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Post by Defluo on Aug 5, 2015 4:28:58 GMT
FireMercy - 11 - 112 Year of the Godsvent.
Everything hurt.
It was one of the joys of becoming old. Sore this, sprained that. Okanve let out an exasperated sigh from the comforts of his prodigious mattress. The sigh echoed a bit through his expansive bedroom and eventually silence fell over the room once more. Each movement was a clear indicator that he was no longer a spring chicken – just some dusty old bag of bones. Was it worth all this effort? Hadn't he earned the privilege of coasting towards the final exaltation which would deliver him to the Maker? A glance to his nightstand, his gaze settling upon an image of a woman who he could no longer see, smell or dance with in person.
Ah yes, it was still worth trying.
More groans of protest, more lamenting of the passage of time, Okanve called for the servant to fetch his clothes and breakfast: a slice of warm appleberry bread with slightly burnt bacon. The bacon was sent back and new bacon would be aquired, as a dangerous day like today demanded perfection. Through closed doors, Okanve overheard the servant, Doren, snacking on the blundered bacon and chuckled lightly to himself. At least my hearing isn't completely shot.
There was a few unspoken rules for successful navigation through a challenging working day. The first was to wake up to a impeccable breakfast. From the utensils that you consumed it with, to the napkin you dabbed lightly against your face – you had to let the universe know that you wouldn't be getting up until even breakfast worked in your favor. The second was making sure you were a few steps ahead of any obstacles of the day.
Okanve's trembling fingers slowly fiddled with the buttons on his silk shirt.
Ah, but that was the trouble, was it not? With Trevain, Munce and Vile out of the picture Okanve's control over the city had dwindled to nothing. The obstacle was to find good help and he had no time to dredge up some trustworthy shills from the Citadel to work with. Oftentimes it just felt infuriating to deal with these idiots. How is it possible that between all of them they didn't have two single braincells to rub together? Its...
...No, he couldn't let himself get worked up over such things - urgency introduces us to precarious scenarios and he had to learn to roll with the punches. He would meet with the last remaining force down near the docks - this 'Rook' (whoever this man or woman was) and do what he did best – offer an arrangement where everyone would be satisfied. That was the Bagveuw approach.
Doren returned with a fresh plate and permissible bacon, finding time to pivot and set the needle on the phongraph to Velitios Opus: Shadowrites. The music filled the room, casting a haunting melody into the air that only a tortured composer such as Velitios could fully appreciate. A responsive grunt of approval towards Doren excused him from the room as he finished the meal.
“And what if the Rook is a flight of fancy?” Okanve muttered to no one in particular. “You know this plan is absolute cheft. Foolish old man.” Reaching for the final piece of bacon followed by his cane, glancing once more towards the painting of the black haired woman. “You'd know what to do in this situation, wouldn't you?” That immortal, frozen smile his only response. Haunting.
Another sigh. Okanve slowly pushed himself up and gradually wobbled his way out of his room, through the main waiting room and into the morning sun.
It was time to rebuild his empire.
It was time to meet this so called Rook.
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Post by Nolza on Aug 6, 2015 3:21:28 GMT
((OOC: Is it okay that I replied? I can simply delete this post if it isn't  )) Adara bounced down the docks, sizing up her marks. The sun was bright this morning, a wonderful omen for her day. Breathing in the sunlight, Adara stopped for a moment and closed her eyes. This morn she had toned herself down to appear more . . . human. A fantastical and gorgeous human, but a human nonetheless. I never claimed to be humble, she thought with a smug smile. Though her hair still held the shades of a flame, the colors took on a rusty, duller color than before. Her skin, still warm and lush, wasn't lit from within and took on a boringly human shade. Her Skeirn lines still shone in the sun, but her skin tone helped to obscure them. She wore a rich chocolate-colored jumpsuit, and she walked bare foot, as always. That, at least, was nonnegotiable. The docks around her already bustled with working men, both loading and unloading ships of all sizes. Many workers eyed her curiously, and most of them she ignored; she wasn't here to play with just anyone. No, she was waiting for . . . "Miss, can I help you?" a worn, but young sailor asked roughly. He carried two crates in his arms, but having seen her, he allowed himself a detour from his task. "You really shouldn't be here . . ." he added warily. It was almost a warning. Orange eyes alighting on the sailor, Adara eyed him favorably. Sending a subtle whisper of comfort his way, Adara smiled graciously. "I believe you can help me, Mister . . .?" she trailed off expectantly. "Dristan," he replied automatically, tense shoulders relaxing somewhat, though he still carried the crates. "Dristan," Adara repeated, a doting smile claiming her lips. "I'm looking for a certain . . . pirate," she whispered the last word as if she were confiding in the man. "Captain Ubek. And if I'm not mistaken, you know of him. Rather well, yes?" she asked, still whispering. She touched his elbow conspiratorially as she talked, and another whisper, this time of trust, was sent his way. With satisfaction, Adara watched the myriad emotions cross the young man's face. Suspicion was prime in his emotions, but as she had talked, the man grew more intrigued than distrustful, and once her whisper took effect, a tiny smirk lit his face as he sized her up. "Hmmph," he grunted, setting down the crates. "And what would a pretty little thing like yourself want with a pirate captain?" he asked, folding his arms, trying to intimidate her. Adara debated whether or not to pretend being intimidated, but decided against it. It was best he know that she was going to be in charge from the beginning. So, instead of shying away, Adara chuckled good-naturedly, placing a delicate hand on her hip. "That, dearest, is between me and your captain. Or rather, your dear uncle, hm?" Though she smiled amicably, her eyes conveyed a challenge. Adara sent a sliver of insecurity his way, just before she suggested, "Perhaps . . . you should go speak with him. Set up a meeting. Trust me, he'll not want to miss this opportunity," she spoke with expression, holding off on another whisper for now. Deliberately she tilted her head, allowing her Skeirn markings to flash in the sun. "Darling, if it's not through you, I'll find another way to get to him, and then you won't take the credit," she shrugged regretfully as she said this, letting lose a last, competitive whisper. The sailor replied, but at that point Adara was no longer listening. She had manipulated him successfully--and boringly. As the sailor jogged off toward a less conspicuous ship, Adara primly sat on the crates he left behind. A large sigh escaped her now pouting lips. "This better be worth it," she muttered, blithely stretching her muscles. Anything to relieve this horrid boredom, she added to herself, resting her hands on the edge of the crates she sat upon and letting her head fall onto her own shoulder. |
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Post by Defluo on Aug 6, 2015 20:12:03 GMT
The horses strained against their lead lines, impatient from the snails pace of the dilapidated carriage quietly bumbling through broken down alleyways and seedy back streets. Two guards sat impassively at Okanve's side, mirrored doppelgangers of one another with razor-sharp scimitars and nondescript tunics. Subconsciously Okanve hummed the introduction to Shadowrites as they road before the inevitable abrupt ending as they ground to a halt. They had arrived.
Thom 'Vile' Pretch had once inherited ownership of these docks. With a clever mind and ruthless tactics, Vile had squeezed every last copper out of the shipping channels and one needed only to just say the word for goods - legal or otherwise – to appear or disappear. No questions asked. It had been a prosperous time, a complacent time, and that was perhaps how poor Vile had been imprisoned, strung up and crucified by the Queen's men. They say he never did cry out but then again - dead is dead.
That is where The Rook came in. He hadn't heard much of this new fellow, hadn't trusted the immediate change of hands at the dock while Pretch's body was still warm. The world was changing but he was unwilling to accept that a plucky young upstart would just roll into that position without some backing by the queen. He would be sure as cheft not to go out like poor Vile did - May the maker smile upon his soul.
They exited the covered transport, a sweeping glance to make sure there was no unexpected surprises or interruptions. You'd expect anyone could travel down to the docks without being judged... he mused but ah, who would dare venture into the den of thieves without having ulterior motives? Who....His brows furrowed as he lightly sniffed the air. Who is that? Chocolate covered jumpsuit? Barefoot? That busty and sultry appeal that would've driven him wild decades early only brought him apprehension now. The worst was that she looked completely in control of the situation, not some fragile, naïve chit lost amongst the docks. Something dangerous. Something wicked. Hands tightened around his cane like one was wringing a neck; words exhaled through gritted teeth - taut and cold against the warm, morning breeze.
“Whatever she's up to, handle it. Don't kill her, don't cause a scene, just get her out of here. If shes part of the queens brigade, I want to know - immediately. I don't need this to be over before anythings begun.”
The sell-swords gave a grunt and a nod, walking with purpose towards the Adara – a contentious and edgy crew, they were professional and hard working but not exactly the more affable sort.
Fledglin Cheft, should've sent the bacon back a second time.
Relying heavily on his cane, old bones groaned and protested towards his final destination – third office on the Flyville Road.
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Post by Nolza on Aug 7, 2015 3:56:40 GMT
"How long does it take to set up a little meeting?" Adara sighed a complaint, flopping forward to rest her head on her knees. Her fiery hair tumbled about her, tips sweeping against the ground. Deftly moving strands of hair from her face, Adara huffed, already growing impatient. Temple to knee, Adara grumbled to herself, "Honestly, persuasion isn't that difficult a skill to learn. . . . Hm?"
From her now side-ways vantage point, Adara noticed the volume of bustling humans around her increase just slightly. Bored, flame-speckled eyes glanced past two approaching burly figures, then quickly snapped back to the two men. Adara knew she was out of place, but she didn't think she was so conspicuous to deserve a visit from strange, muscled mercs. Well, she allowed herself smugly, I am extraordinary.
With a small, thoughtful frown, Adara righted her posture, narrowing her eyes at the approaching thugs. Now, now . . . who do you belong to . . . Adara wondered silently, looking past them toward a hobbling man who held himself rather regally, despite his cane and age. Her frown deepened doubtfully, but she shrugged off her suspicions. The men would show her to their superior soon enough, she had no doubt about that.
Letting the shades of her hair deepen just slightly, Adara faced the thugs squarely from her seat on the crates. She readied a coy smile and a whisper of arrogance to use on the men; people always slipped up more when they were arrogant, something Adara knew all too well. Arrogance was the reason she so often got herself into trouble, after all. That, and a love of all things troublesome.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the young Dristan approach. He hesitantly stopped a ways off after noticing the thugs, tan face growing just slightly pale. A slight roll of the eyes was all Adara showed at his appearance. Humans always had a habit of bad timing.
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Post by Defluo on Aug 7, 2015 17:34:00 GMT
With the boss attending business, the sell-swords found little reason to keep up the civil front. The rogue on the left, Davan, radiated a youthful exuberance for active threats – jittery and just a touch mental, he seemed more then ready to take a stab at something – the sooner the better. His fingers drummed idly against the hilt of his weapon and like a dog waiting to be fed he couldn't wait to see some action.
The other malcontent in this upstanding duo was Buv. Built like a wall with some additional scaffolding, Buv was an intimidating figure if not for the bulging beer gut. There was a dejected sense of sadness in his eyes, a defeated display of pain and sadness that only briefly left his face after ogling the Skeirn/Ifriti crossbreed. Not that either one of them could see past the legs and other, ahem, assets of her human form. To them she was an attractive human, and their lecherous stares were all but obvious. Buv reached for the flask attached at his hip and took swig that made you question just how early in the morning it was. Dirty fingers wiped at his face, trailing spit and sweat through his unkempt beard.
“Aeh, little bird. Boss seys aint taken kindly to you being hereabouts. So whydcha be thinking of going home to yer nest, fastly like? We dunt want yeh to come to harm down here, oh no. Tw'ould be infinitely terrible to see a broken bird, yeah?” Buv took another swig from his flask before reattaching it at his side. Davan hadn't said a word, rather spending the time vigorously nodding his head in agreement. They were still advancing towards Adara and the stench of rum would soon permeate the scene.
**
“What do you mean she wont talk?” Okanve tried his best to maintain his decorum but it was becoming increasingly difficult to find patience while being denied entry. Hands shook violently as he attempted to quell them by pressing down tightly atop his cane.
“Means exactly as it sounds, friend. Queens got too many eyes in the skies, too many ears to the ground, none of us are itching to resign our soul to the maker.” The front desk elf didn't even look up from the ledger, heaving a sigh as he failed to balance the ones and zeroes attached to the balance of some foreign account. “Means you'd best be looking elsewhere to conduct....business.” A patronizing tone, a disrespectful one. Smart ass long-ear.
“Look, friend” Okanve's words dripped out slowly, sweetly. “I have a shipment that's arriving in two weeks. I just need to talk with her briefly – to see if preparations could be....” A strange howl from the docks interrupted his train of thought. Had that been a scream? A fight breaking out? What else was going to go wrong, today?
“Should've stayed in bed.” He mumbled.
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Post by Nolza on Aug 8, 2015 3:16:31 GMT
Trying not to let her lips curl with displeasure at the sight of the motley thugs, Adara sniffed delicately as her mind worked. Which play? she asked herself, subconsciously biting her lower lip. Adara held off on the whisper of arrogance she had readied. Perhaps that wasn't the best way to play this. The two stepped up to her, much too close for her comfort; the smell alone would be enough to make her want to vomit.
As the one with the gut began speaking something only resembling the language she was used to, Adara examined the two more closely. The one speaking seemed more complex than the other--he was clearly using his drink to mask from himself some tragedy in his past. The other man, silent and nodding ridiculously at the other man's words, appeared more dangerous--slightly out of control and thirsty for violence. The two's only saving grace, in her esteem, was their obvious lust toward her. It was as revolting as it was perfect; after all, the only reason djinni took pleasing human forms was to use it against their marks. Perfect, she purred to herself, a shadow of a dangerous smile on her lips.
"Your boss says that, now does he?" she asked, careful to sound authoritative but not challenging. The mental thug nodded vigorously again, this time with a threatening smile. "Hmm . . ." Adara nodded as if weighing her options in order to buy her some time to send toward the man a delightful whisper of attraction. Let's make your lust as strong as your love of violence, shall we? Adara narrated to herself, eyes gleeful. Well, let's give you a taste, too, just in case, Adara added, sending a lustful whisper the other man's way as well.
"I have a better proposition for you, boys," Adara exclaimed, swiftly standing and clapping her hands together in a deceptively carefree manner. "I'm looking to hire, you see, and from where I'm standing, you two seem quite capable. I assure you," Adara paused to give the two a lusty, meaningful look, "I pay at much higher rates than whoever sent you to me in the first place."
Mercs were known for their love of gold; as long as she was the higher bidder, she shouldn't have a problem. At least, she hoped that was still the case. Humans changed a lot more quickly the djinni or skeirn, and she sometimes had a difficult time keeping up with their customs.
The two glanced at each other, sizing up the other's position on her offer. As they made a show of thinking, Adara sent a whisper of disloyalty with a roll of her eyes. If I met the only two sell-swords who have moral compasses-- she began to herself, but the drunk man began to speak.
"Yeah, we cud do tha'. Or," he paused, a disgustingly triumphant look on his face, "we cud get the information the boss wants from yeh usin' our own methods," the drunkard finished, sending his companion what Adara was sure he thought was a veiled, meaningful look. As he turned to her with a perverted gaze, Adara understood his intentions completely.
Dammit! Too much lust, Adara cursed. "I was hoping you'd say that," she quickly said instead as the two stepped dangerously close to her. She purposefully folded her arms, noting the men's distracted gazes with disgusted satisfaction. When in doubt, use cleavage.
"Whaddya mean?" the talkative one asked distractedly.
"Well, I'd be more than happy to give one of you the other's pay along with some other," she gestured provocatively, "benefits. Only trouble is, I only need one of you." This time, Adara sent as powerful a competitive whisper as she dared to the both of them. With the earlier whisper of disloyalty working with the competitiveness, it wasn't long until the violent one drew his sword with a gleeful smile.
Stepping well out of the way of the two, but still near enough so they remembered what they were fighting for, Adara's eyes found the young pirate Dristan in time to receive his strange, suspicious glance. Just as she raised her hand to gesture toward him, he turned on his heel, jogging back to his Captain. Great, Adara thought sarcastically, just great.
A quiet yelp startled Adara from her self-pity and growing anger. Looking toward the noise's source, Adara beheld the drunk man holding his forearm, blood dripping onto the ground. He was clearly at a disadvantage. As the drunk thug's sword dropped from his injured grip, Adara commanded the air around the sword to slingshot the weapon--hilt first--right toward the violent man's--
A strangled howl erupted from the poor man as he doubled over, knees growing weak at the pain only men could feel. Despite herself, Adara smiled sadistically and unapologetically. The drunk man's confused face turned to her, and she shrugged, feigning innocence.
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Post by Defluo on Aug 9, 2015 4:49:32 GMT
You were made, had grasped true power.
You had owned what there was to be owned, held respect where it was nigh impossible to be respected.
And now look at you. Look at this.
He hadn't caught the initial decline into amateur hour, hadn't glimpsed the tussle between his two men or the painful groin shot that had originally had brought him running out of the office doors – No, what Okanve was actually witnessing was the killing blow of his business, the irrefutable proof that the sun was setting on the Okanve Empire. Tired digits pressed tightly then massaged the skin around his ethmoid bone, the third or fourth sigh of the day exhaled through lightly clenched teeth.
Well.... better get this over with.
His leisurely pace shuffled him past lightermen and an army of other shiphands that worked tirelessly loading and unloading various crates off to Maker knows where. Okanve's presence drew some gawkers – a few underlings who he had worked with on previous jobs but the majority were younger faces, unknown gazes whose blank expressions suggested confusion as to why an old man would be found bumbling through the dockside. It was humiliating, humbling, and utterly exhausting.
The docks had been a place of familiarity to him, many a week he had helped establish proper trading channels, settled disputes between seemingly inconsolable families and found new partnerships with a wink and a grin...and of course some affordability priced goods. Nostalgic memories resurfaced as he peered up at the Broken Wing's foremast (quite well known for being one of the fastest, if not fastest ship on the twelve seas) and then down to the Crass Lass, the local watering hole specifically geared for sailors 'just passing by'. This was the closest thing to home, to family, he would relate to. It felt like a long goodbye. It felt like he was losing a lover.
No words were exchanged to Davan or Buv, just a stern stare of disapproval and a soft shake of his head. Cutting corners, hiring cheap labor – this was the end result. A masochistic deviant and a man who could now sing falsetto. The cane eventually stopped its rhythmic tapping, a quiet hush falling over the dockside before the workers resumed moving about once more.
“Queens guards aren't here so I suppose you're not taking sides with her.” Okanve spoke to Adara quickly, but firmly. “My men here weren't heroes but they knew the right end of a sword and yet you seemed to have hardly lifted a finger to dispatch them.” He squinted, taking in her form and canting his head ever slightly to the right. Something about her was off. He wasn't completely certain, but he had traveled the world and heard many unique tales – there was something strange about her that he couldn't quite put his finger on.
“So now I might ask you who....or what...are you?”
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