Reprise

Nothing like the opera for bizarre reunions.

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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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Tom Cooke
Posts: 1485
Joined: Fri Dec 21, 2018 3:15 pm
Topics: 87
Race: Raen
Location: Vienda
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Writer: Graf
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Mon Jun 24, 2019 10:38 pm

the toy lantern 🙫 the dives
in the morning on the 12th of intas, 2719
Usual?”

“Aye,” Tom replied.

Petra nodded, raising an eyebrow, then turned to Corwynn. “Creature of habit, he is. Moony bastard, though.”

“Hey, hey.”

“An’ yerself?” she asked, flashing the blond gunman her crooked smile; it tugged at the vines inked on her cheek. After he responded, she started to turn, then paused, glance flicking over them, one eyebrow raised. “What’re the two o’ ye dressed up so benny fer, anyway? Ah, dze. Know better than t’ ask.” With a wink, she turned on her heel, weaving off among the tables and the cushion-scattered floor, curtained by smoke.

Tom watched her go, swift-footed, messy black bun bobbing behind her. His eyes wandered to the stage and lingered there; he watched the singer carefully, watched his eyes glistening in the shadows under his jutting, pale brow. As he drew the bow across his psaltery, producing a long, unbearably sad note, his heavy face contorted with some strange passion.

Tom’s eyes swept back to Corwynn, studying the gunman’s expression. His brow furrowed. “Laoso,” he repeated, softly. Missing something that’s staring us in the face. He thought about it for a moment, turned it over in his head, chewing on the irony and finding it sourer and sourer. Trying to go over that meeting in his head was pointless; he knew the players’ faces now, knew a little of what they had in their hands, but not enough. Missing pieces. Missing something.

The strain on Corwynn, though, was obvious. Though Tom didn’t let on, it took him aback. He’d never seen the galdor with such a scowl, though – admittedly – he hadn’t seen much of Corwynn in life, anyway, and not this close at hand. That business in the Muluku was laoso, but it wasn’t just that. As he went on, now about the turning of the Symvoulio to Mugroba, a hazy image started to come together in Tom’s head.

Again, he got the feeling they were all scrambling around on a sinking ship, patching over little holes on the starboard side when cannon’d torn a gaping hole in the port.

He propped his head up on a fist. “Bein’ honest? I may be unsure about a mant manna shit, but I know I ain’t a politician. This is smilin’, noddin’, an’ clingin’ on for dear life, plain an’ simple. Anatole’s got twenty years of pure politics on me, an’ clockin’ Brunnhold besides, an’ I know a little homework ain’t goin’ t’replace that. Lucky, I am, I can even fuckin’ read.” His expression soured a little. “It’s all goin’ t’come crashin’ down on my head – sooner than later, I’d reckon. But men’s the same everywhere, ain’t they? So maybe it ain’t so hard. Still talkin’ birds, even if it’s in a different tongue.

“You know”
– he squinted, staring intently at Corwynn – “would you know, I got some sympathy for your position now? Bein’ honest, when I was alive, I never knew what to make of you. Still don’t, ’course. But this Uptown shit, it ain’t easy, I’ll give you that.”

At Petra’s approach, he paused, glancing up. This time, she swept by swiftly and silently with their drinks and little more than a nod of acknowledgement; she was off again right away, tray heavy-laden. It might’ve been the busy night, but it might’ve also been the tone of their conversation: she knew when not to intrude.

Tom took up his tumbler, taking a long sip of Gioran whisky. After the brandy, it felt almost antiseptic, and the bitter twist underneath the burn was a welcome balm to the cloying-sweet cling. His expression had been grim enough so far, but now, a fox’s smile crept onto his face. As Corwynn finished, his lip twitched.

“An’ what’s pretty Marie got to say about this year’s keja rainy season?” he asked. “What can the still-breathin’ corpse of this incumbent do y’ for?”

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