman updo despite it all being hidden beneath their hood, kohl still thick around their violet eyes. Well-tailored clothes crafted with care in the Stacks smoothed their lithe silhouette, and yet the Intas cold was still a slap in the face.

Breath stolen, they made their way through the phosphor-lit streets of Uptown, all of the cobblestones straight, all of the leafless trees neatly arranged, all of the closed storefronts clean and clocking perfect. It was nothing like the Dives, here, and they felt like a stranger, a pale, petulant creature drifting through finery they could only borrow and steal.

Tall and graceful, the willowy musician heard the patrol before they saw it, loud, masculine voices and bawdy jokes told from the backs of massive chroven. Hissing in displeasure, aware of their lack of sobriety and obvious glamour, they slipped away into one of the many unfamiliar side streets, dipping into shadows like a moon behind the clouds. Ducking behind some well-stacked boxes, they waited for voices to fade, squinting in the darkness to dig out the wallet they'd lifted while some plumb guttered golly fumbled against their person, hoping for a good time from Xav.

While the wallet had been weighty enough, the albino wick scowled when they discovered it was just made heavy with hats and forts—hardly worth the trouble of kissing that ersehole. Gods, how did that one even afford all those drinks—did every godsbedamned jent have a clocking tab?

Disgusted by an evening that had promised to pay well and only handed out tips and annoyed by a lackluster prize, Xavier sighed and tucked themselves into the hood of their overcoat, well-tuned ears picking up the sound of footsteps in the next cross street. It was a late house, especially for Uptown. With a patrol having passed just mere minutes before, whoever was out at this hour probably wasn't another Seventen.

Peering from their vantage point in the darkness, their violet gaze took in the man—another jent, of course—walking quickly, walking alone. Glancing back down at the fistful of change in their long, bejeweled fingers, the pale creature smirked.

Damn it all.

Shoving the wallet into their coat and adjusting the oud over their shoulder, one hand came to rest comfortably against the hilt of the knife tucked into their androgynous layers of fashion, hardly cutting a stealthy figure at the moment. Their other hand fluttered over their face as if wiping it clean, fingers light over translucent skin. Pretty and talented was just a mask, truth be told. Tall and imposing could be another.

Perhaps this golly had deeper pockets to make up for their loss.

Perhaps this golly just needed to be reminded he shouldn't be walking alone.

Either way, Xav weighed their myriad of choices and decided to take the risk.

Stepping from the shadows, long strides graceful but purposeful, the sliver of moonlight began to fall in step behind the shorter, hurried galdor. It was casual at first, those first few moments, they were just another body on the street, but then they began to move a little faster and it would be very obvious their intention was to completely overtake the unfortunate stranger.

The albino wick was closing swiftly, a shameless grin on their pale violet painted lips.

⟡ ☾° ⟡

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Intersection of Flintwinch and Boythorn
The 17th of Intas, 2719, 48 minutes past the 27th Hour

B

oythorn Street and Wackford Lane. A cut down Wackford will bring him faster towards home. But Wackford is narrow, sloping. Too easy to miss his footing in the dark. He is too tired for that. His attention wrapped up in the day to try and negotiate that twisting thoroughfare. Better to take Boythorn. It is broader, gentler, and more conducive to a long, private, contemplation.

Memorandum of Conversation. One last piece of business to complete and one to do at home, away from the eyes of others. Away from the Incumbent. The notes, written in his private shorthand, are tucked into a plain folder in his attache case. At least an hour of work to translate those into something like a proper memorandum. Clocks and hourglasses, will this day ever end?

There are too many questions, too many lacunae in the papers and in the person of the Incumbent. Shrikeweed is fast becoming the man’s professional memory. It would be dangerous, if the Incumbent had any settled views. It is still dangerous. The Incumbent’s views may become more like his own. That is not sound. It is not the place of the Civil Service to create policy. Only to shape it, to file off the rough edges, provide advice, to be ignored, and then to carry it out. He is as untethered as the Incumbent, lost along with him. At least Shrikeweed knows himself. It is not much, but it is something to cling to.

Abreast of Boythorn, he makes his customary turn, feel the customary cobbles under his feet. Can a new route home become customary so soon? Apparently so. That is curious, and a little unsettling. What else can change in eleven day’s time?

Five minutes down Boythorn and the sounds of other footfalls behind him. Rapid. Light but clear. Another official walking home late? Unlikely. He was one of the last out of Stainthorpe Hall, passing the night cleaners on his way to the side door. Someone else is walking behind him. And gaining fast. He shivers, and not from cold. Even here, still in the shadow of government buildings and the courts, the night is not wholly safe. There should be patrols out. Useless. A single official is not worth a second of the Seventen’s time. The same logic should make him worthless to anyone else.

The city has abandoned logic. The nation has abandoned logic. Shrikeweed, however, will not. He recalculates his route. The footsteps still follow. He tries to outpace them, but cannot. A curses on his short stature. A curse on his too-tired body. Ro move much faster would make him enter a slow jog. It would make him obvious. His shoes are not suited to jogging. He owns no shoes that are. What does he need such things for? He tries to go faster.

He comes abreast of a door he recognizes. Farling’s Chop House. A haunt of unsettled clerks and even more unsettling food. He’s only eaten there three or four times. Only became violently ill once. For Farling’s that seems to count as a miracle. He does not believe in miracles. There is one virtue to the place. It’s wide awnings and the tables that spill out into the street require a traveler to make a fairly significant dog-leg. For once he blesses the lack of enforcement of public order laws. The tables should be put away for the night, the street cleared. They never are.

It should not be too obvious to the light-stepper behind him that Shrikeweed will turn to have a glance. Quick. There meerest turn of the head. A tall form, elegant, long-legged and carrying something. Something of awkward shape, but carried easily. He cannot make it out, not on so short a glance. He does not, cannot look any longer.

Should he turn and face the form? Show he has seen it? No. That will raise more suspicion, may turn a nothing into a threat.

The form is probably nothing. Just another late travel on their way home. Yes, that must be it. What else can it be? The conclusion brings him no comfort, but he is at least used to that. Discomfort has become his natural state.

[Xavier Zhirune]

☾ Flintwich Street, Uptown

jus' a lil' late on Intas 17th, 2719

The poor jent finally heard them, glancing over his shoulder at the pale creature stalking them with long-legged strides and a deep-rooted vehemence too often hidden behind coy smiles and too much kohl. The albino wick had danced carefully along the sharp edge of social acceptability for most of their existence, aware that they both needed galdorkind to even exist and aware that those same galdori took their own existence either for granted or for garbage. There were so very few possible inbetweens and that was certainly something Xavier had spent some part of their short life resenting more than once.

Perhaps, had the poor man not picked up his pace, they would have lost interest. Perhaps, had their violet gaze not got a glimpse of a face that was hardly confident in the possible outcomes of their meeting, the willowy Gioran would have changed their mind.

But, ne.

It was rare for Xavier to find the taste of fear satisfying, but the memory of being afraid in the company of other galdori, the memory of being at the mercy of those so comfortable in their positions of power was one that never really faded, was a wound that festered deep beneath the graceful, moonlit surface of their existence. The jent's look lingered, and his curiosity was too great a temptation. The pale creature made one careful glance around the street, quite confident of its emptiness, before they called almost coyly:

"Ent gotta rush, kov—"

Xavier picked up their pace, easily catching up to the shorter-legged, smaller-framed galdor and almost singing a short, familiar series of phrases of Monite as if they were performing on stage: push. Every golly knew the spell, and, apparently, judging by the sudden sensation of the pale creature's sigiled glamour, so did wicks.

Roll for PushShow

AvraeBOTToday at 2:58 PM
Muse: 1d6 (6)
Total: 6

That's a bit of a hard push ... Epaemo, jent.

The mona, amoral and sentient, mysterious and ever-present, obeyed the falsetto syllables of the tall stranger who, in casting, revealed themselves to clearly have malicious intentions, and the fleeing Civil Servant felt the forcible shove of the very air around him, the mona clearly determined to send him toppling to the cobblestones in the dark.

"—oops."

Xavier grinned—a flash of starlight—and loomed over the unfortunate galdor, though they made no move to threaten with anything sharp hidden on their person so much as the sheer advantage of their superior position on their feet and so much taller. Narrow-framed and lithe, perhaps that was all that could be threatening about them.

Then again, perhaps not.

"Perhaps ye'd run faster 'f ye emptied yer pockets first, eh?"

⟡ ☾° ⟡

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Outside Farling's Chop House, Boythorn Street
The 17th of Intas, 2719, 3 minutes past the 28th Hour

T

here is no time, not tick of the clock in which to react. He staggers, tried to right himself, fails. The force takes hold of him, a swelling of power, and knocks him from his feet. He has felt this before, years ago, when a wave broke over him as he stood with his back to the sea. It has closed over him without warning, without notice. The roaring in his ears, the surge of titanic power. It pulled him far out to sea, or so it seemed. For a moment he thinks he can still hear the roar of the ocean, sounding in his ears. A childhood memory. He cannot have been more than seven. Now, here, the same overwhelming force, the same utter confusion. There is nothing to do but try and greet the stones in the street as gently as he can.

Indifferent success. He lands upon his back, the wind fleeing his lungs in one forced gasp. A tearing sound. The left sleeve of his coat tears. It is an expensive coat, much loved. Now ruined. No point in going to the taylor to have it mended. Ludicrous. He may not even last the night. A lank and sinister shadow, spider-thin and dark like night and pale like the moon looms over. Watching, speaking.

A demand for money, for the contents of his pockets. Common enough. Expected. He had no great store of cash, no banker’s drafts, perhaps a treasury bill or two. And his watch. No, that he cannot part with. Custom work, precise, unobtrusive. It would likely last for generations. An heirloom to be passed down. Not his own line. A terrifying thought. His brother’s? Perhaps. No use in speculating. It will not happen. Not with this watch.

Looking up at the spider above him, for a moment he considers his own magic. Pointless. What can he do? Measure him? A thought. There is no time now for such magics. Not here in the streets with his wind gone and bruises to his back and shoulders. But for memory? Yes. There is time. He says nothing. Focuses on the face above him. Pale, thin, strange, unsettling violet eyes. Man? Woman? No matter. Perhap both, or neither. Focus on what matters. The shape of the lips, the form of the nose, the spacing of the eyes. The sound of the voice. All the elements of the pattern of the figure. An abstraction.

A gasp. Burning in his lungs. What is this? More sorcery? No. He is breathing again. Relief and agony at once. He coughs, gasps again.

“Wait,” he said, voice faint and unsure. More a whisper. “I have nearly nothing.” Stiff hands rummage through his coat pockets. Leather case, smooth and worn. He pulls it out, opens it up and shows the contents. It is what he thinks it is, perhaps more. A four shills worth in smaller coins, a treasury notes totalling perhaps another two. “Take it. Now leave me be.”

[Xavier Zhirune]

☾ Near Boythorn Street, Uptown

jus' a lil' late on Intas 17th, 2719

The tall sliver of moonlight watched with a casual sort of lack of concern as the poor jent staggered and fell with the force of their well-cast voo, satisfaction welling in their narrow chest as if there'd been an audience to applaud their musical performance, the run-off from their casting filling Xavier with a rush of excitement in harmony with the adrenaline of the illicit moment they were seizing to rob a stranger with force instead of subtlety or charm. It was a daring move, but sometimes those sorts of things felt good.

Like this one did—

—almost.

The older golly was attempting to take in their lovely face, hooded but hardly hidden, and it was with graceful instinct that the albino wick tugged wool fabric over the lower half of their face, lacquered nails glittering in what little light shown in the alley. It wasn't as though they were entirely able to deny how they'd been made—willowy and tall, Gioran and, as far as they were concerned, gloriously pleasing to the eye when looked upon.

Dze, this mung kov wanted to remember them. He was one of those.

A tattler.

Hissing in displeasure, Xavier drew themselves up to their full height, towering above the man as he murmured about the emptiness of his pockets. What kind of galdor was this to carry nothing?

Shills.

Godsbedamned shills. And a couple of papers they weren't about to bother taking to the bank. It wasn't as though they needed the suspicion.

Not even a concord or a hat glittering in that leather bifold! The pale, petulant creature's face twisted into a sneer of obvious dissatisfaction,

"Don't ye be holdin' out 'n me, jent." They threatened with a dangerous sort of growl. This had been a poor decision. They should have picked a better street. They should have just found their way to another bar and conned strangers out of their wallets with more of their body than just their magic. What a waste,

"This really it?" Lithe fingers plucked the entire leather case from the poor stranger's hands, looming over him as if they had every intention of putting the jent's words to the test with a rough searching, but they refrained, disinterested in getting so close that the galdor had an opportunity to retaliate physically. Not that they thought they were risking much, given how the man wasn't fighting back now, but still.

They had their oud to look out for,

"Underpaid clerk, eh." Coins were tucked away into the stylish layers of their clothing and they huffed, pointing with obvious threat, the other hand indicating the hilt of at least one knife near their hip beneath their velvet coat, "Ye try an' call for help when I walk away, an' I'll jus' turn an' cott yer sorry erse, ye chen? We'll jus' go our opp'site ways all amicable like—"

The last bit was added with obvious sarcasm and an undisguised (if not spoiled) lack of gratitude, their lingering Gioran accent almost turning it into a musical sound:

"—neither 'f us any richer."

⟡ ☾° ⟡

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Outside Farling's Chop House, Boythorn Street
The 17th of Intas, 2719, 11 minutes past the 28th Hour

H

e rarely carries much cash, never has much need. He lives on credit and his word, not shiny trinkets given value only by communal delusion. And when the bills come due? His bankers sort that out and send him statements which he never reads. He does not have to. He keeps his own records. Itemized, with memoranda to support the purchases. This level of finance he can understand, even enjoys. Economics still escapes him. He cannot be an expert at everything.

Now is not the time to muse on the nature of commercial banking. Focus on the matter at hand, at the face and form looming above him. He breaths in, then out, then in again. Settles himself as best he can. It is not easy, not here, with the cobbles digging into his spine and the pain, the bruises, already blooming upon his back. The face. The form. What does he know? What will be need to remember?

• Item: Face. Angular, fine featured. Probably aesthetically pleasing to some. Not to him, not here, not now.

• Item: Race unclear. Magic precludes human.

• Item: Form. Tall, thin, pale, violet eyes.

• Item: Voice. Some faint hints of an accent, origin unknown. Heavy use of the coarse
  vernacular.

• Conclusion: Likely wick, though galdor cannot be wholly discounted. Gioran? Gioran extraction?

He tries to gather more of the face. Cannot. The damned putative Gioran is pulling the hood across their face. Any data in that? Unlikely. It is just a hood like ten thousand others. He knows little enough about the finer points of fabric to say anything useful. Let it go, let it pass.

Looking up, he tries to set his face in defiance, as though facing some unusually loathsome auditor for Treasury. Perhaps it helps. Perhaps it seems wholly out of place here. “Underpaid? Perhaps.” A lie. His salary, his new salary, is more than generous. The concords piling up slowly but surely. No great wealth. He has never wanted to be wealthy. Far too much work. Far too many obligations. He already has enough of those. “Were you expecting some walking bank box? Some fat pigeon with too much wealth and not enough sense?” He knows such persons, despises them. No sense of decorum, no acquiescence to this modern age. Old minds stuck forever in old patterns.

The pain along his spine grows, branching up and outward, and he turns to alleviate it. A small motion, little more than a leftward roll, and his watch falls from his waistcoat pocket. In the phosphorescent night it catches the light. Shines. It is worth far more than all his cash and notes. It is worth more than his life? No, not quite. He hopes, hopes in vain, that the putative Gioran will not notice it. How can they not?

Should he offer it up? Will that gesture speed the end of this business? The watch. It is distinct. Valuable. Too much so not to pawn, to cash in. Something like this, well, that should be easy enough to trace. The Seventen do have resources. Will they track down one watch to bring a little justice to one civil servant? Unlikely. They have better things to do.

He unclasps the watch from its button hole and hands it upward. “I assume you know how to tell time? Take it, and I swear, that is all I have. Take it can go.” Will that be enough? He has nothing else. It will have to be enough.

He still does not know, cannot know, if he will survive this night.

[Xavier Zhirune]

☾ Near Boythorn Street, Uptown

jus' a lil' late on Intas 17th, 2719

The pathetically poor jent was studying their face, taking them in with his wide eyes in the dark, and it was Xavier's immediate instinct to hunch down where they'd drawn themselves up, to shrink back a little into their hood and into a more slumped body language, still tense and ready and alert nonetheless.

"I were expectin' more than a few fuckin' shills, that's for sure." Spat the petulant albino, pretty face twisting into a displeased sneer of barely contained frustration. The man at their feet was infuriating in their galdor smugness, probably already fantasizing about some grand court case that would end in their lanky, Gioran erse being hung. They hated the thought of it, glaring at him with their violet eyes narrowed,

"Plenty 'f yer lots' fat an' senseless, gorged 'n their own power. Must got some brains, ye do." They tossed the empty purse back down on the stones next to the galdor with a hiss of breath through their teeth, attention darting to the brief flicker of tension in the other man's body.

A glint of light—there was a watch.

Did it have personal value?

They wondered for but a moment, realizing he'd either read the wick's thoughts or simply knew he'd have little choice at playing his full hand of cards. The tall albino made some noise of displeasure, a tsk that had more vowels than consonants in the language of their distant and unwelcoming homeland. The galdor shifted and fumbled with the silver thing, but he also bothered to fumble with his words.

Xavier's sneer burned its way deeper into the fair countenance of their face and they felt the heated flush of frustration burn its way down their esophagus and fill their stomach, "Y'assume I—gods, ye really are all th' same. Buncha conceited over-educated erseholes. I can count, mujo ma. Yaldyet!Shit!"

Their stare hardened, but they snatched the watch anyway—more now out of spite than need—lacquered nails sharp when used for such purpose, making sure to be rough with things. Maybe they misstepped, fancy shoes seeking the fingers of the unfortunate galdor's other hand should he use it for support on the stones behind him. Maybe they misstepped further when gracefully moving backwards, digging a boiled leather-covered set of toes into ribs with a harshness thought deserved for such a lowly assumption made on their albino behalf.

Of course they could clocking count.

Though, if they really wanted to do some counting, they realized quickly that their odds of staying safe if they lingered any longer were growing slim. There were Seventen patrols who kept their blackback movements through the city streets like godsbedamned clockwork and the sliver of moonlight didn't want to be caught quite so redhanded. It was rather obvious what was happening here, no matter how disappointing this robbery had turned out to be.

"Least yer evenin' can only get better from here, hmm?" The petulant musician-turned-thug winked coyly, tucking everything away and smoothing over their coat.

Xavier resisted the urge to spit on the stones between them, to lay down some old wick curse that required saliva and blood and a few choice words. Instead, they muttered something insulting in Gioran, made a rude hand gesture with their long fingers and lacquered nails that sparkled lavender with glitter, and quickly chose a direction to flee with long strides, unable to be concerned about the instrument over their shoulder or the wisps of white, colorless hair escaping their hood.

⟡ ☾° ⟡