Whiskey, You're the Devil

A potentially sobering conversation.

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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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Adam Spencer
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Tue Apr 23, 2019 7:39 pm

The Toy Lantern • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 5th of Intas, 2719 • Evening
Drinks would have already helped, even as Adam descended the stairs to the lounge. Plural, at that. There had been a lot to do, running around this way and that, in the worst of the weather. Too much clocking wind. It was enough to drive a man who wasn't a habitual drinker into the beam of the Toy Lantern. He'd have taken less work, or less chill, but Vespe, in all her eternally dubious wisdom, seemed intent on sticking him with both.

At least nobody inside was singing to drown out conversations. He had arrived before whatever talent was set to perform, and they were still setting up the stage. He'd miss the burlesque show tomorrow night, but sacrifices had to be made. He'd come here to talk, or to be talked to, whichever way the conversation went. He was flexible on that account. If the galdor with whom he was set to have a conversation wanted to do most of the talking, he'd certainly provide a willing ear.

It wasn't hard to find the shorter man, slumped in a veritable heap in one of the plush velvet chairs farther away from the stage. Good choice, however intentional or unintentional it might have been. At least they wouldn't be so close to the singing that it would be a distraction. What might be a distraction, though, was that glass of liquor that Anatole Vauquelin had in his hand. Adam wondered exactly how drunk the galdor had gotten, but he supposed it didn't matter. So long as the other fellow was sensate enough to carry on a conversation, any social lubricant was a good one.

He removed his cap as he pulled up an ottoman to perch on across from the rapidly intoxicating galdor. "Mr. Vauquelin, pleasure to see you. You're keeping well, I hope? Please, allow me to buy the next round as a courtesy for being willing to speak to me." But he didn't sit yet, waiting for the other man to gesture him to do so.

It was impossible to shake the feeling of being a messenger-boy in situations such as these, but he'd have to push down the feeling like he always did in speaking with the gollies. As ever, it was a bit of an effort. He felt his jaw tighten slightly, but relaxed, only a second's flickering tension crossing his face.

He raised his voice a little, in case Vauquelin hadn't heard. The politician did look a little peaked, after all. "Neat Gioran whiskey, if I'm not mistaken? I never forget a drink."

Last edited by Adam Spencer on Mon May 06, 2019 10:35 pm, edited 6 times in total.

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Tom Cooke
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Wed Apr 24, 2019 12:03 pm

the toy lantern 🙫 the dives
during the evening of the 5th of intas, 2719
A hell of a far cry from the Paper Tiger, the Lantern was, and that was fine with Tom. He’d picked a spot out of the way, wreathed in smoke and hazy lights and velvet upholstery. He’d been there for about an hour and a half already, watching tonight’s act set up and listening to a man nearby tune his balalaika. Over the chatter of voices, the clink of drinks and the bubbling of hookahs, a few soft notes occasionally broke out and drifted on the air.

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten his meeting with Adam Spencer – he hadn’t in the slightest – but the drinks, as they say, had begun to fly by like birds, lighter and easier with each one drunk. If he couldn’t banish the specter of his discomfort and unease, then he could at least drown it. More than ever, now, Tom was trying hard not to think about the events of earlier that week, about Hawke or D’Arthe or the Resistance, about his own place in the whole rotten business. How he felt about all of it. He was no stranger to bloodshed, but these days, every time he looked in the mirror and saw—

Tom was trying hard not to think about any of that. He’d started to regret agreeing to this little rendezvous.

He was on the verge of drifting off when Spencer came over, and without a field to announce his approach, the human seemed to spring from the smoky shadows like an apparition. Tom blinked once, twice, thrice – his eyes came into focus on the tall, dark-haired man, though he didn’t recognize him at first. Then he registered the other man’s voice.

When he spoke for a second time, more loudly, Tom winced, massaging his temple and then holding up a hand as if to say, Wait.

“Well as ever, I reckon,” he muttered after a moment, a little slushy. “What are you doing just standing there, Mr. Spencer?” His left eye twitched; he pushed himself up by the arm of his chair semi-successfully, fidgeting uncomfortably among velvet plush. Once he’d got halfway-comfortable, he leaned forward, setting his tumbler down and propping his chin on one hand. He scanned the human’s handsome face, his eyes narrowing.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have objected to a pretty kov like this offering to buy him a drink. He might’ve laughed at the irony, if it hadn’t cut him right to the bone. Even sloshed as he was, he caught those little tells: he saw the man’s jaw tighten for just that half of a second, saw him push down all that tension. The way he talked, too, so damned respectful, like a servant who thinks his master’s a mung but can’t do shit about it out loud. Tom was no stranger to all that (though for his own part, he’d never been too good at respectful). He’d never get used to being on this side of it, and it pissed him off.

Something in his head was saying, Be careful, and not even the whisky could smother that voice. He had a feeling that Spencer was just as much an upstanding, honest journalist as he was Anatole Vauquelin.

His lip twitched. “No, thank you. Being honest,” and he reached over and tapped the tumbler with one delicate fingernail – ting, ting, “I’ve had enough for tonight.” He sat back in his chair with a creak of upholstery, knitting his fingers over his knee. He offered Spencer a thin, chilly smile, undercut only by the effort it was taking to get the syllables out of his mouth in the right order.

“You’ll have to remind me what you wanted to talk about, eh?”
Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sun May 12, 2019 6:16 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Adam Spencer
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Wed Apr 24, 2019 2:12 pm

The Toy Lantern • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 5th of Intas, 2719 • Evening
Just putting together some pieces for an article," Adam murmured, moving to take a seat once Vauquelin made it clear he was welcome. The ottoman wouldn't have been his first choice for a seat, but if it served to make clear to the galdor that Adam respected the distance between them, the journalist was more than willing to put up with the discomfort.

He shrugged off the denial of his drink offer, raising a hand to a passing waiter. "Twemlaugh." It was a deliberately ordered drink -- the chosen succor of bureaucrats and those who were trying their very best to be diplomatic. His own tastes ran more towards Flashfight, but he wouldn't have dared to order it here. He was half-certain Vauquelin might wind up too drunk to remember, but not entirely sure, and stupid chances weren't warranted when he was genuinely here to have a civil conversation with a galdor who would actually deign to speak with him off the record.

"I won't report my source, of course," he began, smiling a little conspiratorially to the other man, his posture shifting to something more casual, "and I've a confession to make of my own -- being honest. During all that nonsense last summer, I found myself regrettably on assignment in Thul Ka. So here I find myself with a summary article to write by the next week's end for the Vienda Weekly, a retrospective opinion piece meant for the population as a whole, and very little written about it so far. Mugroba heard of it, surely, but all my fellow humans won't talk to me about it, and the galdori -- begging your pardon, sir -- are all telling me what I've already read. I figured, given our past acquaintanceship, you might be able to offer me some more useful details than 'There was a hanging; it was the fault of the Resistance.' That's already covered; I want something actually useful, and I've found your facts have borne out in the past."

He was laying it on a bit thick, he knew, but Vauquelin was well into drunkenness, and flattery worked better as a lever on the inebriated than the sober. Besides, Vauquelin seemed in something of a pensive mood. Adam wanted very much to encourage that. Whatever was bothering the other fellow was a curiosity to be worked out by the end of the conversation, and hopefully verbalized.

He let his gaze shift off the galdor. Let him work through what he would say in his own time. Adam's attention drifted towards the setup and the balalaika, and if he had really been distracted, he would have missed the waiter hovering at his elbow with a glass of pear brandy at the ready. As it was, he blinked, affecting surprise, nodding in thanks and taking a careful sip.
Last edited by Adam Spencer on Fri Apr 26, 2019 5:15 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Thu Apr 25, 2019 11:17 pm

the toy lantern 🙫 the dives
during the evening of the 5th of intas, 2719
An article?”

A faint, mocking smile played across his face – more of a twitch or a spasm than an expression. He was getting drunker and drunker, but he wasn’t mung. Spencer’s face swam in front of him, mild-mannered and even; he was fine-featured and slight for a human, it was true, but still so terribly, unmistakably human. He struggled to focus on Spencer’s words. For a moment, he felt strange, as if he were two people at once: he felt as if he were himself, sitting here and chatting with the journalist, and then he felt as if he were an observer, floating at some distance, drinking in the details without understanding his place in them. The man sitting in the chair wasn’t him, was it? Who was he, then? The man on the ottoman? No, that wasn’t him. Could it have been?

He even thought about it, for one wild moment. It wouldn’t’ve been hard, the act itself – vacating this corpse and wrangling with the journalist’s soul. Trying to steal another body. He’d done it before, so why not do it again? Spite built up in him like bile. But no, he thought, no, and suddenly he was just one person again, feeling very small and trapped. Every life was its own burden. He didn’t want Adam Spencer’s any more than he’d wanted this one. He didn’t want to do that again.

Begging my fucking pardon, fucking sir.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and fidgeting to try and rouse himself to alertness. He scooted to the edge of his seat, unconsciously mirroring the way Spencer was sitting on his ottoman. He blinked a few times, frowning. The other man’s eyes had strayed to the balalaika player, and he’d looked faintly surprised at the sight of his twemlaugh. Something about that motion put him at ease, as if the human had been just as distracted as him.

“I, uh—” He stared at the table between them for a moment, willing it to be still, and traced the top of his snifter with a fingertip. “I wouldn’t’ve called it ‘nonsense’, exactly, Mr. Spencer.” He let out an incredulous snort. “Well. I don’t know what you want from me about it, though. I was in Vienda when it happened, but – barely. You may not know this, but I was deeply ill, all through the dry season and most of the fall. If it’s the riots you want to know about, I wasn’t there, and I barely knew what was going on—”

Ting, ting, ting. He sucked at his teeth, tapping the glass again. Then he looked up, met the other man’s eye as squarely as he could.

He spoke very quietly. “Maybe it was the fault of the Resistance, maybe it wasn’t. I don’t know anything about the Resistance. Obviously.” Another half-snort. He narrowed his eyes – then, he fidgeted further forward in his seat, perched on the very edge. He tapped the little table between them with two fingers, holding Spencer’s gaze. A waitress was bustling by, and he waited until she was out of earshot to speak again. “Mr. Spencer, correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you’re fishing. Maybe you’d like to tell me what you think is going on, and I can – offer suggestions.”

Tom was far too clocking drunk for this, and he knew it. He knew he shouldn’t have agreed to this meeting. But after everything that had happened recently, he felt like there was an anchor tied to his heart; he hadn’t properly talked to a human – another human? – in what must’ve been months.

“If we’re being honest.”
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Adam Spencer
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Thu Apr 25, 2019 11:59 pm

The Toy Lantern • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 5th of Intas, 2719 • Evening
Obviously, Anatole Vauquelin knew nothing about the Resistance. Of that, Adam was fairly sure. At least, he didn't know the man to whom he was speaking was a member, so that was a good sign pointing towards the Incumbent's lack of awareness.

He couldn't be too careful, though. The galdor was dropping broad enough hints that he was willing to talk without pretense, but the whole situation had to be more carefully managed than he had to this point. Vauquelin knew he was digging for information; with a sip of his brandy, Adam took a moment or two to figure out just how much he would be willing to share in return.

"Right. No more garmon shit. Message received," he remarked. His tone was still eminently respectful, but the words weren't. He smiled, though, to soften the blow of the words. Something instinctive was telling him Vauquelin needed that plain talk. Might have been the prodigious amount of drink his source had imbibed prior to his arrival. Probably was, anyway.

He set his glass of twemlaugh down -- up, actually, having to move upwards from where his hand had rested on his bent legs astride the ottoman, to place the glass on a higher side table. That waitress had disappeared, and Vauquelin had waited for her to get out of the way before speaking again. A gesture of confidentiality, perhaps, or at least of avoiding a more obvious font of gossip.

"I think there's more to the story than my bosses at the Weekly are letting on. Going back in the record, there seems to have been some uneasiness from various parties about the hanging that resulted from the riots. Different stakeholders; difference of opinions -- I mean, that usually happens in any story with multiple parties, but the whole thing seems to be a gods-awful mess, and not having been here for most of it, I'm having a hell of a time sorting it in my head. Maybe I'm a stop-clocker, but I've lived the past twenty-five years assuming I'm not."

He jabbed a finger at the other man, getting a little more comfortable with his own words. His voice didn't raise, though, staying level and quiet. "You might have a different opinion indeed, just like I'm beginning to have about the matter. I'd like to hear it. My own opinion is that there's something more to the story, something that's been left out of the reports, something that's very important. Maybe not in terms of the riots themselves, but, well, when one side of it is repeating what they've already said, and the other side is keeping their mouths shut, basic instinct says that doesn't connect. At the end of the day, that's all I have," he concluded. It wasn't information being told, but even the opinion he'd just shared would be potentially damning if it got out. It would have to be a fair initial exchange.

He kept his focus level on the drunk man. Another sip of his own drink wasn't necessary at the moment. The galdor might have been half-soused, but even inebriated, Vauquelin was clever enough to see what he was doing and fair enough to call him out on it. He'd respond in kind, as far as he could. After all, it was just another form of playing nice with the gollies, even if Vauquelin's definition of "nice" might have differed from the norm.

But there was no way in hell that he was going to talk about the Resistance. The older man before him was still part of the problem that needed to be solved. Ford would have appreciated this talk, even if Serro likely won't, he told himself. Suddenly, he wanted that drink, and he wished he'd ordered something stronger than this weak-as-water diplomats' swill.
Last edited by Adam Spencer on Mon Apr 29, 2019 10:07 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Fri Apr 26, 2019 2:39 pm

the toy lantern 🙫 the dives
during the evening of the 5th of intas, 2719
No more garmon shit. Tom suppressed a snort; that sounded likely. Still, as Spencer went on, he seemed to relax, leaning over on the arm of his chair and cradling his head in a hand. He crossed one leg over the other and drummed his fingers on his knee, watching the human’s face intently. Oh, you’re a stop-clocker, all right. But you’re a smart one. And a pretty one.

His eyes widened a fraction, eyebrow shooting up. Circle damn it, but he was treading dangerous territory even now; he reckoned it was a good thing they’d met in the Lantern and not some Uptown establishment. He appreciated the plain talk – or at least the human’s pretense of it – but this wasn’t what he’d been expecting. In the past, he’d tossed a couple of leads Spencer’s way, little things that weren’t much concern to him or his employers. This was a hell of a lot different.

With his head swimming in drink, though, and in the memory of the week’s nasty business, he wasn’t in the mood to play pretend. Again, he glanced around, scanning their surroundings. At a nearby low table, a young wick sprawled on a pile of cushions, smoking shisha and drinking wine. He looked lost in thought, but you never knew. Slowly, Tom looked back at the journalist.

“If my kind’re giving you one story and yours are giving you nothing, well – hell – it’s just the second of the week, isn’t it?” he murmured, lip curling. “As for my opinion—”

He broke off as the waitress moved by again, headed toward the balalaika player.

When he continued, it was even more softly. He leaned much closer to Adam. The mona in his field – already frayed and skin-crawlingly bizarre – seemed to have grown particularly agitated. “I try not to have opinions, eh? Curiosity killed the osta. But you and I can both observe facts. Resistance this, Resistance that. We love a good hanging Uptown, don’t we? We love a good tragedy, where we can pin everything on your kind and then retaliate.” He wrinkled his nose. “I reckon there’s going to be a lot worse than that after the spotlight is off us backwater Anaxi, if things keep on the way they are. And I reckon they will, because none of us toffin gollies much likes change. Then again, anybody could tell you that.”

Blinking and leaning away, Tom glanced toward the stage, discomfort and irritation spasming across his face. Dark shapes moved to and fro, carting equipment, pointing, chattering with shadowy lips; they looked like spirits against the backdrop of the hazy hanging lights. The balalaika player plucked an off-tune string, and it twanged loud in the low murmur of the Lantern, making Tom wince again.

“You going to keep sitting on that stool or find yourself a chair, Spencer?” he grated, glancing over sharply. His eyes flicked up and down the seated human, flicked briefly over to the snifter sitting – almost comically – above Spencer on the table. “I’d rather not look down at you, if we’re going to play at talking plainly.” Tom swallowed thickly, eyes narrowing.

There was a hard, bitter edge to the way he’d said play at.

“Or maybe you’d like to continue this conversation someplace more comfortable.”
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Adam Spencer
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Fri Apr 26, 2019 3:31 pm

The Toy Lantern • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 5th of Intas, 2719 • Evening
As Vauquelin continued, Adam fought the urge to lean back slightly. The galdor's field was legitimately freakish at present. He'd always been somewhat unsettled about everything, but whatever was causing this bizarre display, Adam knew it wasn't the man's usual state. He listened, though, not moving for his drink, keeping his expression as impassive as he could. Vauquelin was at least confirming his own suspicions about previous events; that was saying something indeed, for a galdor.

"So, after the change of the Symvoulio, once the seat of power moves to Bastia, you're saying that there will be... worse consquences? Correct me if you're not implying that." Speaking so quietly that Vauquelin alone might be able to hear (or so he hoped), he drew a breath. He was sure it wasn't the drink on his side of things, but his head was spinning as much as Vauquelin's seemed to be. "What happens when the Vyrdag convenes in a month or two?" It was a rhetorical question. "If I were someone looking to put the screws on the humans, I would jump at that opportunity to set things in motion before the change of location, so nobody's any the wiser, but that's just me thinking this out."

There was no way to push ahead The Gadfly. He needed time. He needed to make sure things were arranged, that nothing was left open to chance, that his name wasn't revealed. But tick it if his timing hadn't been planned just a season too late.

"You're going to be there, right?" Adam asked, although he already knew the answer. Of course the Viendan official would be at the Vyrdag. What he needed to do now was to convince Vauquelin to do his bidding. If he had a source inside the parliament, that would be a hell of a thing. He might not be able to give an advance warning in the paper, but at least he could get information out that might not otherwise have made it.

He studied Vauquelin for a silent moment. There had been that call for him to find a proper chair, to be on equal level with the galdor, and then the final suggestion the other man had made. He couldn't particularly blame the other man -- with the way that balalaika note had resonated, anything more than murmured conversation might be likely to carry.

Vauquelin had absolutely no reason to agree to be his informant. There was no leverage Adam had on the man at present. But, at least midway through a brace of drinks, the Incumbent seemed to appreciate direct conversation. Maybe Adam could ferret out something if he kept going. That meant being amenable to the suggestion to get out of public. "I think this is a chat that can continue elsewhere, but I can't particularly open up the Weekly offices tonight, and you're not on the record anyway, Mr. Vauquelin. Would you like me to fetch a cab? Forgive me for saying so, but you... probably shouldn't do much walking in your state." He hadn't moved for the twemlaugh again.
Last edited by Adam Spencer on Sat Apr 27, 2019 6:00 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Fri Apr 26, 2019 9:56 pm

the toy lantern 🙫 the dives
during the evening of the 5th of intas, 2719
I’m not saying that, no,” snapped Tom, brow furrowing. “I’m not saying anything like that.” He spoke quickly, but softly and carefully; he’d nearly hissed between his teeth. Gods damn it, but he was far too drunk for this. He passed a hand over his brow, ran it through his hair, shut his eyes for a moment. He didn’t seem to have his head screwed on straight, and that pit in his stomach – equal parts regret and frustration – was clawing like hunger.

Meantime, Spencer kept talking, and Tom forced himself to focus on his words instead of that placid, mannerly face. He had to push himself up in his chair again, scrabbling against the leather arm. The chair was much too big for him, and he hadn’t missed the irony that it would’ve been a much more comfortable seat for the human in front of him.

He held up a thin hand. “Let me – hang on—”

Damn reporters, he thought. This kov was swift, swifter than Tom had given him credit for, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. The man he used to be wouldn’t’ve been having this chat at all, and as for the man he was now, well – before Intas, in the first place, he would’ve had it sober, and he would’ve been telling Spencer whatever the hell Hawke told him to. Tonight, though, he wasn’t on Hawke’s business. Whatever had possessed him to agree to this, he wasn’t on anyone’s business but his own.

Adam Spencer couldn’t know how right he was, could he? What did he know? Cooke had already been too damned loose with his tongue; this wasn’t a conversation for the Toy Lantern, if it was a conversation that needed to happen at all. Fuck me. What do I do? I’m in over my head. Despite his protests, though, there was a reason why he’d agreed to this.

He rubbed his eyes. At the mention of the rainy season, his frown deepened. “Yes. I’ll be there,” he replied carefully. “Most of the incumbents in the Six Kingdoms will; Vienda will be crawling with politicians.” He squinted, studying the human’s face through bleary eyes, and quirked an eyebrow. The look seemed to say, Not here. “Speaking of Loshis and Hamis, now that Clock’s Eve is behind us, we’re all more than a little busy with preparations, eh? I haven’t got any more time to talk. Here. But, of course, if you’d be so kind as to fetch a cab, I’d much appreciate it—”

With a grunt, he pushed himself up out of his chair on unsteady legs. The Lantern tilted; suddenly, the smoky interior, which had been so comforting to him earlier, became oppressive. This evening, it wasn’t particularly crowded, but threats seemed to hide among the scattering of blurry faces, the movements of lantern-limned, shadowy bodies. He staggered for a moment, pawing at the chair for support.

Glancing back up, he offered Spencer a wry smile.

“—considering you’ve been so kind as to stay sober this whole time. I reckon you haven’t had a drop of your brandy.”
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Adam Spencer
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Fri Apr 26, 2019 11:25 pm


The Toy Lantern • Anaxas/Vienda

On the 5th of Intas, 2719 • Evening
When Vauquelin signaled for silence with that raised hand, Adam relented wthout question. The man was clearly out of sorts. It wouldn't do to push him too far over the edge. Then where would he be, having made the galdor suspicious for no particular purpose, having achieved no specific aims? Once more, the dark-haired man was content to let Vauquelin take his time. All that fidgeting with the chair was a little strange, but rumor had it Vauquelin was strange these days, and the drink clearly didn't help matters.

That said, he caught the sharpened momentary gaze, nodding once. Message received, again. It would be easy enough to fetch a cab outside of the cabaret, even if he suspected that it would be a rather moody ride to wherever the hell the galdor had chosen for a destination, and a likely fairly quiet one at that. It could be worse. He could always start singing drinking songs. And, from the way Vauquelin rose from his chair, the Incumbent might be already halfway there.

The stagger caught Adam by surprise, though. He pushed himself up from his ottoman, half-reaching in an offer to steady the smaller man.

"One sip, actually," he countered Vauquelin's concluding words. And, feeling as if he had to prove the point, he reached for the twemlaugh, downing the glass of brandy in a single, long slug. It wasn't that strong, but the force of the drink made him have to choke back a cough as he set the glass down. "I wouldn't venture to say we're even, but at least it's a good start with a rather disappointing drink."

With some coins tossed down rather carelessly for his own drink, he started to usher the galdor towards the door that led to the steps to the street, reaching for a bell-pull to signal one of the half-dozen cabs waiting outside that there would be a customer or two ready to head to some unknown destination.

He cast a wary glance towards the fellow he was doing his best to escort, however unhappily and begrudgingly, out of the Toy Lantern. If this was a trap, he wouldn't let Vauquelin forget it. Still, as he climbed into the waiting cab, extending a hand to help hoist the galdor up. he told the driver, "Uptown." If this was a legitimate venture instead, the least he could do would be to see the inebriated man safely home, which was obviously in that direction. And possibly wheedle some more details out of him along the way. Or... He circled back to the idea he'd had, using Vauquelin to get inside the halls of power. It was a risky one, but his journalist's instincts told him that risks were often rewarded. Nobody ever got what they were avoiding asking for, so he would have to put the question to the other man. Giving him a fair shot was the only way to go about this; he wouldn't be able to hoodwink the man into unknowingly turning over information. Besides, Adam's daily chicanery had been already used up in the offices of the Weekly.

It took him a moment to speak again, waiting for the roll of the carriage over the street to put them at least two or three cross-streets away from the Lantern. Nobody was following them; no similar pace of horses' hooves resounded behind them. He relaxed a little, sinking against the cushioned seat, still scrutinizing the older man. "I'm insane to even float the possibility, and I can't offer anything but my own reputation in exchange for the asking, but I think you already know what I'm going to suggest. The paper deserves an honest report." Let Vauquelin think he meant the Weekly, even if he didn't for a single second. "I can't get into the Vyrdag, but I'm speaking to someone who can." He let the words resonate, falling into silence. The obvious question didn't need to be asked.
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Tom Cooke
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Sat Apr 27, 2019 11:43 pm

the toy lantern 🙫 the dives
during the evening of the 5th of intas, 2719
When Spencer reached to help him, he shot the human nasty glare, stiffening as if he might’ve slapped a steadying hand away. After a moment, though, his expression softened; watching Adam down the snifter’s contents in a single draught, he even snorted. “Bureaucrats’ swill,” he offered in response, with a brief – but genuine – smile.

So he let the taller man guide him out, albeit with more than a little irritation. The path from their little nook of the Lantern to the bracing night air was a blur, and he remembered it in a handful of impressions. A young woman sitting near the bar had paused to glance over at the two of them; her mouth had quirked in a little smile, somewhere between amusement and pity. They knew him here, Tom knew, the aging, drunkard galdor with the porven field. This wouldn’t’ve been the first time somebody’d had to help him out in the past few months. Next to the journalist, he felt diminutive, paradoxically well-dressed and rumpled.

The inside of the cab was a relief, if a mixed one. The momentary chill made him shudder and pull his coat tighter about him, bury his hands in its pockets. Sometimes a dark, close space like this one made you realize – if you hadn’t already – how drunk you were; sitting here, he felt the familiar vertigo that comes with the tail end of the happy part of drunkenness. Because he couldn’t do otherwise, he leaned his head back against the seat, shutting his eyes and letting out a held breath.

His brows drew together.

“You’re a toft, Adam Spencer,” Tom muttered wearily, biting his lip. He raised his head to look at the other man. Passing streetlamps made the human’s dark eyes glitter; they limned his fine-featured face at turns. It was difficult to read his expression, though Tom reckoned that wasn’t much different from usual with Spencer. “There’s not much honesty in Vienda right now,” he said, “but I agree with you there, and I’ll be in touch through the rainy season. I don’t know how much I can promise; I’ll give you whatever I can. But—” A heavy pause. “There is actually something you can do for me in return.”

Now, he sat up in his seat, gritting his teeth against a wave of nausea. Maybe the whisky’d loosened his tongue, and he didn’t like the idea that he’d regret this tomorrow. Still, Tom didn’t often feel the pluckings of his conscience, and when he did, he reckoned he ought to pay attention. He was feeling them more and more since he’d died.

He looked at Adam hard. “I’ll be frank. I know you got channels.” I know you got ’em ’cause I’ve been human, and I had enough of ’em myself. There’s no other way to live. “I don’t know what they are, but I know you got them. So if I gave you some – details – about something that might very well happen soon, something tsuter bad, could you discreetly get the word out? Not your Weekly shit that every man, woman, wick an’ golly reads. I think you’re a man who knows how to do something like this right.”
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