Where the Streets Have No Name [Closed]

Drugs are bad, m'kay?

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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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Thu May 09, 2019 10:38 pm

The Dives • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 15th of Bethas, 2719 • Afternoon
Like a sledgehammer," Adam countered jovially to Rhys' first words about his supposedly subtle wit. He nodded, though, when Rhys told him to stop calling him 'sergeant.' Easily done, even if the thought would never actually leave Adam's mind that he was chatting, and soon to be drinking with, a Seventen. Not just any patrol officer, though, but someone actively in charge of breaking up Resistance activities.

Content to keep his peace for the moment, he let Rhys lead him down the side alley, catching the Monite, the use of magic. He drew in a breath as the bag arced down to the cobblestones, landing there and going up in ashes, if not smoke.

"You could have offered to share it, but I'm not really an addict anyway, as you probably figured out by now. Still, a waste of a good resource. That's evidence you just destroyed, Rhys, and I could have held onto it for you in case you needed to have some to pose to its supplier that you were really an addict. Never know when little pieces like that might come in handy. Tricks of the trade, if you will."

He longed to ask exactly what the Investigative Division knew about the Resistance. It had been enough to break open several Hows thanks to Valentin; how far did that knowlege spread? More immediately concerning, how deep was the knowledge? A dull little pang of panic shot through him before he realized, no, Sergeant Rhys Valentin had no idea he was talking with a Resistance member. He smiled wanly at the man's next statement about his own fame, allowing himself to be ushered into the small public house. As Rhys took a seat, he stayed standing, waiting for some sign that he could take a seat as well in the chair that had been pushed out for him. Only when given some indication did he take his own seat, his gaze drifting over Valentin, taking stock of the galdor.

That scar was new, for all that he could tell. Someone hadn't liked Valentin much at all, having given it to him in a visible place, a constant reminder of some sort -- of what? He could think of possible assailants, at least in generalities, but he kept his mouth shut on that rather than ask.

"I know something critical about your good friend Captain D'Arthe that I am positive you don't know. I was informed this by a man who fears for his life if it gets out, so if it does, you and I won't just have words -- you'll find them published in the Weekly, and more besides." He drew in a breath at the sound of his own threat -- it was vaguely unsettling saying that to a galdor who, for all he knew, could light him on fire with a few murmured words of jibber-jabber. Still, he didn't flinch away from what he had said, holding Rhys' gaze for a long moment.

"What I know can't be published in the paper," he continued. "But it can be acted upon. That depends, of course, on what you think of humans. What exactly is your position on us, Rhys?"

He felt uneasier asking that question than he had felt impressing upon the othr man the seriousness of what he was about to say. It felt odd to ask. Valentin had no reason to tell him the truth; he had no reason to belive it. But it was a formality they both had to get through in order for the conversation to take a more productive turn.

Leaning back in the chair, he let his gaze, and his thoughts, wander from Rhys for a moment. the stablishment they were in might be tiny, but it was well-kept for a place in the Dives. Only a modicum of dust on the door, and maybe half a dozen rats in the larder, instead of the full dozen.

Looking back to the blond before him, he steepled his hands before himself, pressing any tension he felt about the matter into opposite fingertips. "Off the record, of course," he added pointedly, hoping that would be a signal enough for the other man. It was all that he was currently able to give.

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Rhys Valentin
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Fri May 10, 2019 12:37 pm

The Basin, Vienda
broad-clocking-daylight on the 15th of Bethas, 2719
"Are you telling me how to do my clocking job?" Sergeant Valentin arched a blond eyebrow, the interruption of the scar causing a slight dimple above fair hair, but his incredulous expression was at least turned slightly upward into a smirk instead of creasing into some displeased sort of scowl, "There's plenty more where that came from and I know where to find it if I need it. Held onto for me—that's a good one. If you think I was going to just leave it with you for safe keeping, sober or not, you're pretty accurate with that sledgehammer wit, Mister Spencer. I'm not about to tell you how to punctuate your sentences in order to make for a better article any time soon, alright?"

Rhys chuckled, shaking his head. He didn't need the evidence. He hadn't come to the Basin to do any official investigating, but he'd damn well be going back again. He didn't need the extra paper work or the extra questions. He had nowhere he wanted to keep such things at home. He wasn't about to hand it over to a stranger—not one he wasn't yet sure he could really trust. It wasn't as though he even felt as though he could trust his fellow Seventen at this point, so ... no. Just a few scattered ashes was the best state of existence for more godsbedamned Drake's Tongue in his lovely capitol.

He rolled his eyes at the formality of things, waving a hand for Adam to sit before he poured himself into his own chair, listless before he'd even settled, one knee bouncing under the table while he curled long fingers against the wooden surface, nails digging at divots before he occupied himself by turning his white gold wedding band in slow circles.

The human next to him breathed Damen's name and the tall blond inhaled sharply, muscles that defined his sharp cheekbones tightening and relaxing even as his glamour seemed to curl so close against him as to all but disappear entirely,

"He's not my friend, just my father-in-law, really—you what?" This felt like a trap for a moment and Rhys hid the bright, searing hot sensation of panic as it filled his lungs with smoke and charred through his veins. His blue eyes flicked away from the other man's face, licking his lips and glancing about the establishment before he made eye contact with the greying wick behind the counter. The barkeep nodded and began to make his way toward their little table, Rhys exhaling a slow breath through grit teeth, "What the fuck do you care how I feel about hu—"

"How can I help you gentlemen?"

"A Flashfight for each of us, please. Oh, and a shot of that nice Gioran whiskey you’ve got hiding up on that shelf there for me." Rhys didn't skip a beat, guessing that the human reporter wouldn't argue against an old-fashioned but superior tasting brew all while announcing that, yes, perhaps now he had some nerves to settle with an extra something. The barkeep glanced at Adam as if expectant of him to either change the blond's order for himself or to ask for anything else. Whether he did or not, the older wick nodded with a grin and disappeared back to the bar, tattooed arms moving to gather their requests and leave them as alone as they appeared to need to be.

Rhys stared at his hands for a moment, gaze unfocused, noting the callouses on his knuckles and resisting the urge to pick at hangnails. He glanced at the already-scuffed band that read always on the inside in a gentle script, thoughts drifting to the one good thing that ever came from Co-Captain Damen D'Arthe: his delicate pianist of a daughter, Charity Valentin.

"I don't have a problem with humanity. With wicks—"

Because he was one. Because he was a dirty half-bred bastard. Because his mother was a human. Because his sister was a human. Because galdorkind had certainly been full of disappointment.

"—with any of the lower races, thank you. Are you asking because of my groundbreaking work against the Resistance or because of whatever the clocking hell you claim to know about Damen? Just because I think the Resistance's methods are clocking backwards and aren't ever destined to be effective, let alone obviously illegal, doesn't mean I have a problem with the other folks I swore to serve and protect when I became a Seventen. I made an oath for all people, not just ersehole galdori."

He didn't say like me, those words now too much of a lie that he couldn't bring himself to even fake them.

That last sentence was still so sour he could have sworn he tasted bile, the lanky Valentin tensing with obvious paranoia when drinks were set loudly and roughly on the table, whiskey sloshing over the edge of the shot glass and forming an amber pool on its surface. Rhys was made suddenly aware of his admission here in the middle of the Dives when the greying older wick gave him a stern look, his own glamour suddenly abuzz with his annoyance and the Perceptively talented Sergeant could sense every stray emotion with far more focus than any other wick he knew. He shrugged, unapologetic for his honesty but gave the barkeep a returned expression that assured him he was more than willing to pay for both his silence and his unwelcome presence.

Thank the clocking Circle the rest of the establishment was empty at this house. Not another body but the two of them, and Rhys would've thanked Alioe in Her wisdom had he not felt the weight of just how un-wise he was probably being. He instead moved to open both dark amber bottles of Flashfight on the already scuffed edge of the table out of his own unique form of politeness. The tall blond handed one bottle off and proceeded to knock back the shot before continuing, hissing at the herbal-infused fiery burn with a masochist's grin,

"The rest of my off the fucking record opinions are none of your damn business. Not yet. There may be a day—but this isn't it. Now, Adam, turn about's fair play—" He hummed over the rim of his beer pressed as it was against the now permanent knot in his lower lip, fair brows drawing together as if his thoughts had drifted, seeing in his reflection on the dirty glass of the pub Benjamin Tolsby's bloodied face staring back at him for a moment and pretending he didn't, "—you're a human writing for a golly paper, aren't you? Do you think we're all a pile of fancied up ersehats that can't possibly give a damn ever in a few millenia or do you think there's a few decent folks out there floating in a sea of oppression? How willing are you really to scratch my back if I scratch yours? How much chroveshit are you willing to end up in? Because from the sound of things, we both have some big shovels."
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Adam Spencer
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Fri May 10, 2019 4:38 pm

The Dives • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 15th of Bethas, 2719 • Afternoon
N ot exactly. I'm telling you you're not doing a complete job if you don't know you're talking to a member of the Resistance, Adam thought, but there was of course no way he could say that to Valentin. Instead, he shrugged, observing, "I'm always accurate," without an ounce of humility -- or, at least, malice.

He caught the way the galdor's field shifted at mention of D'Arthe, seeming to retreat somehow. Jackpot, he thought. He didn't need to sense the field to know that he'd landed on something crucial, but it helped. For all the galdori thought they had the perfect setup, they couldn't hide their fields' reactions -- it seemed to be unconscious, or involuntary, somehow. Sometimes, that helped.

Rhys Valentin was on the defensive now, and Adam leaned in slightly, only tilting himself an inch or two. But the bartender strolled over, and interrupted whatever question the Seventen was about to offer. He nodded distractedly in agreement with Rhys' order, making no changes to it whatsoever.

'Groundbreaking work against the Resistance' made him want to laugh despite himself. He looked between the galdor and the wick barkeep, assessing the exchange between them -- a contest of wills, perhaps, judging from their fields seeming to threaten each other? He couldn't be sure. But 'ersehole galdori' was worth hanging onto for later, if possible. So was Valentin calling him 'Adam.' A move to familiarity? Adam wasn't too sure how to feel about that, other than thinking it was interesting that the galdor felt like he related enough to him to use his first name.

"I am," he confirmed Valentin's first comment. "But the rest of that isn't really your concern, Rhys. You shouldn't care what I think. It's none of your business, pun intended." His voice was mild, and he moved for his bottle of Flashfight, taking a careful, neat sip of it. The earthy-tasting drink was to his own preference, but there was no need to tell Rhys that. He maintained his neutrality even in drink. "What is your concern is what I know about D'Arthe."

He wasn't going to agree to work with Valentin -- not exactly. And he certainly wasn't going to share his opinion with him regarding the questions with which the sergeant had finished. The man clearly thought a lot of his own anti-Resistance work; there was too much of a possibility that he might ask Adam to help him out there. He couldn't let the conversation wend itself anywhere near there.

Instead, he had to divert it into what he knew. He traced a little design into the condensation on the bottle, his eyes drifting off Valentin and his voice drifting to a murmur. "There's going to be a bombing. Maybe around the Vyrdag. I don't know the date, but I'd guess it'd be timed for maximum efficiency. It's going to be blamed on the Resistance, but as you said, their methods are so backwards that they couldn't possibly be involved." He glanced up to Rhys. "No prizes for guessing who is, I'm afraid. Your father-in-law. And more besides."

It would have to do for now. Let Valentin be aghast; let him be defensive -- but please, let him understand that Adam was telling the truth and let him respect the confidentiality of the information.

"I'd like to stop it, or mitigate it at the very least. You -- I don't know if you want to, but as you said, you took an oath to protect 'all people.' Here's your chance to do just that."
Last edited by Adam Spencer on Sat May 11, 2019 7:59 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Rhys Valentin
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Fri May 10, 2019 10:03 pm

The Basin, Vienda
broad-clocking-daylight on the 15th of Bethas, 2719
Rhys hadn't been dampening his glamour out of fear or frustration, he hadn't been gathering the mona to himself because somehow the reporter had struck a nerve—no—he'd been stretching his personal limitations magically by learning to make himself less obvious, less noticeable, less oppressive with the rebellious weight of his very not-wick-like field. It was good practice, here in the Dives, and one his galdori in uniform peers didn't give a damn about doing. It was a curious tactic, obviously, and the Inspector wasn't a dumbersed recruit fresh off of Numbrey's training yard, either. He knew what he was doing, and he'd played these sorts of games with informants, willing and unwilling, for a few years now. He didn't need to irritate the barkeep with the strength of his glamour here in this little hole in the wall far from Uptown and he didn't need to tell a godsbedamned human a fucking thing about his feelings when the newspaper man was clearly used to working with galdorkind and probably knew what to sense for.

Some things were just played better close to the chest.

And Rhys' chest had been shattered once enough already. Recently at that.

The Sergeant smirked, watching the other man for his own tells, always curious about non-magical beings who couldn't express their sixth sense with anything other than their eyes, their faces, their body language, and their tone of voice.

Mister Adam Spencer, reporter for the Vienda Weekly, was a confident thing, sure of himself for a fucking human, and used to the comfortable life of one who'd been given more responsibility than he probably deserved. The tall blond could understand that. He lived it, too. Just as dangerously.

"My rank in the Seventen says your business is technically always my business, whether I care or not. And I don't unless you're a threat to what's mine or myself. Would you like me to start quoting statutes and listing court cases that cite precedence of this fact of Anaxi law or perhaps you'd like to read them yourself?" He took a long swig of his Fireflight, blue eyes wrinkling at their corners with unashamed amusement, but there was a tension in his shoulders and in the way his knee still bounced under the table as if he was a steam motor that simply couldn't be shut off lest he never get started again, as if he was ready to run at a moment's notice.

He called Mister Saunders Gale, and he called them brunno. He called Mister Spencer Adam. He'd asked to be called Rhys. No one had any common courtesy anymore, Anaxas so gollywashed with political drama that a man couldn't have a drink with another man without questioning whether it was going to turn into jail time or a beating.

Well. This might turn into both the way it was going.

"I don't see what in all of Vita you could know about Captain D'Arthe that's going to make a bit of difference, but fine. I'll humor you." He rolled the bottle between his fingers against the tabletop, not leaning into listen but instead moving his free hand in the most subtle of motions, his glamour shifting and warming, filling the small space their table made as if a child was suddenly blowing up a balloon. The air felt thick for a breath and then the sound of the barkeep putting pint glasses away sounded fainter, as if heard through a thick curtain.

Casting silence without verbal Monite was a weaker use of the spell but one Inspectors like himself learned to utilize quickly, and he didn't even bother to draw attention to what he'd just done even as the momentary press of his glamour felt as though it was retreating again towards his person, leaving the extra quiet in its wake.

And then the dark-haired reporter said a few sentences together that Rhys wasn't entirely sure he'd heard correctly in spite of his small bit of magic. Blue eyes narrowed, hardened into fallen pieces of sky, sharp and angry. The glamour that had rolled away so gently like the tide didn't come back into focus again even though the young Valentin shifted in his seat, leaning toward him now with all the threat of a well-trained predator let out of his cage.

This was a trap. It had to be.

This was just another set up and he'd just walked into it.

Only this time, oh this time, would he live to go home?

Panic made his ears ring. Sweat rolled between his shoulder blades.

Rage roiled deep inside.

"I'm sorry. Hold on—did you just say Captain D'Arthe has planned a bombing? To blame on the Resistance? Like the Riots were blamed on the Resistance, too, even though every godsbedamned person who's got half a brain knows it was the tribal wicks who set the Dives on fire? Fuck you."

A boot came to rest on Adam's chair and Rhys looked as though he was ready to give it a hard shove, coiled tightly like a viper ready to strike and full of emotions that were impossible to read on his scarred face. He paused to take a long, deep draught of his Fireflight as if that would hold back all the words that rose to the surface of his thoughts, that clawed against the roof of his mouth to be free. He stared at the human, searched his face, and resisted the urge to reach over and curl fingers into his dark hair, to smash his face into the table, and to simply get up and leave.

He thought it, though. He thought it through.

"You're full of chroveshit." He hissed, words revealing both a deep hurt and a deep paranoia, a sudden glimpse of unspoken trauma triggered by immediate shock and incredulous disbelief, months of pain and a betrayal he didn't know how to come back from, "Was this just some ploy put together for me? Gods—I wouldn't put it past anyone anymore. If not, well, you've got a real hearing problem, Mister Spencer. I never said the Resistance wasn't capable, not at all. I know exactly what they're capable of. Fucking ignorance goes both ways, doesn't it? And you picked the wrong damn Inspector to play innocent with—"

He didn't want to trust a word of it, but at the same time, very real fear ignited every fiber of his being. Rhys gathered himself carefully and attempted to put on all the appearances of carrying on a normal conversation behind their fragile veil of magically reinforced quiet but it was very clear that he was not okay, that this conversation was not okay, and that he trusted Adam less for his subtle insults and gentle jibes than he did for the dangerous information he'd so casually whispered into conversation:

"—I like that you wield Damen's name and dangle this little tidbit like you own it, like it's yours, like you can do something about it. It's charming. It's keeping me from arresting you for false witness ... I think. You don't have a date but you know he's connected. You don't have a location, either, then, do you? Just, you know, anywhere in Anaxas will do? Vienda? Brunnhold? Plugit? If you were hoping that I'd be surprised to hear Captain D'Arth's name on the idea, you're wrong. This just proves what I already know."

Rhys wanted to throw up. He hid behind the dark amber bottle for another swig and then pointed a trembling finger around the neck at the reporter's chest,

"You think I'm just another golly who doesn't give a damn, and I get that. It's an easy mistake to make because I have four snaps and a uniform at home. You don't know me from the High Judge, and, well, I don't blame you for making all the plumb fair assumptions. But if you want to stop anything, if you want to really find out what's going on, you'd better think hard about how you go about sharing your secrets, ersehole." It wasn't as though the young Valentin had anyone he could trust other than Charity, other than Gale—could he trust his sister? He didn't know how not to.

He couldn't trust his Seventen peers. He couldn't trust galdori he'd gone to school with.

Gods, what was the point? What did Adam really want?

"Now, were you just looking for a confessional and mistook me for an Everine or did you want to start some countermeasures with some good old fashioned dirt on ye kov the Co-Captain? Because, honestly, I'm not sure what you're telling me this for other than you know my name from some article on Valentin vs D'Arthe you read in that other paper you don't work for. He's connected to a lot more than some rumor of a bombing you've heard from someone else who probably heard from someone else, I can tell you that much. Do you even vet your informants for the papers, let alone before you spill their nonsense at an Inspector for a few juicy truths about drugs and corruption in our fair capitol?"
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Adam Spencer
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Sat May 11, 2019 7:57 pm

The Dives • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 15th of Bethas, 2719 • Afternoon
T oo far. Adam pulled back, giving Rhys a sickly little smile as he took another sip of his drink, digesting the flood of words that his comments had unleashed. The comment about the statues had made him smile back, seeing amusement flicker briefly over Valentin’s face. But he’d dropped the smile moments thereafter.

He could name the court cases just as well as Valentin could, he bet. Part of the Weekly beat involved sitting in court every now and again, and he’d read up enough to know what the barristers were talking about, ensuring that the information didn’t fly over his head when it didn’t have to. But he hadn’t said anything about that, letting it pass, as Rhys cloaked their conversation from prying ears. The faintness of the bartender had told him that much, just as the Seventen’s hand stilled and his field retreated again.

When Rhys had grown angry several seconds ago, that was when the scales had tipped. He stared back at Rhys, watching, waiting, listening to the hissed words and the attempt at recovery. He could offer nothing there, and he knew it.

“Dorhaven,” he remarked quietly when Rhys started listing towns. “If you’ve got any truth-telling magics in you, use them. I’m telling you the truth as I heard it. I can’t substantiate the rumor, but nobody could; the bombing hasn’t happened yet.”

He leaned back slightly when Rhys pointed at him, shaking his head. “I haven’t told you what I think, Sergeant Valentin. But what I think is that this needs to be stopped, and I’m just some idiot journalist. I can’t stop it on my own. If I thought you were just like D’Arthe, what logic would there have been in telling you? I would have been telling someone who wanted the bombing to go off. That wouldn’t have been very smart. I thought rightly about you, because you’re not in favor of this.”

He set the bottle of Flashfight down and steepled his hands, “I’m telling you because I think you’ve got pull in the Seventen and a reason to stop things. I’m holding you to your oath that you’ll protect all people, humans included, because I believe that to be true.” His voice was calm, measured, thoughtful in the face of Rhys’ anger. “Dorhaven. During the Vyrdag, or close to it, so that it can be used as an excuse to crack down here. I mean, I don’t know all the particulars, but that’d be enough to start looking into it. I plan to be doing the same, and I think we could make our way together into helping out the poor doomed bastards that are going to get hit by this.”

His jaw worked a little as he spoke. He didn’t like the idea of working with the Seventen. But there were decided advantages to it, chief among them the fact that, if he kept tabs on Valentin, he would not only know what Valentin was doing to stop the bombing – if anything – but he’d be first to be informed of any move the Seventen made that Valentin knew about.

“I’d like to save as many lives as I can on this matter. I’d also like to track down the drugs flowing into the Basin, because I think there’s more to that story than just a trash pile of addicts. I think our goals align on both those criteria. Do with that what you will. You might think it’s a trick, but if I’m right and this is valid information…”

Considering for another moment, he sized up Rhys. “How do I prove to you that I’m telling you the truth? If you’ve got magic to test me on that, use it. You’ve interrogated people; chances are you do.”
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Rhys Valentin
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Fri May 24, 2019 9:12 pm

The Basin, Vienda
broad-clocking-daylight on the 15th of Bethas, 2719
The location didn't register at first, Rhys blinking at Adam as if he was expecting something else, something more, something grand. Instead, it was just Dorhaven, and the tall blond's shoulders sagged. Fingers once again curling around his drink but with a grip that could have broken the bottle had he really wanted to,

"Dorhaven?" He echoed back at the reporter, practically choking on his beer, blue eyes already narrowed from nearly their entire conversation thus far. He barked an uneasy laugh, harsh but quieter than normal, directed more at the human's audacious dare for the Sergeant to use magic than at the location itself. It eased the tension that had coiled in his lanky body but it didn't at all snuff out the white hot fires that were burning deep in his chest, "I'm not wasting my time dragging the truth out of you by magical means here. I'm a Perceptive as it is, an Inspector on top of that, and you've got absolutely no reason to be lying unless you've got a hankering to hang at this point. Am I right? So. Dorhaven. Fuck. That's a tourist town—sure, humans live there, but galdori—why would anyone want to—godsdamnit."

Rhys glared at his Flashfight, field simmering with a friction that was so tangible the mona that buzzed within it surely could have caused skin to blister and peel if they'd so desired. His scarred lower lip disappeared beneath the hard press of his teeth, eyes fluttering heavily closed for a moment as if he was containing an entire swarm of angry hatchers, snapping jaws and eager claws desperate to crawl out from between his ribs and fill the room with the purity of his anger.

"D'Arthe would be the man to condone slaughtering his own in order to find a way to blame someone else for the crime." He blinked, coming into focus again slowly, not looking at Adam quite yet, jaw clenching as his mind ran through officers he knew were stationed in Dorhaven, trade routes, and shipment schedules. The tone of his voice was laden with the acidic burn of hatred, made almost gravely by not just too many emotions he had no idea what to do with but by the deep, bone-shattering ache of experience. There was no need for Truth when the not-galdor knew without question what Captain Damen D'Arthe was capable of, "This is to be an Oculus-led bombing, then? Pinned on Serro and the Resistance like the Riots? And you want to do what now? Help? Adam, listen—"

He took a swig as if the contents of the bottle could actually quench what roared within, setting the bottle back down roughly while his fingers ran over what little condensation his palms had allowed to form on the outside of the chilled glass,

"—I'm not stupid, nor am I naive, but I'm not even going to try and promise that I can stop something like that in time, depending what has already been set so into motion that you've heard such a rumor from someone, anyone." Rhys growled his words in a husky sort of whisper, unable to tell if it was the bitterness of the human warrior's hops or his own frustrations that stung his tongue, "The Vydrag's next month—maybe we can move people—warn them—but stop it? Fuck, no. The last time I tried to stop anything Damen had a hand in? Well ..."

Still wet fingers slid from the Flashfight to trace the fading pink line that cut through the not-galdor's forehead near his half-bred hairline and down through his eyebrow, the faint hints of where stitches had held flesh together still visible in their regular pattern. His thumb brushed the new mark in his lower lip before a wary smile made it more obvious,

"My face was the luckiest bit of me, really. He beat me in broad daylight with a handful of thugs and his own fucking baton while his damn Patrols kept citizens in Uptown from using the street. So, that's what you're in for, Mister Spencer. That was my one warning. You? I doubt you'll get such generosity and I've already spent the last of mine." The young Valentin shrugged, unfazed and clearly unconcerned by the risks anymore, very aware that he was already on a path of destruction that would leave no one connected to Co-Captain D'Arthe's drug ring alive if he could help it, not even Damen if he had his way in the end.

Ben's broken, bloodied face stared back at him in the smokey amber glass bottle's reflection of his own face and Rhys looked away, trying to find something else to look at on the tiny pub's impressive stock of liquors instead,

"I don't need you to prove anything to me—if you have the clocking balls to bring this shit up to me, a Sergeant of the Seventen, then you know the consequences as well as I do." His thumb listlessly turned the precious metal band on his ring finger around in circles, chewing at that fresh scar on his lower lip for a few moments, knee back to bouncing.

Hunted.

Haunted.

So fucking pissed off.

"I'm not chasing Drake's Tongue right now. It's a distraction from King's Crop. There's a rivalry there I maybe want to get a listen on, to put a finger on the pulse of, but only so I can use it against the galdori who're pushing Crop first. They're connected, you see, those opiates and D'Arthe, and I hope he chokes on 'em—"

Rhys swallowed thickly but clearly meant what he said, tilting his head back to the human reporter, blue eyes reading his reaction with uncanny, well-practiced ease.

"—but only while I look on."
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Adam Spencer
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Fri Jun 07, 2019 5:28 pm

The Dives • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 15th of Bethas, 2719 • Afternoon
W]hat did you expect? Some sort of grand gesture that could be easily pinned on the real culprits? No, this is going to be terrorism, and it’ll be used. If you’re going to turn it down, at least tell me where to go with it, because I’m not going to just sit here for weeks on end and let it happen. Is there someone you can trust that I can turn to, if I can’t tell you more?“

Adam spoke patiently, watching Rhys, fighting the urge to pull back when the sergeant’s field switched to a burning intensity. At least Valentin was taking him seriously; he was glad of that, but all the same, even talking about the matter was a calculated risk. He lifted a shoulder at the question about the Oculus and the blame, agreeing in all but actual assent, staying silent.

“I don’t think anyone could stop it – but you have the right of it. Moving people. Getting them out of harm’s way. Galdori, human, whatever – however it can be made a less appealing target, we’ve got to be one step ahead of whatever’s being planned.”

The news about what had happened to Rhys didn’t faze him. Adam sat and listened, shrugging back at Valentin. “I don’t intend for this to be traced back to me, Rhys. I’m just an information-broker. Do with the information what you will,” he repeated himself from moments ago. “But it’s valid, and it will happen, whether or not we act, so we owe it to ourselves to at least try to lessen the damages, don’t we?”

He leaned in a little, still cool confidence in the face of the heat just about radiating off of the sergeant. The reaction he gave to Rhys’ final words was acceptance, not surprise. Of course Valentin and D’Arthe had a score to settle. None of this was a shock. Nor the fact that D’Arthe was crooked. “So D’Arthe’s in league with Hawke over the drugs?” he asked, although he already knew the asnwer was in the affirmative. “Considering Hawke’s the pusher of King’s Crop. If I were you, I think I’d pay a visit to Old Rose Harbor. In plainclothes, obviously, and disguised.” An unvoiced laugh puffed out of his mouth.

“I’ll help you with that if you help me with Dorhaven,” he concluded slowly. “No further entanglements necessary, a one-for-one trade. If that works for you…” He extended a hand, watching Rhys just as closely, if not nearly as uncannily, as the Seventen had surveyed him.
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Rhys Valentin
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Topics: 19
Race: Wick
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Thu Jun 20, 2019 2:42 pm

The Dives, Vienda
broad-clocking-daylight on the 15th of Bethas, 2719
Rhys sipped his beer to resist sneering in Adam's direction one more time, the reporter's sarcasm grating instead of at all comforting. The Seventen Sergeant was still far too bitter, too angry, and too damaged for the human's words to have any positive effect and his delivery was honest, obviously, but the not-galdor wasn't in a real position of total openness, wasn't in a headspace for conversation that didn't have a sharp edge. Neither was Adam, given his tone. His jaw clenched, fingers distractedly picking at the thick paper label on his Fireflight, sodden with moisture as it was slowly becoming,

"I don't trust anyone in my uniform right now. Not really. Not after Vortas—" He grunted, bitterness settling on his tongue like too much hops in his beer. His eyelids fluttered, pale eyelashes suddenly heavy, mind turning over names and faces, mind wanting to linger in that pool of his own blood on the cobblestones of Uptown all those months ago, "—I can certainly try. There's no need for you to sit still on anything. You should be moving while I'm moving on this. Someone needs to keep this moving. Don't you work for the paper? Your list of informants is surely just as impressive as my own, and I'm an Inspector. Or was. I won't be for long—I've handed in my transfer papers to the Patrol Division. For obvious reasons."

The not-galdor smirked with a hint of mischievousness, a wicked maliciousness that revealed he most likely had a plan, but his shoulders sagged and elbows sinked harder against the tabletop because this was all way too heavy and adrenaline had drained from his system far too fast. He'd begun to peel bits of paper, attempting to only leave the human warrior plastered on the dark amber bottle standing alone and a soggy pile of cotton behind. It kept him from staring at Adam, from making too much eye contact with the barkeep. It gave him something to do while his knee bobbed and his field swirled and eddied and churned with far too many emotions at once despite slowly ebbing into a much less uncomfortable state. He pressed teeth against the scar that split his lower lip and cocked his head back to the reporter,

"I may have a few contacts who can get the word out all the way to Dorhaven, though I can't say what my position is on, well, the Resistance. Or with them, for that matter. My name as Constable Valentin is surely more than just a a bad word among those people." Rhys in his ignorance of Adam Spencer's recreational activities would have laughed had it been appropriate, but his tone wasn't as proud as any other officer of the Seventen might have sounded, given his exploits. The riots in Yaris had soured things for him. This sort of information had only rubbed salt in the wounds.

He didn't like Serro. He didn't like the methods often employed by Freedom Fighters. But he didn't disagree with them anymore, either.

Not in everything, at least.

"I don't know if he's in bed with Hawke or not—I mean, it's King's Crop, not Drake's Tongue, and all my work has proven that's Silas' damn bread and butter. But the drug ring I'm after is galdor-run and galdor-supported, and whatever Damen's role in it is is high up the chain. I know at least three—two—of the leadership here in Vienda. Going to the Harbor's possibly a decent next step, but I've got one more galdor to catch first."

Diaxio. And gods only knew who else in her social circle. Or in the theatre for that matter. Anywhere in Uptown for all he knew. Perhaps even the Pendulum club—

Not that the tall blond felt the need to share names—or did he?

"I won't be getting authorization to visit the Harbor any time soon—not that the Seventen presence there is at all reliable or necessary, from what I hear. I need some leads first, though, some connection from here to there." He emptied the rest of his drink then, hissing as he set the empty bottle back on the table next to his pile of paper scraps, fingers lingering on the glass, expression drawing back into a concerned scowl,

"It's my plan to be a godsbedamned uncomfortable thorn in Damen's side until one of us is in prison or dead. Preferably not me in either of those situations, mind." He rubbed a palm over his face, curling fingers into his hair, digging knuckles against his scalp, either because he was more uncomfortable under someone else's scrutiny than he was giving it or because he was simply that much of a restless animal now, changed forever and frustrated by this new way of living life, "I can see what I can set into motion concerning Dorhaven. And maybe what else I can hear about who's involved and when. We really need a when. I don't have any more favors to ring in, but I'm also really good at being fucking annoying."

A hint of a smile flashed across his features with that before Rhys rolled his eyes for emphasis, "I won't have any opportunity to travel until Rainy Season. I'm sure I can pass it off under training or at least pass some coin around to get there, given that's how the Harbor Patrol Division works."
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