• Closed • Take Me To Church [Noth] (Graded)

[Kasoria]

29th trial, Ymiden, Arc 718
East Commercial Circle
13th bell

The grand old place had been a place to worship gods once, and it would never be used in such a fashion again.

For most of an arc, the new owner of The Tower had overseen crews of sweaty workmen and fussy artisans, going about transforming the property into something more... intrinsically Etzosi, shall we say? The size was right, the dimensions, the breathtakingly high ceilings and towering windows, but the tone was still a little... how best to say it?

"Still got that fuckin' Morty stink on it, y'ask me."

There was a brief murmur of agreement from the other meaty and malevolent figures in the mezzanine. It was one of those questions that, being where they were, could never fail to get such a reaction. Every man there knew their histories and stories. Passed to them by parents or siblings or grandparents or wardens or other such Bigger Folk when they were Wee Folk (looking at a few, it was hard to imagine they were ever such). The depredations and horror of The Immortals, those terrible and evil abominations that would have all mankind, all races under the suns and moons, bow to their whims and act as fodder for their wars.

They still walked the world and despite all the evidence of time and repeated outrage, there were still cities and entire nations that worked their wills. Worshiped them. Raise structures and monuments greater than The Tower had been, and in their throngs had heaped much praise on their "gods".

But not Etzos. Never Etzos.

Kasoria spat on the polished floor, wordlessly adding his opinion to Jerrard's grumbling. The old man sitting to his left looked down and then up, but there was no heat in his glance. Bangun Vorund couldn't fault his enforcer's opinion, after all. Even Ilos - the resentful, the impatient, the would-be king - nodded sagely, sipping his drink at his master's left hand, while Kasoria stood at his right. If ever there was anything that could unite a roomful of proud, smoke-and-stone-blooded Etzosi, it would be scorn spat at the Immortals.

Then the moment of agreed upon contempt passed, and the wary, tense waiting continued...

The mezzanine was crowded, but more by flesh than numbers. There were a half-dozen other such raised and sumptuous balconies lining the long, tall rectangle that was the main room of The Tower. They were all occupied, but by tables of merchants and minor officials, famed artisans and rich traders, mine-owners and landowners and nobility. Below them was an ocean of humanity, not quite as exclusive but still vibrant and excited and Fate's Cocks there were drinks half-price everywhere!

Watching from above in his private nook, Vorund smiled at the crowd around the bar. That was his idea. Something he'd mentioned to Samuel, during one of his several visits to The Tower. He'd provided the money for the renovation, of course, so he'd been entitled. He'd watched it grow from an abandoned corpse of a building, inhabited only by dead dogs and spider webs, into a sterile, empty vessel. But that had been just the prelude. Bit by bit, Samuel made his dream happen. He built the bars, he fashioned the pulpits into mezzanines, he tore down the statues of Immortals and raised great statues of heroic Etzosi of the past.

Kasoria saw handfuls of drinks raised to each marble figure as they passed. A glimmer of a smile flitted over his lips. Respect for the past. He approved of that. He approved of the entire place, in fact. A symbol of Immortal power and dominance, now gutted like a dead stag and made into something more fitting. A place of revelry and celebration, an endless, living defiance of those monsters.

Long may it fucking reign.

"S-Sir?"

A querulous voice, and Kasoria knew what he would say even before the words came out. His gaze snapped around and saw the bouncer from downstairs, sandwiched between the two thugs guarding the top of the stairs. A half-dozen other equally massive specimens were placed around the mezzarine, openly armed, chain-mail clinking under their coats and vests.

Kasoria spared a quick glance to the scaffolding above. He knew a couple of men were up there, too. Smaller, lither, quieter men, much like him. Only their tools were infernal mechanisms that married technology to bows. With them, they could put a bolt through a man's chest at a hundred yards, and were paid well to do so. Usually, though, Etzosi streets did not provide many such chances. Today, though, in the opening ceremony...

"What is it?"

"Um... there's... there's a message for you."

Vorund bid the man approach and Kasoria watched every step, every twitch from the thick-necked glorified watchman. When he leaned closer to Vorund's ear, he let his own hand slide over his stomach and grip the gladius at his side. With one quick, precise, savage gesture, he could unleash the weapon and slash the fucker's throat down to the bone... if he so chose. If he was given a reason.

He was not. The message was delivered. Vorund inhaled quick and deep, then dismissed the man.

"He's coming up."

"Alone?"

Vorund turned to his lieutenant, and nodded once at Ilos. To his credit, the ambitious young gangster just breathed in deep through his nose, and nodded back. It was to be expected. There would always be muscle, protection, bodyguards, security, layers between the two men when a meeting like this was called. There was to little trust between them not to have a few useful, ultimately disposable bodies to shove in front of them if the worst came to it.

Both would suspect a trap, or an attempt. The venue of the meeting had been hard enough to agree upon, but eventually a compromise had been reached.

"When they come up here," Vorund said, loud and crisp and commanding. Into his seventh decade and still the Lord of the South Side radiated an aura of cold, implacable will. To be obeyed and heeded. Around him, looming and muscled figures listened like well-trained dogs. "Search them. Then..." He looked at the two men flanking the door at the back of the mezzanine. "-search them again. Him, and two men. I don't care if he has just them or a fucking battalion: only two others. Got it?"

Kasoria opened the door and waited for his master and Ilos to walk through it. The room beyond was... well, it needed a little work. It had a table and high-backed chairs, a comfy couch on the wall, tapestry above it, a stand with a drink and glasses set upon, but... it seemed a little pokey. Kasoria guessed it was more for furtive relations than clandestine meetings, but it still struck him as a little underwhelming.

Especially considering the rest of the place.

"Remember, lad," Vorund said as he sat down at, naturally, the head of the table. Ilos sat at his left hand, straightening his coat and smoothing his goatee even as he listened. "You let me talk. You don't chime in unless I direct it your way, hmm?"

"Sir, I know what we discussed-"

"And I'm making sure you-"

"Remember, I do." A swell of anger cross the old gangster's face, and Ilos just looked back with icy, stony determination. "I won't let you down."

Standing where the other man was sitting, Kasoria slid his gaze over to him. Clever boy. He seemed to have a little more guile to him than before. The season had been fraught for Ilos, with Vorund nearly hurling him out of his sight when he spoke out once too often. Wanting to use Kasoria's reputation, of all fucking things, to marshal their forces against the Al'Angyryl massing to the north. A man who managed to beat back a Naerikk and her Gift of Shadows was, after all, quite a man to rally behind.

Vorund wasn't having it. Neither was Kasoria, though he didn't have much of a choice. And he wasn't telling anyone that he had about as much to do with defeating that "Gift" as he did a say in whether or not the suns rose in the morning.

Now he's acting the dutiful son. Won't let you down. Make you proud. Clever.

There was a knock on the door, and the three man all turned to it. Vorund got settled in his seat and spared Kasoria just one look. No words were shared between the two, who had known each other and their respective places for well over ten arcs. Clad in simple breeches, tunic and cloak, Kasoria wasn't the Raggedy Man of Southside lore, but that was what he always was to Vorund. His merciless will; his bloody vengeance; the certainty of punishment and the walking, living folly of crossing him.

You don't need to talk. You need to be seen. To watch. To act, if actions are required.

"Come!"

The door opened and Kasoria was naught but a statue. Flinty and implacable. Standing at his master's side like a good bodyguard, body apparently at ease but subtly bent so he could hurl himself either at an assassin or between them and Vorund. It was his plan to stay thus for the entirety of the meeting. Watching, watching, listening and watching, and stare down any dumb cunt stupid enough to-

And the moment he saw clearly who is was that entered, his memory didn't so much dredge up the tale but hurled it at his face like a cow pie. Just as Vorund started to greet his guest, the tame dog surprised and buggered all by snapping out an utterly incredulous-

"You?!"

[Noth]

The twilight hybrid gazed curiously at the proposed meeting site, crimson eyes analyzing the structure, taking note of each placement of stone and beam, of pillar and window. It was fascinating to consider that this building had once been used for the worship of the dreadful Godlings, because the very idea of such a building having ever been built within the confines of Etzos was anathema. He couldn’t imagine that the masses had known what the building’s purpose was when it had been constructed, or perhaps it had been far before the creation of the city, a mere structure somewhere on the edges of what would eventually become the humanocentric civilization.

Regardless, the building had been renovated quite nicely, considered the Avriel as he stalked near the structure, entering it with relative ease, followed closely by a pair of his retinue. Thane had been relatively quiet for the duration of their trip, and, indeed, he had been quiet as of late regardless of their current circumstances. Perhaps the constant wear-and-tear of leadership was beginning to erode his personality, to bear down on the carefree attitudes that he had once exhibited. Nevertheless, the occasional glance at their surroundings was enough to ensure the Avriel that he was at least following through on his commission to serve as honor guard.

The other individual with him retained far less dignity than Thane, but he was also substantially more useful in security measures. Ears was twitchy, never ceasing with the incessant fidgeting that characterized his particular archetype paranoia. Every few trills, he would scan the entire room, his head swiveling like a particularly agitated bat as he honed in on certain sights and sounds, using his mutant abilities to detect noises that would otherwise be hidden completely by the mere crowded nature of the building before them. Thankfully, there wasn’t any major indication that the operation was a trap or an ambush… although there was brief conversation at the number of guards that had been placed throughout the area. Pity, it seemed they were quite afraid, then.

The Avriel hadn’t bothered to look like a customer, but rather had dressed in his typical war-gear, albeit with a few exceptions that made him somewhat less… noticeable. Upon his form was a mixture of plate covering each of his appendages and with an armet protecting his head from harm, whilst a chainmail coat served as the protection for his torso. A hastily located red cape had been thrust over his back, not for theatric effect, but rather to conceal the feathery wing which jutted from it. His favored adamantite mace had been clasped at his side, though, that itself had been surrendered to the forward guards in accord with their agreement. Perhaps the strangest item upon his person was a humanoid skull, nails and metallic implements driven through chunks of bone, the faintest outline of a wick marking it as a rather gruesome lantern.

Eventually, the search had concluded, and the guards had determined that it was safe enough to allow himself and his pair of compatriots to pass through to their scheduled appointment. The Avriel reached to his side, causing the escort to pause and tense ever-so-slightly, the flicker of eyes up to an upward level revealing the presence of far more security. The hybrid merely out-stretched his hand, placing a golden nel into each of the guard’s hands, and then nodded for them to continue onwards. They seemed… unimpressed by the token of gratitude, but they certainly weren’t going to turn down free money when it showed itself, and it was far better than actually having to fight with the monster.

The Avriel was shown to a room, furnished in such a fashion to facilitate the meeting which had been planned out in advance, and he waved a finger towards Thane, directing him to the side of the door where he would serve as outer security until matters had concluded. Ears, for all of his useful nature was far less… combative in his talents, and thus Noth had determined that it would be safest for him if he stayed at his side, even if his fidgeting never truly desisted. The Avriel himself was far less nervous about anything, and in fact exuded an aura of merciless confidence as the door was opened, the fierce mask and mantle of the Prince of Eternal Mercies suddenly thrusting itself into action as he stepped into the room, the wicked talons at his feet raking gently against the floor as he entered. What use were weapons when you were a weapon?

Crimson eyes flickered over those assembled, taking note of their features briefly before settling firmly upon one of them at the exact moment that he shouted out an accusatory word. “Ah. I didn’t know that I’d be greeting familiar faces.” The hybrid spoke with a smile hidden behind his metallic armet. The devilish eyes peered through the mass of metal, locking onto the raggedy bodyguard with predatory satisfaction. He knew him, had seen what he could do, and yet… where once he had been afraid of the man, he was now… more, fiercer, stronger.

“It has been quite some time, hasn’t it, assassin? Arcs have passed into the ether. I thank you for your failures that trial. Were it not for you teaching me of the inherent violence of our fair city, I might never have settled upon my path.” Another wicked smile, this one stretching up to his eyes in malicious delight. Crimson eyes removed themselves from the bodyguard, settling now upon the criminal gangster that he had come to see, and briefly upon what was certainly either his adviser or another guard… albeit a rather pathetic looking one if that were the case.

The murderous Avriel stepped over to one of the seats, brushing away casually at the chair to sweep away any dust before taking his seat. “Mr. Vorund. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I am the Prince of Eternal Mercies. Shall we begin?”

[Kasoria]

Fuck.

That seemed to describe the situation nicely, and on several levels.

Kasoria cursed himself before the echo of the word had even faded. Oh, bravo, he chided himself in a voice that would return to him on similar moments, he just fucking knew it. A fine way to begin. Breaking the mold and the facade and the mood, all at once.

He listened to the wormy things that passed for words, sliding out from behind the bird's metal mask. It seemed like all of him was armored, save for those appendages that were weapons all by themselves. He looked down at the clink-clacking sound of talons, and the faded scars in his back burned for a half-trill in memory. The two lackeys flanking him were just that, as far as he could tell. Hired protection or lieutenants, mirroring Ilos and himself... though he wondered what use the twitchy cunt with the big ears served.

Careful. Plenty of dead men asked what harm a simple beggar could do.

But this... Prince, was the center of all attention, of course. He dominated every room he walked in, Kasoria could tell that right away. Not just his mutated and awful appearance, so strange and different from even the stranger races of Idalos. No, it was the cold and the dark he carried with him, like the world did atmosphere and air. Fear surrounded him, palpable and visible, mist and fog and stench all at once. Ilos stiffened in his chair and even Vorund's breathing hitched, just the once, before he covered his brief alarm with a sip from his drink.

Kasoria fought to keep his face... well, fought to return his face to a stoic mask. He succeeded only in "sullen", but as more and more words came slithering forth... he remembered anew. Oh, he remembered that lesson. He recalled it well.

I remember you ran, Bird. I remember you fled and even when I was at your mercy, you were too afraid to finish me.

Kasoria remembered that and one corner of his mouth raised in a sneer. He wouldn't pollute his master's meeting any further with those words. He'd done enough to that effect. But he let the harsh, ugly, dismissive words sooth him like balm for his ego. He folded his arms again and kept his stare level and calm and... unafraid. He wondered how many others in Etzos were capable of such a thing, confronted with this monstrous sight?

Yeah, well, they didn't know him when he was a... chick, or whatever the fuck his kind-

"Something you need to tell me?"

"'member that job where I got pushed off a roof?"

Vorund frowned for a moment, then his eyebrows popped up in realization. "... that was him?"

"Looks like."

"Well, bugger me."

Then the Prince spoke again, bringing both master and assassin back to the task at hand. Vorund took another generous swallow of his drink and gestured to Ilos. The underboss scuttled off his seat and took to pouring a drink for the guest, careful not to turn his back on him, lest he think he was fixing it with something... uncivil. Kasoria could tell the younger racketeer was not enjoying that. Having to look at the... thing, while he tried to focus on bottle and glass and not spilling any of the former into the latter.

"Aye, pleasure's all mine an' all that fuckery. Let's get down to tacks, shall we?"

Kasoria beard squirmed around his face as he did his best not to smirk, this time with genuine humor. That was always Vorund's way: don't give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing your fear. Twenty arcs as a boss, forty arcs cleaving and filching and scamming and leading his way through the gutters of South Etzos... if anyone thought that Vorund was going to be so easily frightened, by a long cloak and talons and a face mask, they were very much mistaken.

It was worth it just to see Ilos' face, too. Clearly he was young and dumb enough to think the Prince's theatrics were the real thing. His eyes widened with surprise as he sat back down, after placing the glass respectfully in front of the half-breed.

"I'm a busy man and, from what I've heard, so are you. Those North end cunts have been falling like wheat in Ymiden or vanishing like mornin' dew or just plain bending over and turning their coats, getting onto your crew. Well, that's them. My question is, where does that leave us, Mister Prince?"

The old man took another swallow, letting a satisfied little "ah!" hiss from his lips as he swilled the booze around and placed his glass back on the table. Palms flat on either side of it, until they flicked over, palm up, emphasizing his question.

"You lookin' to expand into the South? Cuz you do that the right way - pay yer share like everyone else, don't step on the toes a' folk who're already doing the same - we ain't got a problem. Plenty of money to be made, long as the right people're makin' it. But if'n yer thinkin' of doing it the wrong way, well... we got a problem, don't we?"

Ilos looked from his boss to their guest, waiting for an answer. Kasoria didn't take his eyes off the Avriel. Ah, yes, he was sure that name would come back to him eventually. The bird-people, or something like that. He kept his arms crossed and his stare unwavering, blinking fast and almost reluctantly. Vorund had cast his opening volley, in the usual brassy way he did with people in the same world as him. For a murdering, scheming, racketeering gangster, the man really was quite honest when it came to negotiations.

"Oh, an' enjoy the grog. Had the owner leave us a bottle a' the good stuff."

[Noth]

It had always managed to humor the hybrid how some persons went about establishing some semblance of decorum only for some fool to utterly ruin the entire charade. Of course, it was only natural that a person would act out when placed in an environment and when forced into the confines of a scenario they didn’t truly find to be their own. It took merely a glance at Kasoria; though the hybrid didn’t truly know his designation or the accuracy by which he assumed his work, to recognize that he did not associate himself with the higher-classes of the Etzori people, except perhaps in very brief and violent intervals. In many ways, despite the relative drudgery that seemed to surround him, and the subservient nature of the wolfish man to his master, the two were fairly similar in other ways… neither one of them finding themselves absent from the call of violence for long.

The hybrid could briefly recall the last time that he had happened to encounter Kasoria, the way that his lungs had stung with withdrawal as he had forced himself to sprint through alleyways and streets, attempting to retreat from a seemingly inescapable murderer, a soulless automaton whose primary purpose was to extinguish life for the sake of his Under-lord. There, beneath the grasp of his talons, he could faintly recall the sensation of the sharpened appendages having bitten into the man’s flesh as he had thrust himself desperately downwards at the fellow in an attempt at escaping the persecution that was sure to follow his having witnessed an atrocious act.

That very moment had been what had helped to spark his life of criminal intent. No longer had he determined that it was entirely necessary to obey the laws of the land, but rather that it was far better to obey those naturally ingrained laws, those of wild beasts which spoke of dominance, of taking what one desired with force. All other laws… they accomplished things, but they were nothing without that foundational threat of violent reinforcement, and for the first time in his life he had become aware of that fact as he fled the gangly enforcer of a crime boss, a man who reeked of illicit activity. Perhaps the fact that he had fled once in the past when he had been little more than a lost and starving child was enough to placate the mind of the trained killer, for it seemed that his demeanor changed quickly from one of perceptive shock to one of calm and clarity.

A drink was poured for his pleasure, and crimson eyes followed the subtle movements and gesticulations of the fellow’s hand, observing for any hint of poisoning, not that it truly mattered a great deal. What little he would ingest would be cleaned utterly by his next rather simplistic gesture. As he outstretched a hand to take hold of the cup, he allowed a single metallic finger to lapse against the very edges of the liquid substance, and without any outward appearance of having activated, his Null Gauntlet unraveled the chemical compositions that had made up the drink, subtly eliminating any poison… and simultaneously making the entire concoction taste not altogether unlike bath water. He sipped only a tiny amount before placing the drink back upon the table, a gentle wince flittering across his features at having tasted something far different than what had originally been served.

Now that the veneer had been pulled aside by the blatant disruption of any semblance of immediate professionalism by his assassin, it seemed that Vorund was quite satisfied with skipping the formality of introduction, and instead requested rather brutishly that they simply proceed with business. There was a flicker of a smile that passed across the Avriel’s crimson eyes as he gazed at Bangun Vorund. The man was a bulldog, a vicious cage beast that had won his fair share of battles, and it would be a mistake to under-estimate him as any lesser breed… but age affected even the sturdiest of hunting hounds, and it would not be long before he had passed beyond their veil of existence. Whether that passing was facilitated by the flicker of a street-savvy pocket blade or whether it came with the tearful remembrance of family gathered around a bedroom was the reason that meetings like this one were a reality, and Noth had little reason to dissent from the request to get on with the general proceedings of their meeting.

There was a brief and threatening prelude to their discussions as Vorund highlighted the realities of gang life in Etzos. It was true that the Northern gangs and thugs had been falling in droves to Al’Angyryl, gobbled up and assimilated into the ever-growing secessionist faction, or else entirely annihilated in violent strikes which lasted merely a single night. The shock and awe factor had left the criminal underworld in shambles in certain places, and the sudden loss of many distinct racketeering organizations had overall driven away some of those filchers and gangsters to greener pastures… or in many cases, into his open talons. It would be a mistake to assume that Al’Angyryl was merely another criminal empire, however… they partook in illicit activities and certainly turned a profit in the process, but there was so much more to them. They drilled like soldiers, wore quality armor and equipment, fought in formation, in tactics, employed the undead and other fierce beasts… they were not a gang… they were a gathering rebellion.

“Of course, Mr. Vorund. I have no intention of trotting upon the toes of the well-established any more than is strictly necessary.” He paused, a flicker of memory flashing back to those gangs that had once existed… their demise had been strictly necessary. “In truth, the Northern gangs were disorganized, inefficient, corrupt, and filled with the vilest examples of leadership that could possibly be contained by our pleasant city. Their resources have been undeniably useful, their operations have been assimilated, their thugs are now my soldiers, but in the end, they were not the South.”

“As I understand it, you run the operations of the South. I do question why you never decided to expand your operations to the opposite side of the road, as it were. Regardless of your reasons… I have an ultimately unfortunate reality to bestow upon you.”

“I don’t want it.” He paused for several moments, his gauntlet-covered fingers idly rattling against the table as a brief sigh flickered out from beneath his armet. “I neither want the criminal element of the North, nor do I particularly have any interest whatsoever in the criminal elements of the South. In fact, I’d be perfectly willing to simply hand over the consolidated mass of territories to you at the drop of a hat were it not for the fact that I still require some measure of resources.”

“I am not a crime lord, Mr. Vorund. I understand that I may give that perception, but I am a far more dreadful type than that. I am a warlord. I do not care for profits, nor do I care whatsoever for gold and silver and copper except for that they are useful for procuring equipment for my troops. The only thing that I care about at this current juncture is that I possess enough militant support that my future claims to power are not immediately dismissed, and that I am able to facilitate operations in a more shadowy capacity in the meantime.”

“Change… is coming, Mr. Vorund. It is an inevitability, and my victory has been assured by the future itself. I merely require the Underworld’s assistance to get there, and they will be rewarded in kind.”

There was no discernible motion nor flinch of movement nor any physical action that might have alerted anyone to the sudden probing fingers of the Beast as it crept its ethereal grasp across the structure. What might have been surprising to anyone with the unnatural ability to view spirits, however, would be that the target of the Diri of Domination was not Bangun Vorund, nor Ilos, nor even their lethal bodyguard… it was a simple hired thug armed with a crossbow upon one of the upper levels… and for perhaps the first time in his career, a series of questioning thoughts began to filter into his minds seemingly of his own volition.

[Kasoria]

It was quite a speech. Defied expectations, one would say. Kasoria certainly wasn't expecting such a brazen response, and even if he was, the birdman painting himself as some sort of... usurper, definitely was beyond what he'd assumed. As the creature spoke with far more eloquence and slyness than his appearance would suggest, the assassin found himself slowly, grudgingly stunned by his ambitions. No gutters and shadows for this one, apparently. No, it was the top towers and big boy's table, or nothing at all.

Warlord. Ain't a word we've heard around here for a while.

It was an effort of sheer discipline that he kept his amazement off his face. Bangun Vorund, however, had less need to be so stoic.

But Kasoria was not expecting him to chuckle.

"Ah, 'nother revolutionary, eh?" There was a minute shrug and the older gang boss seemed to mull that description over in his head, before shaking it slightly. "Nah, wrong word, I think. Yer talkin' less shite than those wankers..."

The old man's mockery rumbled into his tumbler of booze and he let it fill the room like fog. Now Kasoria wasn't so sure what to make of his attitude. Showing defiance in the face of the intimidating was one thing (and you learned it pretty fucking fast in Etzos), but this smoke more of contempt that anything else. Though Kasoria remembered the age of this man. Not multitudes of arcs older than Kasoria, but old enough to have seen an era pass and another rise. To see so many faces and have to many lives touch his own, that you were able to guess things about them just from a few words, or even a single sight of them.

This was no different for Bangun Vorund. Rarer, true, but not unprecedented.

Aside from the feathers. And the mask.

"T'answer yer first question - y'know, the one you most loudly did not ask-" Vorund smiled slyly at his guest, letting him know that such passive-aggressive touches were appreciated but, alas, ineffective, if grinding at his esteem or patience were his objective. Still, it was always refreshing to negotiate with someone who played the game a few levels above the usual. "The reason I ain't expanded north is, well... you answered it yerself, in fact. Cuz they're a bunch of cunts. No discipline, no vision, not a trustworthy bone among the lot of 'em. I do business there, but I don't have business there. I'm sure y'get me. Yer more like me than yeh'd like to admit."

Again that chuckle. That amusement that rang of nothing more than honest mirth, as if he found something worthy of a jape and was simply appreciating it. Kasoria's brow creased almost imperceptibly, and he flicked a glance at his master. Was the old man trying to provoke the feathery cunt? Was he drunk? Or was... was it poison? Before he had a chance to wonder further, Vorund finished his glass and plowed on.

"Now, the lad to my left? I'm sure he nearly cacked his breeches when you offered up the North Side like a treat to a dog, back then," he said with a smile, thumbing briefly at Ilos. The younger racketeer flushed for a moment and then bowed his head as Vorund tapped his empty glass. Off he went, like a good boy, filling it back up. "Sure that sounded good t'him. Double the turf, double the income... pah... double the problems, lad."

The last word was directed at Ilos himself as he placed the glass in his boss' hand. Vorund patted him on the shoulder as he sat down.

"What I got now is tight, controlled, efficient... and loyal. All that shite you said the North didn't have. Y'know why that was? Because they were all a bunch of horizon-chasing cunts, who got tripped up by the shite right in front of their eyes. That ain't me, son. Never has been, either.

Son. That was new.

Kasoria's lips pressed a little closer together, an effort to hide the smile he wanted to give the birdman. He had no sodding clue how to guess the age of an Avriel, but he supposed they didn't age too much differently than humans... right? Either way, Vorund could see the fire and the certainty he'd come to recognize in but two souls: the young and fervent, the true believers filled with righteous purpose... and the older, bitter, embattled bastards who still trudged their path, long after ideology and belief had been proven false. What was the birdman more likely to be?

No prizes for that guess, Kasoria thought to himself, running back the thing's words. "Assured by the future itself"? Do me a fucking favor...

"Well!" Vorund said after a fresh sip, voice a touch louder, the tone of a man who'd strayed in his thoughts and now had found the right track again. "Much as you say you don't have any fucking interest in the South Side, we both know that's a steaming pile of shit, don't we? Or you wouldn't be here, talking with me, about the future and change and assistance and all that bollocks. Because you do want something, Mister Prince. And you want it from me."

Ah. There it is.

The tone changed. The joviality sloughed away like fat from a strip of bacon. Silk and cotton fell off the blade and now iron was wrought and obvious in the atmosphere. Vorund took another sip, and did not smack his lips, nor sigh contentedly. He did not take his eyes off the birdman at all when he spoke.

"You want a partner, is that it? Or y'want underlings. Another wing t'add to yer shadow fuckin' army. Or fuck, maybe y'just want more gold and silver and coin and the rest of it, more money for yer war chest? Trust me, son, shiny stuff wins wars as quick as assassins and armies in this city."

He knocked back the glass. No savoring this time. He swallowed the shot with his wrinkled cheeks puffed out, then compressed as he forced it down, and then the glass was on the table again.

Upside down. No more.

"Not interested, Mister Prince. What I do, what me and mine do, we contend with the Blackjack and their ilk. Because we break the law and that's how we make our money. But what yer talking about? That's treason talk. That's usurping and conspiracy to treachery and making traitors of everyone who walks with you." Vorund leaned forward a touch, as if enlightening a small child. "Y'know what they do to traitors in Etzos, don't ya? Give youse a hint: it ain't banishment or a decade or two in the dungeons. And it applies to everyone. No matter how deep they are."

Vorund spread his hands, as if he were a man bound by chains and regulations that were beyond him. The truth was not that far from the illusion, actually. Ruling powers could overlook or even co-opt a multitude of vicious criminal bastards like him, as long as they were useful in their own ways. Vorund's long partnership with Zipper was proof of that. But to upend the whole structure, to not just declare war on the Council and the High Marshal, but stand with a man doing so? Forever tarring your name with the treachery and ambition of another?

He's right, Kasoria thought, face still stony as the two titans of the underworld sat opposite each other. Been men like him before. Inspirational. Bold. Ruthless. And the High Marshal's still here, and so's Vuda, and all the rest.

"That said, I ain't lookin' for a war. Fuck's up business, that does. And while y'may say y'don't care about money and such, you'll find it's a right bastard to fight a war with an empty purse. Fear and rhetoric only goes so far, son. Eventually, you'll have to pony up. So, since you were so careful not to actually make an offer, or even explain in plain fucking Common what you wanted-" that brief, reptile smile again, reinforcing the lesson of how stupid it was to assume stupidity of a man just because he didn't talk all fancy "-I'll do it instead. You keep yer zealots and yer soldiers and yer plans the fuck away from my people. All of 'em. I don't want a sniff nor a stain of whatever you're planning splattering on me, and-"

"Sir, maybe we should list-"

Kasoria was sure they heard his teeth grind in his head. He tried to hold it back, but he couldn't. The sheer, dumbstruck realization that Ilos had been so fucking stupid was enough to nearly make his jaw drop to his chest. He had to all but break his own neck not to snap his gaze to the younger man and eviscerate him with a look. But he didn't need to: Vorund was all over that particular task.

Ilos' mouth snapped shut. The spell was broken again; only for a moment, but the damage was far worse... if a man knew what he'd just seen.

"... as I was saying. I ain't looking for a war. So, you keep yer distance, and I'll keep mine. And Fates, if the future turns out not to be a lying cunt and you do end up on top, I'll be waiting for a second meeting with you. One thing I've learned, is that the Powers That Be in this city, they know that if there has to be crime - and there always is, long as you have people and vices - might as well have it organized. So it'll be nice t'know you'll have someone like me, already waiting for ya."

The old man fished around in his pocket for something. It was worn and old and already packed with some stinking weed from a fellow he knew from across the ocean. Ilos remembered his fucking place this time, and meekly lit his master's pipe with a candle. Vorund puffed at it while waiting for the birdman to speak.

All the while, Kasoria remained unmoving. Unspeaking. Unsmiling. He was the wrath of Vorund, after all. He was still until unleashed. The man himself exhaled into the ceiling, watching the smoke shoot upward in a mushroom, until it flattened on the ceiling and drifted to the corners.

"Yer turn, son."

[Noth]

The very trill that Vorund began to chuckle, the twilight hybrid rolled his eyes in the most perverse and blatant nullification of all of the eloquence he had possessed. The look was familiar to a great many persons in the world, the sort that a person made when they were about to be lectured on something they knew by some elder, whether in literal age or skill, and had no intention of actually listening. Noth absolutely detested it when people felt the need to subject him to their meaningless and contrived lectures on the nature of reality, as though he wasn’t already a warlord who slew others on a regular basis, in charge of his own faction of usurpers and secessionists.

Nevertheless, the crimson-eyed bird was not quite so inconceivably foolish to actually interrupt the inbound lecture, not necessarily out of any semblance of respect for the Vorund, but rather because he recognized it would absolutely spoil any further conversation over the matter. Vorund spoke of the reason why he had not taken to conquering and subjugating the remainder of Etzos, and highlighted that the Northern criminals were less than disciplined, and far more cutthroat than they were effective. Perhaps that had been true before he had united so many of them under a singular flag, whipped any dissenters to death, paid them in droves of loot, and brought them under his regime, but they were a far different animal than they had once been.

Even as the criminal lord spoke of the similarity between the pair, and further discussed that he possessed business in the midst of the North, but that it was not his to own, a particularly troubled crossbowman began to crease his brow. No matter where he turned, the precariously dangerous thought of usurpation rattled around the confines of his skull. He was paid… but was it enough? The endless hole of greed was such an easy exploitation for a being as ancient and capable as the Beast, and it flourished in mental environments of such blaring selfishness, whispering thoughts of additional gold, of greater reward, of grander fame. After all, he certainly possessed a weapon… and Vorund, while he had been at least a fair boss, would not be missed, would he?

As the comparison drew to a close, the twilight hybrid found himself entrapped within the dressing down of the elder crime lord, crimson eyes locking briefly onto both of his subordinates, daring them to join their boss in any semblance of jest. Of course, it would be a great deal of trouble simply to assassinate Vorund, but that same courtesy didn’t necessarily apply to his underlings, and the avian had plenty of death-dealers in his own employ… along with beings comprised entirely of death. He had long since tainted his hand with the arcane and the archaic, and he now rubbed shoulders with a great deal of unnatural entities… something that the criminal lord likely didn’t match in his own recruitment of mere vile scum and talented scalpers.

They conversed further, Vorund questioning him on what his actual interests in the South side were, whether or not he was interested in acquiring some measure of partnership, or perhaps more soldiers to his army, or perhaps even simply the acquisition of further coins. The avian tittered briefly at the list of options, disinterested in the implications that each carried, though he was not so foolish as to ignore any potential benefit that might arise from any of them. Cost and benefit, as it were. There was a request by Vorund that he keep his soldiers and their ilk away from the South-side, as though he were convinced that a simple statement such as the one he had made would somehow preserve any dignity within his territory. Perhaps he was genuinely convinced that the North had no effect on the South, but, regardless of their general direction… Etzos was a single city. Noth listened further to the demand until it was rather brusquely interrupted by the man at Vorund’s side, and it became the hybrid’s turn to chuckle, a short sound that emanated from within his chest. “Nice dog.” He uttered briefly, before motioning for the fellow to continue.

Thankfully, perhaps at the behest of the unwarranted outburst, the lecture on the nature of criminality and the aspect that war was poor for business finally came to an end. Vorund seemed content merely to smoke on whatever herbal medication had been stuffed into his pipe, and allow the warlord his own piece of the conversation. The hybrid, to his credit, waited a few moments, clasping hold of the gauntlet upon his right hand. He removed it briefly, exposing the complete lack of any flesh underneath it, and then moved the invisible limb up to his eyes in what must certainly have appeared to be a mock scratching of his eyes… in effect, it actually was, and he quickly returned the gauntlet to its place. Nevertheless, the exposure that he was not altogether flesh underneath the armor could potentially have some measure of intimidating effect, and it cost him little.

“You’re correct, of course, that coin and revenue are excellent sources of victory, though, as I’ve mentioned, I don’t particularly needs yours. The entirety of my trip here was merely offering you a cut of the pie, Vorund, at least, among some other matters.” He tittered. “When I have acquired my position in the high tower, I had already intended on meeting again with you, because as I said, I fully intend to pass over the entirety of the criminal element off to you. I have no desire for an unregulated stream of criminals and brigands to be operating in what will very quickly become my city.”

“As for the profitability of war? I find it to be wholly profitable to those willing to sell equipment, weapons, and services. You speak of war-chests, but allow me to reveal something of utmost enlightenment. Do you remember the incident involving that minor hamlet outside of Etzos? The one that rebelled in its entirety, and assailed its garrison in violent uprising? To a man, each of them was slaughtered, whether by the hands of the better-equipped Black Guard, or by their own zealous hands. I remember that it was quite the controversial sighting, and I don’t doubt that you’ve looked into it, at least to an extent.”

“I was responsible for that slaughter. Ah, but at what cost? What does it take to convince a man to throw away everything they are, everything they hold dear, any chance at survival and recondition them so that they will charge headfirst into a fight they cannot win? In truth, I looked at them for something like a dozen bits, and they obeyed.” He paused, allowing the implication to sink in that he was capable of controlling others like puppets, or perhaps a more demented plaything. “People, as useful as they are, are not necessarily a priority. Volunteers, willing or not can be very nearly conjured out of the air. Supplies, tools, equipment, bombs… such things are somewhat more difficult to acquire. They require a degree of professionalism that is found, due to the volatility of the opposition, primarily in the confines of the Southern criminal locality.”

“Before you are so quick to shutter yourself to the possibility of business arrangements then, I’d kindly request that you look at what can be gained. I’m perfectly willing to purchase a portion of the armaments and equipment that you can create using your resources for the sake of my army, and in the process, I’d be happy to facilitate alternative assistances to your own organization. For example, I own an established warehouse and business outside of Foster’s Landing which does an excellent work in fencing illegally acquired items to foreign lands such as Rharne, and contacts enough in those foreign ports to ensure that products are sold at an equitable rate when compared to the local region.”

“Oh, but what if you’re caught? Oh, to tarnish your name… oh to be executed.” He paused with mock drama, palm opened in imitation of shock. “I can’t fathom you being afraid of execution, or death, Vorund. I have far too much respect for you, regardless of your lecturing to believe that you’ve somehow stumbled and bumbled your way across the arcs, barely avoiding assassins and usurpers and problematic sorts.”

“So then, Mr. Vorund. While you’re correct that a war between us would be utterly unprofitable, and would likely result in a fair deal of death, I don’t believe the same is inherently true of all war. I have no desire to implicate you entirely in the dealings, naturally, but I do require access to the professionals of the South side… those currently in your employ or under your protection, and because I’m not interested in utterly peeving you into conflict, we’re here.”

He relaxed back into his chair, casting his crimson eyed gaze over to his fidgety compatriot. “Anything to add, Ears?” The brief shake of a very stressed and tense head was enough to answer that particular question.

“Your turn. Again.”

[Kasoria]

Sounds like a good deal.

He couldn't stop the treacherous sentence trotting through his mind. Enemy or not, monster or not, smarmy and insidious cunt or not (there was little doubt on that last one,though), Kasoria couldn't deny that the Avriel knew how to negotiate. He didn't dismiss objections, he worked around them. He didn't belittle concerns, he soothed them. When he found a position made intractable, he smiled at the notion and reconstructed his argument so the position, the foundation, and the person proclaiming both were suddenly dealing with a different animal entirely.

Most of all, he clearly knew how the underworld worked. You measured logic, and self-interest, with intimidation, and fear. The threat of violence and exertion of power, should being "reasonable" fail to achieve results. Kasoria had been bearing witness to that from next to Vorund for over a decade. Time and again, the old man would shake his head and bemoan how "unreasonable" the other party was. Be it a proud business owner or an upstart gangster, the complaint was always the a variation of the same cry: "they just don't understand how to do business."

Kasoria was inclined to agree, even if he doubted the universally understood definition of "business" included quick, brutal murder if you didn't agree to an offer made in your direction. But he buried that hypocrisy and did his job, because that's what he did. He observed, he collected information, as much was needed, and he acted. He left decisions to the man sitting down right now, puffing his pipe, expression sliding from vaguely amused to interested despite himself.

Then it slid back to stony, ill-amused irritation as the Prince implied he could control the minds of men. Ilos stiffened. Kasoria continued glaring, part of him wishing the birdie cunt would try, and give him an excuse to take his head off. Instead, Vorund just squinted briefly at the candle between them. Measuring the wax and, thus, the time.

"Been more'n twelve." He shrugged and tipped the birdman a wrinkly wink. "Guess not. Continue."

And oh, did Noth continue. Kasoria could practically hear Ilos' cock hardening in his breeches when offer after offer was made. Not just confirmation of power that they already knew Noth possessed - Kasoria barely reacted at all when he mentioned that massacre: fuck did Vorund care what happened in some shithole village beyond the Oh'Pee, long as it didn't effect business within? - but the possibilities for the future. All of the city, every compass point, every racket and corner and illegal nel, all consolidated under one boss or family or syndicate. All that coin, flowing up in one direction, into a purse so big they'd have to build new banks to store it all.

It was a heady mix, to be true. But that was one side of things. The side you burnished bright and lovely for the other man to admire over. Then you hit him with the cost. The work that went into the dream, and that was where Kasoria saw the merest chink in that infallible patter.

... so, same shit as before, basically. You're just offering more, and tried to make us think you could make man-puppets.

"Fine speech, lad. Loved the part about the village." Vorund tapped out his pipe as he spoke, knobbly wooden bowel tinkling industriously against the ashtray some considerate soul had left on the table. "Very scary. Though I gotta ask, if yer gonna be handin' over the whole city to me once yer in charge, why d'ya need my help now? Ah... ah, y'think I'd have some role to play? I see, I see..."

Kasoria's beard writhed again, as if something underneath was having trouble sleeping. He did his best to keep his expression stoic as his boss toyed with the birdman, repacking his bowel with stinky herbs, playing the doddery old man for every dram it was worth.

He was an old man, after all. You had to take your amusements when you could.

"I'm guessin' yer talkin' t'me because youse know there ain't no-one else'll listen to ya. North Side? Heh, you've got them dogs whipped, by the sound of it. Lotta' obedient, not much leadership," the old man winked at the lean, rangy gangster at Noth's side, enjoying the flush of insulted pride he saw flare up. "An' the Fence? Shite... if she ain't keen on workin' with me, she'll take yer fucking head off the moment you meet. So as far as... figureheads, aye, that's almost the word, I was yer best option, hmm?"

He lit a taper and held the wriggling flame to his bowel, speaking somewhat chewed Common as he got the bowel merrily smoking.

"Aye... youse want willing hands, eh? Or just fer me to step aside, let you take yer pick a' the boys on the South Side? The, ah... professionals, as yeh call them." Vorund shrugged, making a little "go, go" motion with his free hand. "Feel free t'chat to 'em, son. I'm the biggest noise on the South Side, which is why yer here. But I ain't the only voice in the choir, if y'follow me. Plenty of others youse can talk to. I just don't want ya talking to the ones connected t'me, an' fuck-all you've said has changed that."

Herbs hissed and the pipe spat and with those sounds of conflagration, Kasoria could feel the room turn a little more tense. The amiability of the old man's voice was fading away. Replaced by an implacability that was clearly still amused, but waning.

"Y'got a warehouse up by Fosters? Good fer you. So do I. Y'got dumb cunts that'll top themselves at yer word? Good fer you, that sort are usually fuckin' useless. You wanna talk about slaughter and massacre? Ha!" The laughter was so abrupt and mocking that it echoed around the room almost like a slap. Vorund gestured to his side with the pipe, marking out the diminutive, silent, heavily-armed form of Kasoria standing there. "Talk to this'n about that. Sure he might find it fuckin' funny, given what him an' his boys get up to when I give the word."

Kasoria managed a half-smile, and it was not all due to mirth. His heart skipped a beat. His boys? What boys? Kasoria operated solo, and had done for arcs. That was half the point of hiring him: no confederates, no blabbing mouths, no loose ends to grab onto and find him through. He got a target, and eliminated it. He didn't need a squad, and then his heart skipped again in realization.

Why're you lying, Bangun? Why feel the need to bullshit now? At this point?

"Point bein', lad, that while you may require shit from me, I don't require a fuckin' thing from you." Vorund's eyes slid up from Noth and into Thane's pinched, outraged face. "Or these Northern monkeys y'came with. I run my business safe an' under the note a' the Council, an' I ain't looking for a partner that'll bring every Blackjack and soldier and shadowy cunt Vuda an' the High Marshal has on the payroll down on my head. Y'wanna come South an' look fer muscle? Feel free. Just make sure they ain't mine."

The old man paused long enough for the thing opposite him to absorb all that, blowing patient rings of smoke into the ceiling. They all seemed to form into a thin, smelly cloud just above their heads, nowhere to go by the low ceiling. Kasoria briefly wished they'd done this out on the mezzanine, where they didn't have to worry about this closeness. But it wasn't safe, nor particularly smart, to have any passing wanker look up and "oh, there's Bangun Vorund meeting with the Prince Of Eternal What The Fuck". This was safer, quieter, and-

And you work better when it's close and fucking nasty, so pay attention.

"Though, if we're honest," Vorund continued, waiting until he guessed Noth was about to reply and then cutting him off at the knees. Or the tongue, more accurately. "Don't see why you'd need more'n what you got right now, for yer little coup. Got Thane over there, an' all the North Side garbage he can muster, which I'm guessin' ain't some small number. Got that warehouse in Fosters, got others like it. Got Thane's wee sister, an' that big bearded cunt Ox, an' yer little army in the shadows playing at war."

Vorund paused and shrugged, letting his words sink in for a moment or two.

"Got more'n that in the wings, I'd wager. All that magical shite y'seem to be so fond of. Oh, I hear things too, Mister Prince. Forty years in this life, if y'thought I didn't have friends an' snouts an' ears an' eyes North, South, East, and West, yer fuckin' dreamin'. But most of all, what I hear about youse? That there ain't much to hear. You've filled in plenty a' those blanks, an' for that I thank ya. F'Ilos here was makin' the decisions, might be things'd be different. But I am, an' ain't, so I'll be turnin' youse down an' wishin' youse good luck. With the same warning as before."

The pipe finally came out of his mouth and Kasoria heard what followed, but only distantly.

In truth, he was too busy panicking.

"Stay away from anything attached to me. The men I hire, the businesses I protect, the money I make." The old man spoke quietly and slowly, rough gutter accent vanishing, every syllable crystal clear. "Do that, and we won't need to be all chummy, Mister Prince. You make your way, and I will make mine. Never the 'twain shall meet, nor blood need be spilled."

Why would you say that? Why the fuck would you say that?!

Kasoria kept his cool. He kept the mask in place and didn't let it slip. His hands were clasped at his back and he didn't shift on his feet or crack his head from side to side at the top of his neck. But he couldn't believe the old man to be so... careless! Bad enough that Ilos had been fool enough to talk out of place, sow seeds of doubt as to the unity of the syndicate, the utterly authority of Vorund. Now he had to all but offer him up as another avenue for negotiation?! Ilos had been champing at the bit for seasons, for arcs, first eager and now desperate to have more responsibility, more power, more more more, and this was the perfect trap for him to-

Then the assassin blinked. Realization smacked him across the face like a brickbat swung by a giant. See, this was why he was glad he didn't have Vorund's job. Because thinking like a fucking corkscrew every bit of the day would just bloody exhaust him.

Something flitted across Vorund's face, and he scratched under his chin for a moment-

-with his middle finger. Facing Kasoria's direction. Ancient immature insult and signal all at once.

Not directed at him, though. As if sharing a joke only the two older men would get, that Ilos was not party to. Not yet, anyway.

... you cunning old cunt.

"Now," Vorund said, voice the very soul of reason and amiability as Kasoria privately marveled at such a bastardly brain in such an old skull. "Your turn at the wheel, ain't it? Sure y'don't want some food t'go with yer grog?"

[Noth]

The twilight hybrid had never been quite as good at diplomacy and negotiation as he was at inciting terror and fear in others. Part of that was simply the lack of background skills relevant to the former actions, but a greater part of it was due to the actions in which he most regularly partook. It was not an irregular occurrence when the skill of negotiation was found to be useful in the midst of a violent street robbery, or when being able to soothe the concerns of others was found to be helpful when dispatching an opponent with the use of his talons. The presence of the mind-controlling Beast and its many facets of persuasion and control had further nullified any usefulness which could be found in the aforementioned diplomacy, and had further turned the hybrid's heart away from such societal intricacies.

It was true that the Avriel had not been involved in the wretched criminal activities that he now led for very long, nor had he been involved in any project of an equal length. He was youthful, still far too inexperienced with existence to quantify any of his statements with first-person evidence, though he did inquire after the tales of others with enough regularity that he could probably prove a statement given a few moments to compile his thoughts. No, Noth was young, far too young to be involved in the sort of vicious business of leadership and tyranny that he was, and yet, he did not feel as though he had squandered his abilities, and he felt as though he understood the Underworld to a pinpoint.

It could all be described in a single word: Want. Regardless of the moral inclinations of a person, or whether or not they were the sole proprietor of their goals or merely an extended partner in the schemes and collaborations of others, each and every person aspired towards some unearned goal. The poor, condemned by birth-right or misfortune to wallow in the filth of society deemed it desirable to attain wealth, to be capable of meeting their stringent demands. The wealthy, those who had already managed to acquisition enough of the local currency to sate their desires were also unfulfilled, and each of them sought to change the world around them in a more suiting fashion. Money, in the end, was little more than a means to an end, and that had been one of the many reasons that the hybrid cared little for it.

Perhaps that was why he had been so focused upon mentioning the assorted powers and abilities under his sway, perhaps he had thought that such revelations would inspire the same sort of motivation in his talents that it did to his own soldiers. Clearly, he had been severely mistaken, and the wince of evident disappointment began to taint his features. The utterly disrespectful actions of Vorund, including his counting of the time were irritating to the already somewhat volatile Avriel, but he didn’t particularly enjoy his chances of managing to eliminate the man and escape unharmed back to his lair in the process. No doubt he could accomplish one goal or the other, and it was far more valuable to survive their encounter and dispatch some assassin at a later date than it was to bother with beating him to death with his own hands. Nevertheless, he retained the connection he held with the subverted crossbowman outside of the room, still filtering thoughts of seditious treachery into his mind in case it became necessary to eliminate someone in the structure.

Vorund attempted to dissect the reason for the hybrid’s visit, insinuating that the leadership currently scattered around the Northern remnants was faulty in some regard or another. While it was true that the hybrid had encountered little more than jumped-up thugs and their assorted yes-men when he had established his dominion over them, he was under the impression that his efforts in regards to the Fiends had shaped them into far more capable leaders, at least when it came to acts of violent action. In truth, the leadership that he provided in many cases was limited to strategic and tactical decisions, but he didn’t particularly care what his men did in their free time so long as it didn’t affect their efficiency or that of their mutual operations.

What followed such insults against his personnel was merely repetition of what he had already stated. Yes, he was interested in the assorted specialists and professionals within the area of the South Side, and while Vorund was quite clear in that he wanted nothing to do with the hybrid and his shadowy organization, he did at least state that he wouldn’t be interfering with any of the hybrid’s men who stalked around the South side in speaking with other professionals not affiliated with the man, however limited that number of rogue independents might have been. Noth did keep note of relevant information for future use, and a quick glance at his associates revealed that Ears was likely mentally cataloguing everything said. He was, after all, the hybrid’s Head of Security, and information fell into his purview.

There was also mention of the assassin and his entourage of fellows, and the work that they involved themselves in on the regular. It was interesting that they chose the specific words of slaughter and massacre to detail the range of activities undertaken by whatever clandestine war-band was under the guardian’s control. He had not heard of any massacres of late instituted by any criminal organizations, and even news on his own exploits had rarely been labeled as something so dreadful. Slaughter, of course, was completely natural… but was Vorund implying that his forces had been involved in a large-scale killing somewhere? Revealing that to someone who was neither friend nor foe was a risky maneuver, and he made a mental note to investigate further. After all, an admission such as that meant that he knew exactly where to investigate if something was truthful, and material of that kind could be used to subvert assorted members of the populace, especially those whose families had been involved in the killings.

He would have responded, of course, but he found himself irritatingly cut off, and instead of forcing his voice to be heard, he instead decided to listen, suddenly fascinated at all the interesting things that Vorund had to tell him. There was mention of the forces under his command, and even the names of those within his retinue. He sincerely doubted that Vorund knew the entire picture, of course, because he had made a comment earlier insinuating that Ears held some measure of command. Ears was, of course, one of his Hands, but the man was there primarily to promote operational security and keep the base safe, he was in no way affiliated with those who took up the work of training or leading the troops into battle.

More fascinating than such minor errors, of course, was the fact that Vorund had revealed his hand at all. There was likely little secret that Al’Angyryl was working with the supernatural and the unknown, nor had he predicted that such information would ever reasonably be concealed. People liked to chitter and chatter about all of the wretched things they observed, and it was inevitable that someone somewhere would blather about the abominations that he kept leashed in chains in the basement of headquarters. Nevertheless, Vorund had brought up his own strength, and intentionally not spoken very much of his own. Oh, there was the brief reference to a hit-squad which apparently went around conducting unknown massacres… but where was the comparative power, and why was he making reference to the hybrid’s own right now? Was he attempting to demean him? To make his forces seem… paltry in comparison?

Crimson eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly as they glared across the table at Vorund. His analytical and predatory mind began to filter through assorted assumptions and reasons for the sudden shift of behavior, and in the meantime, he listened to the words that the thug leader had to speak. Bangun spoke of how if his chief subordinate had been in charge, the proceedings might have gone differently, but since he wasn’t, that his decision in the matter was a firm denial. Fascinating, moments earlier he had deigned it necessary to nearly assail his man for stepping out of line, and now he himself was insulting his leadership abilities. Clearly, there was a divide somewhere, and where he might have ignored it as a simple mistake, he now began to question whether or not there was something… greater to those before him.

Creeping and invisible tendrils out-stretched across the table, contained entirely within the spirit realm as the Beast latched onto the quietest of the trio thus far, and the one he assumed had the most of relevance to reveal. Persuasive thoughts would begin to flick into Kasoria’s mind, likely unbeknownst to him, hinting that he should let his emotions show, making it clear that if he ever interfered in the operations of the Avriel, he would meet an utter obliteration unlike any he had ever known.

“I didn’t know you were involved in any sort of massacre, Vorund. Seems uncharacteristic of you.” He spoke at first, seemingly ignoring all of the far more ‘relevant’ information that had come after the declaration. “Actually, I’m not aware of you doing much in the way of group-killings at all. Oh, of course we keep tabs on the occasional assassination here and there, and the thuggish enforcement of your rules.” He nodded towards Kasoria, the Beast still whispering into his mind. “But… when the people talk about bandits in the woods, and killing in the alleyways… they aren’t usually talking about you, are they?”

“Curious, regardless. I do appreciate your offer that I can have free reign of the persons in the South so long as they aren’t yours, but you never did mention who belongs to you. You think I already know? Do you think I’m watching everything already, with men, and with undead birds flitting from place to place?” He shrugged, as though amused by that idea. “I have no desire in approaching each and every specialist I come across, and investigating that they don’t already have some measure of dealing with you, and you know that. It slows efficiency down to an absolute crawl, and as much as neither of us want any bloodshed, I think you’d appreciate it a lot more.”

“You see, the undead are a rather numerable host, and I don’t lose anything when one is destroyed here or there. You know, they can make them into shadows? Flitting across the walls, nearly invisible? Quite the assassins, like our mutual friend here.” He would glance once more at Kasoria, attempting to pierce his visage, to learn all that he could from his features, the way he held himself, even if he was uncertain that the man would speak.

“I’ll accept the terms you laid out, the ones wherein I simply avoid your men wherever possible, and in return you don’t make me waste fresh corpses on eating your mercenaries, and together we can simply pretend that a vast portion of your organization doesn’t make its money off of extortion and racketeering and that a vast portion of mine doesn’t make its money off of a steadier stream of death than you’d find in the conflicts with Rhakros, but if we’re doing things that way, then you need to speak to your subordinates so that they can tell mine. I’m not digging through your laundry baskets to learn who takes their pay from you.”

The Avriel allowed his talons to noisily rake across the floor as he pulled himself from his seat, cracking his neck briefly from having been locked into one place for too long. “I think that about concludes our business, Vorund. Don’t worry, I’ll be in touch.” He nodded towards the exit, observing as Ears and Thane began to make their way towards the doorway with their wretched avian leader in tow.

[Kasoria]

“I didn’t know you were involved in any sort of massacre, Vorund. Seems uncharacteristic of you.”

"Folks know better than t'throw my name about, son."

“Actually, I’m not aware of you doing much in the way of group-killings at all. Oh, of course we keep tabs on the occasional assassination here and there, and the thuggish enforcement of your rules. But… when the people talk about bandits in the woods, and killing in the alleyways… they aren’t usually talking about you, are they?”

"S'what happens when y'use professionals, lad. Only people that know, are the people y'want to know."

Okay, now you're just being fucking salty, boss.

Usually Kasoria would have quietly appreciated his master's unrestrained snark, getting in sweet little jabs of dry vitriol as the Avriel droned on in that condescending, superior manner that Kasoria had decided would always be how he'd picture the... "man". It wasn't often that Vorund decided to let his vocabulary loose and fling barbs around like some raider from the stories. True enough, too, that this Prince was the perfect target for such volleys. He clearly believed every gram of his own bullshit, while refusing to so much as sniff what everyone else was shoveling.

Fucking idiot, would be Kasoria's sole verdict, in the normal run of things. He'd stand there with his hands clasped, half-smile hidden behind his beard, and let his master have his fun until business was concluded. But there was no smile on his face now. There was no amusement in his eyes. Some nameless, prickly dread had seized into his heart and wormed its way like maggots into his mind.

Stop antagonizing this thing, he silently begged the gently smiling man at his elbow. We don't know enough about him, and he knows too much about us.

"Aye, well, y'won't need t'ask, lad. They won't work for yeh, anyway, if they're workin' fer me, first. Standin' orders, y'see. An' down here, I'm a wee bit scarier than you an' yer boys. Mainly cuz I actually live here, an' yer jus'... visitin'." The crime boss sat back in his chair, stretched out his legs until the leather in his boots creaked and scraped across the stones, and Kasoria felt... Fates, there was actual sweat on his brow. "Assassin? Him? Nah, he's jus' the lad that fetches the firewood, ain't that right, son?"

Answer him. Answer, damn you!

"Son?"

"On... Only when I'm not shovelin' shit."

Vorund chuckles and Ilos tittered and Kasoria rumbled along but a child could have seen his discomfort. He was already mentally kicking the shit out of himself before the echo of their mirth had finished bouncing from the walls. What in the hells was wrong with him? That pause, breaking the word into two in his hesitation... it showed weakness. He kept glaring, as he'd done for most of the time he'd been in that room, but he willed himself to drop a fresh rank of defenses across his features.

No fear. No confusion. No weakness. Just cold, blank disdain. That's all you give them. That's all they're worth.

He breathed in, and the air sucked the words down into the pit of his soul and buried them there. What had gotten into him? This Prince, this mutant, this blustering joke? A thing with a ruined wing and a scary mask? Was that what he was so frightened of? One so craven and sluggish that he'd yet to even conquer half a city, or the underworld of one, let alone bring that force to bear against Vorund's syndicate? He resisted the urge to shake his head, or maybe just bang it against the nearest hard object. Noth may have been dangerous, but that thrill of... of... of terror he'd felt, he didn't understand it.

"Am I supposed t'be blushin' or somethin'? Pretend all yeh like, an' I'll pretend anyone from south a' the Main Road would do business wiv' ya, if they didn't already work fer me."

Fates, pay fucking attention, would you?

Still and still the Old Man was needling the Young Prince. Gouging with his words, with less verbosity than the Avriel, but just as wantonly. It seemed to Kasoria that a declaration of war was bubbling just under the surface of every word. The disrespect each side had for the other, it was more toxic and deeper running than mere words could resolve. Even the two men flanking Noth seemed as disgusted as their master, lips curled in grimaces as if they resented having to even be in the same room as Vorund and his thugs.

The Avriel got to his feet and Kasoria's duty rushed to the forefront of his mind, banishing those weak, pessimistic, treasonous whispers. This was his purpose; this was his vow. Of loyalty and service and protection, for the greatest service that any one man had rendered to him. Before the birdman had even straightened up, Kasoria had taken a step forward and slightly to the side, note quite in front of Vorund but easily capable of throwing himself in the path of a weapon, or at the doomed fucker throwing it. Bangun got up himself, playing the Creaky Old Man part up so richly Kasoria could have rolled his eyes.

Could have, but didn't. He didn't want to take them off their "guests".

"Aye, seems like," Vorund said as Noth gave them his parting words, responding with a shrug of his own. "Pretty much how things are now, innit? Youse fuck away off, I fuck away off, an' we all keep makin' money." The Avriel turned on his heel and the North Side delegation started to go for the door. The Southsiders left them with a low, mocking chuckling oozing into the holes that sufficed for ears under the mutant's cloak. "Oh, we'll put on a spread fer whoever y'send. Rest assured a' that."

They left, because what else was going to happen? Ilos had, of course, floated the idea of just killing Prince and everyone he came with, but Vorund had just as naturally shot the idea down. He'd given his word that the Prince of Eternal Mercies and his company would be unmolested that night. Any place his word held sway, would be safe for them. Ilos had argued the point, and Vorund had been as implacable as ever.

"Y'got yer name, an' yer word," he'd told the younger gangster, in tones Kasoria recognized as educational. Yet another lesson he was trying to beat into that thick, cocky skull. "With those, youse can build anything y'want. But without 'em, all the brains an' balls an' coin inna' world won't help ya. Not in Etzos."

Kasoria walked to the doorway and practically stood in it, one hand braced on the door, the other resting on his sword. He watched as Noth and his flunkies reclaimed their weapons from rock-faced guards. Then he watched every step visible to him as they wound their way from the mezzanine, into the turgid crowd of revelers, and then were gone. The whole time until their vanishing, he'd been ready to slam the door shut at the merest hint of trouble... or slam it behind him as he launched himself at Noth.

The rest are nothing. Chaff. Puppets. Hollow men filled with his purpose. He's the only one that matters.

"Feelin' poorly, Kas?"

The assassin's jaw clenched and he closed the door a touch harder than he should have. Oh, he did not need Ilos' fucking needling tonight. Nor did he need to turn around and find the grinning little chimp leering over a cigarette case at him. He loved those things, just like he loved the silver box he carried them in. Apparently he had a perfumed whore roll a hundred of them, every dozen trials or so. Just so they'd be sweet-smelling when he popped one out the case and lit it up. Because that was Ilos all over: style and flavor and rich living, without the sense to back it up.

"S'nothin'."

"Sure about that?"

"Ill, leave the man be."

What was supposed to be a defense of him Kasoria instead answered with a hot, level look... and Vorund took it was the slow, patient blink of a man unused to someone being so fucking stupid as to threaten him, even with a glance. Kasoria realized his mistake immediately and looked away, huffing like some angered primate. He all but stomped over to the table and slumped into a seat, rubbing his face.

"Kas, what in the hells is wrong wiv' youse?"

"Been askin' myself the same. Jus'... got a bad feelin'. 'bout the birdman. Can't explain it."

"Could have been magic." Both older men subjected Ilos to looks of scorn that could have withered a sapling into firewood. "What? There are mages that the Council don't own, aren't there? And you know Avriel: very prone to magic, I hear..."

It was food for thought, at least. Kasoria allowed some time to pass before voicing anything further, preferring to let Vorund and Ilos discuss what had happened. As he'd suspected, the cunning old cunt reprimanded his underling for speaking out, admonishing him for "not showing a united fucking front", but it was all just words. Nothing like punishment was mentioned. So Ilos might feel emboldened still, to reach out to Noth through other channels. Not even treacherously, just... offering alternate terms. The old man, he was set in his ways. But him? Younger, fresher, more understanding, more accommodating.

And when it all fucks up, Vorund can cut the moron free and claim he had no knowledge. Or just use the clueless prick to put Noth in a box. Either way, he wins... and tonight, we didn't give away anything we didn't want to.

The realization, the piecing together of Vorund's thinking, was a relief, but the "we" he'd used almost made the assassin flinch. That was an Ilos affectation, he decided. Assuming too much authority, and familiarity. Vorund had been the will tonight; Kasoria had barely spoken. His role was to observe and protect and act, if need be. Not share in policy-making for a man like Vorund, who clearly had that well in hand. But he felt well enough and more of himself to get up with a quick inhalation, drawing the attention of both men.

"I'mma wait outside," he said to his master, nodding curtly before he left. "Keep an eye on the front an' the stairs up here. Send word to get Japer an' Donny down from the rafters."

"Make sure that Prince Cunt an' his lads are gone before you get them down. Never know how handy a bow up high can be."

Which was, undeniably, quite true. Set on his task and blissfully unaware of how true it could be for other, less benevolent parties, Kasoria opened the door to the meeting room, immediately getting swamped by sounds and smells and tastes in the air. He shut the door behind him and a whole mezzanine of Vorund's muscle regarded him with looks ranging from mild annoyance (Who the fuck is this little shit, getting in so close with the boss?) to wary respect (Don't be fooled, mate, old boy's fucking lethal).

Above them, he could just make out the shadowy forms of the crossbowmen, probably starting to cramp up from being hidden so long. Kasoria managed a smirk and a mock salute upwards, probably getting a couple of raised fingers in return. He kept the smile on his face a little longer, as he strolled over to a pillar by the edge of the mezzanine. Something thick enough he could take cover behind, instinctively gravitating to a tactical advantage, even now. He folded his arms and swept the crowd with his gaze.

Not too long now, lads. Night's nearly done...

[Cervantez]

Take Me To Church [Noth]

☠ ======== ☠ ======== ☠ ======== ☠ ======== ☠

Points awarded: 15 to both

Knowledge:
Kasoria
Knowledge:
Skill:
Deception: Feigning the Weakness of Old Age
Discipline: Recovering from a Lapse in Stoicism
Negotiation: Not Showing the Weakness of Fear
Negotiation: Striking a Compromise
Negotiation: Working Around Objections
Philosophy: Fuck The Immortals
Politics: The Council Will Tolerate Gangsters and Racketeers... But Not Traitors and Revolutionaries
Politics: Without Your Word, You're Nothing
Tactics: Multiple Layers of Security Around a VIP
Tactics: Shifting Attention (and thus future blame) Onto Another In Your Organization

Non-Skill:
Avriel: Half-Man, Half-Bird Race
Etzos: Built and Maintained on Defying the Immortals
Location: The Tower, High-End Etzos Tavern Hall
NPC Vorund: Doesn't Scare Easily
NPC Vorund: Knows His Place in the Etzos Power Structure
NPC Vorund: Not Interested in Playing Revolution
NPC Vorund: Plays the Fool Very Well
PC Noth: Warlord of North Etzos
PC Noth: Seeking to Expand
PC Noth: Knows the Value of a Terrifying Reputation
PC Noth: Not as Scary as He Thinks He Is
PC Noth: Skilled Negotiator



Noth
Knowledge:
Skill:
Intimidation: Bringing Along Backup
Leadership: Letting Lieutenants Sit In On Meetings
Leadership: Subverting Enemy Guards
Leadership: Taking The Lead In Conversation
Unarmed: Talons Not Considered a Weapon
Unarmed: Always Have Death-Dealers Ready
Politics: The High and Mighty Think Too Much of Themselves
Politics: Non-Aggression is Only Occasionally Useful
Negotiation: Reminding Someone Who Possesses What Power


Non Skill:
Kasoria: Works for Vorund
Kasoria: Supposedly Works with Assassin Squad
Vorund: Controls the South Side of Etzos in criminal affairs
Vorund: Very Irritating
Vorund: Turned Down Offer

Fame:
Noth: +10 You had a meeting with one of the scary criminal kings of Southern Etzos. Be it good or bad those that know of it will talk.
Kasoria: +10 many see you so close to Vorund as being odd and wonder how someone like you are so well trusted where others know or at least have heard of how dangerous you really are.

Notes: Oh this was spectacular. I felt like I was sitting in on a real mobster meeting between two warring families. In reality, it was the ultimate Etzosian Pissing contest, and I love it. Both parties refused to cave to the other in terms of politics & negotiation. Both of you write in such a way that no matter where it goes, the story is gripping and keeps the reader hooked, and trust me I'm hooked. I will say it was a new experience to see the internal fear Kas had, something Im sure he would never show, and it was good to see that he is human too with a natural instict to know when to not aggravate something or someone.

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