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the-cursed-recruit-story · 2 years ago

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The cursed recruit

By Symon Pude

Chapter 1 - The last day

The door creaked open, morning rays invading our main room. Before my mother and I could shield our eyes, the silhouette of a man blocked the sun from the door. Cold air pushed inside, fighting the stuffy warmth from the rekindled hearth.

“Close the door,” I said. “You’re letting out the heat.”

The stranger squeezed himself through the entrance, rising to his full height, but the ceiling prevented it. He spread his broad shoulders, rounded by muscles that could crush bones. Few other villagers were taller than me, but this man still dwarfed them all.

I swallowed hard. “Berserker.”

As frightening as his physique were his clothes that slowly revealed themselves as he walked out of line of the light behind him. His long-sleeved gambeson was deep blue, with dark brown plates inset into his chest, shoulders and underarms. The octagonal crest sewn on his chest left no doubt. It was the uniform of a high ranking member of the royal army.

I jumped up, grabbed the broom leaning on the wall and put myself between him and Mother. There were few reasons for a man of his rank to get into our house and none of them were good.

The officer looked down at me with his turquoise eyes. A freshly groomed ash-blond beard and hair of the same colour adorned his head, complementing his tanned skin. An old wound on the left side opened up his tightened lips, revealing white teeth.

"Lay down the broom." His deep voice sounded like the lowing of a stubborn cow. "It won't do you any good in a fight."

The makeshift weapon trembled in my hands. He was right. The only thing I could hope for was that I was able to stall him, hoping that Mother could get far away in the meantime.

The berserker spoke again. "I'm not here to harm you or your family in any way, if you think that for any reason."

"Then why are you here?" I spat. "We're not due any tax."

"A horde of orcs is en route to Forlam. Every able man has to join the army."

I gripped the handle harder. "Not interested. Go away."

"It's the order of the king."

"I don't care, go away."

The man took a step closer, and before I could react, he grabbed the handle of the broom and ripped it out of my hand. I got pulled forward, but the berserker pushed me back against the edge of the table. My fingers traced over the wood, searching for anything that could defend me.

I reached the wooden spoon from breakfast and brought it forward. The berserker looked at the cutlery and grunted. Then he looked up into my face, and his expression changed to one of surprise.

A thin hand laid down on my shoulder.

"Stop," Mother said, then turned to the berserker. "He will join, please forgive his brashness."

"He'd be better off if he keeps it in check." The army official threw away the broom that he still held. "Is there any other man in this household?"

"My father, but his leg is stiff, he can't even walk properly."

The man narrowed his eyes. "Did he get hurt in the Broken War sixteen years ago?"

"Yes. Like most our problems, that was your fault too."

His eyebrows shot up. “Other siblings?”

"None alive."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't need your false sympathy," I said. "I need you to get out."

The intruder sighed. "Tomorrow at dawn, in front of the chapel.”

He pushed his shoulders through the entry. His massive outline slowly moved out of view through the open. A small cut of wind carried in the cold air from outside.

I shivered. “I said close the door, are you stupid or something?”

“Sh, he might still hear you,” Mother shushed me. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? You know it doesn’t end well when you shout at the back of a blue gambeson.”

I sat back down on the bench, which gave a sound like it wanted to break. "Then what else should I do?” I leaned my head back against the wood of the wall. "I can’t go, you need me here. Spring is just around the corner, and somebody has to tend the fields. Father can’t help much."

My mother grabbed my hand and squeezed it. Her skin was as callous as mine, made even rougher by a long winter. "It’ll be fine. I've run this farm alone once before; I can do it again. Plus, I had to take care of two little children then."

I placed my other hand atop of hers. "But you’re older now, and back then, grandmother was alive. "

She let go of my hand and rubbed away the lonely tear, past the quite new scar by her left eye. “At least there’ll be no one to mourn over this time.”

“But no one to help you either.”

“It's no use."

She grabbed both wooden bowls before us, carrying them away.

"Off to a battle, huh?" I said almost to myself. "Maybe the curse will finally catch up with me."

The bowls slipped from Mama's hands and onto the counter. "Don't say that."

I looked down. That had been out of tone.

The typical grunt of my father standing up sounded from the adjacent bedroom. Mother took that as a sign and started sawing some bread. I couldn’t take the scraping sound, taunting me that we couldn’t use the rest of our broadcorn stock, which would be better for baking.

“Have you seen the size of that guy?” I said to cover the noise. “He looks like a boulder that grew legs.”

A raspy voice called from the bedroom, “He's normal height for a berserker.”

Father stumbled into view in the doorframe. His felted, brown hair mirrored mine, except for its extensive gray strains. His angled nose and pointed chin, his unblinking, brown eyes made him look like a hawk. His expression had a seriousness about them, a feeling that he would reach anything he would set his mind to. My face twitched upwards; it was the same look of determination I thought I remembered before he went to military service. A look he had lost for years to bottles of alcohol.

He made his way over to the table, dragging behind his right leg.

With a deep sigh, he sat down on his designated chair, clutching his stiff leg. “You were lucky that he isn't of noble blood. You wouldn’t have survived talking like this to a mage.”

“How would you know all that about that guy?” I asked. “You haven’t even seen him.”

He averted his gaze, changing the subject. “You might have to pick up the spirit cleansed seeds today.”

“It’s rather soon for that, the equal day hasn’t even passed,” my mother said, putting the slices of bread in front of my father.

"He’s right,” I said. “Or would you want to take the trip on your own?”

“No.” Mother admitted.

“I will go in the afternoon." I stood up. Until then, I’m in the backfield, ploughing.”

My father spoke with his mouth full of dry bread. “I’ll join you when I’m finished.”

My mom said, “Just wear something warm, I don’t want you freezing your ass off.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I walked to the door, the freeze from outside pouring in. I reached out for the thick wool tunic, which reached to about the centre of my thighs, but changed my mind and grabbed my surcoat instead. The expertly sewn cow hide protected from wind, rain and snow. After years of use, the hairs were already peeled off in most places, revealing a lighter colour. With leather pants, tunic and surcoat, one could even go out for hours in the winter. As the only layer above the shirt, the coat might just be right for today. I secured the coat with a belt and fixed a waterskin and a belt pouch to it.

The door creaked again as I closed it behind me. I turned my head upwards and closed my eyes. The rays of the sun tingled on my face; the slight breeze was barely noticeable. Still, the chill of the morning seeped through my clothes.

I sighed and made my way towards the stable, stopping at the overflowing rain barrel to fill up the water skin. I took a swig of the water, but broke the contact immediately. The freeze hammered into my forehead, making me squeal in pain. I gripped the side of the barrel, my knuckles white. When the feeling wore off, I took another gulp. The second time, the feeling was manageable.

Heaving a sigh, I walked to our pasture. The cows, sheeps, blood hens, the rooster and the old donkey Ratter all lifted their heads when they saw me. One animal was missing. I found the almost black hen back in its usual place behind the stable door. She trembled a little when I picked her up. The veins under the translucent skin on her face showed a panicked pulse. I threw her to the other animals . The red hens charged her and the bird scuttered away back to the stable door. I sighed again and whistled for Ratter. The old donkey perked up and hoofed over without any hurry. I stroked him between his eyes, as his warm breath blew from his mouth.

"Now, Ratter. Do you wanna get ploughing?"

A bobbing of his head and a positive Eee-Ah might seem like he was happy to, but he acted the same to everything else.

"At least one of us."

I led him into the stable and hitched the old, trustworthy plough behind him. The field I thought of working on today was not big, but at an uncomfortable incline that had flipped the plough more than once.

I stopped Ratter as we ploughed closest to the border of a forest of conifers and deciduous trees.

A patch of snowdrop flowers broke the monotone ground. I picked one of the flowers and put it in my pocket.

When I turned around, I stopped for a minute. From here one had a great view of rolling hills patched with fields, meadows and forests. The plants still wore their drab, brownish winter colours. In the shadow of some trees, old snow remained. A gust of wind shot into my clothes and made me shiver.

“I should’ve listened to my mother.”

I looked further. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the few lonely farmers’ houses that were Hazelbrook. The white walls of the chapel stuck out like a weed on a freshly ploughed field. Ratter puffed, sending his warm, moist breath on my skin. I rubbed him between the eyes.

“I’m leaving, you know?”

The old donkey just puffed again.

A frown appeared on my face. “I don’t know if you’ll still be around when I come back.”

"Eee-ah."

"Me too, buddy, me too."

My father stumbled out, and I stood back up to continue ploughing before he could join me.

The next time I looked up to the sky, the sun had passed noon. I nodded to my father and led Ratter back to the stable. A few minutes later, the donkey pulled our one-axled cart. I sat down on it beside a shovel, and Ratter hoofed forward slowly. We stopped at the house, where I switched my surcoat for the tunic. I went back out, past the cart, to the eight poles driven into the earth beside the path. A year of weather had done a number on them, and I added it to my list to replace them; they won't be forgotten. I fished out the snowdrop, only two pedals on, and placed it next to the fourth pole. “Sorry, it looks a little tattered.”

Hannah loved flowers. It has been sixteen years since her death, almost twice as long as she had lived. Still, the memory of her face stayed in my mind, hopefully forever.

I finally turned away and jumped back onto the cart. Ratter continued on the old path, past the overgrown remains of a small house and towards Hazelbrook. Though the old donkey's steps were slow, the cart jumped up and down, threatening to break at any moment. I had to hold the shovel beside me, so it wouldn't jump all over the place.

A sudden jolt threw me against the railing, hitting the wood with my elbow. I let out a short cry of pain. The right side of the cart had sacked down, and although Ratter tried to continue, the cart wouldn't move.

I ignored the pain and jumped off to look at the issue. The right wheel got stuck in a muddy hole between two stones.

“For fuck’s sake.” I kicked the cart. “Stupid wheel.”

The same thing every year after winter; the path had never survived the snow. I looked out further. This time it was especially bad, with more holes than path. I had been tempted to just let it grow over and have the tax collectors deal with it, but we needed the path more often than them.

"Stupid tax collectors," I said, then grabbed the spokes of the wheel and pulled upwards. The muscles in my arms groaned as the wheel lifted out of the hole. My fingers slipped; the wheel fell back down. Without the weight, I lost my balance, and I fell back on the wet grass beside the path.

“Stupid cart.”

I worked myself to my feet, brushing off the plant bits from my behind.

A triumphant horn echoed through the early spring landscape. I turned to the sound. The army had arrived in Hazelbrook.

"Mighty soon here, aren't they?"

I leaned against the stuck cart and watched the procession coming from the east. The lead were horse riders in royal army blue, followed by a number of carriages in a single file line. Then came foot soldiers clad in blue; enlisted, men who spend a year or more in the employ of the army.

"Idiots," I said and helped myself to a handful of nuts from my belt pouch.

As the army went along, fewer people wore a coloured uniform, instead opting for utilitaristic brown clothes. These recruits made up the bulk of the procession. Recruits taken from their home. From tomorrow, I'd be one of them. A few people carried their belongings on the back, some rolled a barrel in front of them, and again others brought a mule or a donkey.

I looked at Ratter. Our old donkey wouldn't survive such a long journey, so I would be carrying my stuff on my own.

While the army continued on their way, I focused on getting the cart out of the mud again. I fetched the shovel from the cart. Using it as a lever, I freed the wagon from the hole, which I filled with a stones by the side of the path. I had to stop a few times for repairs on the path so we wouldn't get stuck again on the last stretch to Hazelbrook. As the path got better - a road now - and I passed by the first houses, the chatter got louder. The villagers had come out of their houses to greet the new arrivals. I sighed; the worst time to come here. And I had to travel on the main road to the seed stock as well.

The familiar faces of the locals seemed more bony than when I last saw them. Beside the villagers, small pockets of unknown men milled around, having stopped before reaching the camp at the other side of town. Some wore the army's uniform, most others tunics and leather pants just like mine. I scoffed. Not exactly like mine. Mine was covered with careful stitches that showed their age.

Like many Hazelbrookers, most of the men had either a darker complexion or a greyish tint to them. With one notable exception; A strange, pale man leaned against the side of the only tavern in our village. His pristine, leather cloak was too thick for the temperature and he seemed as still as a statue, not a muscle moving in his body. He stared at me, and I stared back.

A jolt went through the cart, breaking our eye contact. Ratter had stopped before hitting a tiny girl who had wandered onto the street. I jumped off the carriage and faced her. She looked up at me with unblinking eyes. She was the daughter of a farmer, the father only a year older than me, and now she was already five winters old. For a second, both of us were still.

I stretched out my tongue and crossed my eyes for a silly face. The small girl let out a refreshing laugh. I smiled, but as soon as I uncrossed my eyes, my cheeks fell down again.

The girl's mother dragged her off the dirt street, throwing me a disapproving look. I evaded her stare, choosing to focus on the road instead. A barrel of a recruit had broken into pieces a bit further along, and a group of men scrambled to pick up all belongings.

"Stupid soldiers," I swore under my breath. For now, I'd be stuck here.

In an instant, disapproving looks from the locals focussed on me. I The mother of the girl in the street knelt down and berated her. "I don't want you to talk to that person."

"But why?"

"You would die," the mother said.

The little girl started crying and hugged her mother, who carried her away. They disappeared in the crowd, and the other villagers stepped forward to protect as if I would come at the little girl with a knife.

I climbed back onto the cart, trying to ignore the looks. A few recruits had noticed the commotion, and I didn't know how they would act.

"Greet the Maker," a voice started with the formal greeting. "I believe we have not yet met."

I turned to see a young man standing by my cart. His bluish skin and the blue down feathers above his ears showed him to be of gargoyle blood. He wore a black robe with the crest of the church sown in at the centre of his chest; a red octagon around a red hand on a white background. He put a hand on the crest, which revealed a belly under his robe.

"I am the new ceremon in Hazelbrook," he said. "And you are?"

I took another handful of nuts from my pouch and started eating, one by one. All the while, I did not look once at the man of religion.

"We will celebrate a small ceremony in the evening to ask for the maker's protection for the recruits," the ceremon continued. "I know your family has not heeded the weekly call, but it would be great if I saw you there."

"Ceremon Altone, nobody of us wants him anywhere near the chapel," a woman's voice said.

The ceremon turned to the grey-haired woman, the waitress of the tavern.

"Now now, Silvia," he said. "Samoht taught us that nobody is too wayward to get back on the right path."

"He's got the curse of death upon his head. Don't get too close or you'll be caught in it."

"A curse?" The ceremon walked away from my cart. "Preposterous, there is no such…"

"It's true," an old woman at a table said. "Every last one around them dies before their time. Seven children they had, five dead in birth, one has not seen ten winters, he's left. Their neighbour burned alive,..."

"And even their dog doesn't bark anymore," her husband added, mulling over his ale. "I tell you, they were all sacrifices for the grey demons to let their crops grow tall."

My hand formed into a fist. I had to put Bello out of his misery last fall after a wild animal attack. His whine still rang in my mind from time to time. And they say I wanted to do this?

"If what you are saying is true," the ceremon said with doubt in his voice. "Then why is he still alive?"

"He should have died a few years ago," the waitress said. "Hanged for the murder of Britta, the eldest daughter of the Hahn family. He pushed her off that tower to her death. It doesn't matter what the army inspector said, we all know it was him."

I pursed my lips and checked the street. Finally, they have cleared the path, and I tapped Ratter's behind to get us away.

As the cart got moving, they still discussed further. "I still suspect that the farm hand they had was actually that priestess-rapist from Sunhill."

I scoffed. That one was the only one that had a bit of merit. Yrgal was not a rapist, though. If a priestess and a monk were caught together in bed, they would both be punished, except one takes all the blame on him. His love repaid him by slipping him a key to escape. And it wasn't a priestess, it was a priest.

I still vividly remembered how we plastered hair on Yrgal’s bald head to trick those that searched for him. In return for our help, he taught me things that no other farmer knew.

As I pondered in the memory of my friend and teacher, Ratter pulled me past all other bystanders to a wooden hut not far from the soldiers' camp, where some soldiers were building up their two-men tents.

The old donkey stopped right before the seed stock. I jumped off, turned the animal with the cart around and walked to the hut. An ancient man slept on the ground, wrapped in blankets. Joseph had already been old when I had been just a young boy. Although senile, he oversaw giving away the seeds. He was the only one in the village who could - officially - read highfont, save for maybe the new ceremon.

"Wake up, Sepp!" I called to the old man.

No reaction. He lay there, not moving at all, making me think he finally kicked the bucket. But, as I came closer, his chest was still heaving up and down.

"Wake up!" I nudged him with my boot.

He jerked awake. "What? Who?"

"I'd like to take my share of seeds."

"Isn't it a little too early?"

"It's afternoon," I extended my hand, so he could stand up.

He sighed in exhaustion, pushed his blankets off and heaved himself on his feet. He stood wary, threatening to fall over any second. "No, I mean early in the year."

"I know. But I have to join the army tomorrow."

"The army is already here?"

"They just arrived and were not silent in doing so. How did you miss this?"

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the tents. "Aha, what do you know? So, what are you doing here?"

"Getting my share of seeds."

"Isn't it a little early for that?"

"Yes." I gave a smile.

He staggered for a moment before he continued. "Okay, then let's take a look at the list."

I picked up the big, leather-bound book he had used as a pillow, before the old man even tried to.

He took it from my hand. "Thank you."

He set the book to the small table that stood by the stock. He opened the index and turned filled page by page until he got to a page which was almost empty. I skimmed through the column of the table and found the symbol for my name within a few seconds. Joseph took longer; almost pressing his eyes to the page, he searched for the information. I took the time to look around in the stock for the things I could take with me.

Joseph tapped on the paper. "Ah, there we go. So, you can take...two bags of longseeds."

I checked the list again. "That's a three."

"Where's a tree?"

"No, I mean the number is a three."

He squinted at the writing. "Oh, right, my mistake. Thanks for pointing it out. You should be standing here, not me."

I took a look around. Luckily nobody was in earshot. If anyone found out I could read, they might find out about Yrgal, and punish the people who harboured the apostate monk.

The old man didn’t seem to care, or he had forgotten already. He went into the low room and pointed at three yute sacks with the church's crest printed on. “Take these."

I bent my knees and wrapped each arm around the bags. Taking in a short breath, I heaved them on my shoulders.

I carried them out of the stock house, while Joseph babbled on, “I heard that it’s a horde of orcs again that we’re fighting. Can you imagine they’re so stupid as to attack the capital?”

I grunted as I put the sacks on my cart. “No, I can’t.”

The old man’s rambling followed me a second time to the storage room. “Stupid green beasts. Do they really think they have a chance after we defeated them only a few years back?”

My reply was another gasp as I yanked a sack of longcorn and one of broadcorn on my shoulders. With the direct comparison, it was clear that the latter was lighter.

Joseph stopped me. "Hey, that's not longcorn, put it back."

"But I know that I definitely also get a bag of broadcorn. This makes it faster."

"Put it back!"

I sighed and did as he said.

After I loaded the third bag of longcorn on the carriage, Joseph read the next column. "Broadcorn, two bags."

I stared at him for a moment, before I made a heavy sigh and loaded two bags onto the carriage.

Josef continued reading. "And one bag of peas."

"Only one? In the last few years, we always got two in the beginning."

"Are you questioning the decision of the church?"

Yes.

I smacked my lips. "No."

Silently, I took the designated bag. On my last trip into the stock house, I could take smaller amounts of other seeds. With them in one hand, I said, "Bye, Joseph."

"What?"

I just waved him goodbye. He did the same and lay down on the floor again.

As I turned to the cart, the pale man from before now leaned against the wheel of the cart, eerily still. Even as I closed in, he didn’t show any intentions of moving. I examined the man further.

His thick leather cloak hid his body form, though the slight bulge around his waist hinted at a sword. A deep blue gambeson and wool lining peeked out at his sleeve. His hair was black, with only a few signs of grey in it, his slender face clean shaven. Slight wrinkles gave him a look of experience, while still retaining some youthfulness. I guessed he was around his late forties though it was hard to tell. His orange eyes seemed to glow on their own. I made a second take. The shine might have been a trick of the light, but what was even more strange were his vertically slit pupils. Now that I looked for it, I found other abnormalities. At his collar and at his wrists, his skin turned reddish. He had to be a member of a magical race, one that I had forgotten the name of.

“Can you move?” I said while putting the last seeds on the cart. “That’s my wagon you’re leaning on.”

The man unfroze, reaching into the pocket of his coat. With one quick movement, he produced a decimetre long, thin, porcelain tube with a small circular compartment at the end. The strange pipe had a gleaming white coating, with a sky-blue floral pattern. With his right hand, he took out a small pouch, and filled some dried leaves into the compartment. He pushed them down with the index finger of his left hand and put the pipe in his mouth.

I pointed in the direction of the army camp. “You could easily struggle to light the tabak just a few metres that way and not bother me.”

As soon as I said it, thin smoke streamed out from the pipe, while his finger was still in. His eyebrow went up just a little bit.

I narrowed my eyes at the smoke. “How…”

“Apple?” The man mumbled with the pipe still on his lips. His raspy voice had an authoritative undertone.

My head fell down and I noticed that he now held out a yellow apple with his right hand. I struggled for words at the sudden offer, and my stomach growled due to the lack of lunch.

“No,” I said finally. “My mother told me to not take food from strangers.”

“Good point.” With one quick motion he pocketed the fruit.

“What do you want?”

The man breathed away a stream of smoke. "The other villagers say you're cursed because your family members died."

Hate welled up in my chest. "Why would you care?”

He took another whiff from his pipe. "I wonder if they are right."

"Maybe they are,” I said. “So you better get away from me before you die as well.”

He ignored me. "It's most likely 'hogwash', as a farmer like you would call it. It's not too uncommon that a woman struggles to birth alive children, especially if that woman does not have a drop of magical blood. Is your mother human, through and through?"

"Is your mother a donkey considering how stubborn you are? Fuck off already."

"Hmm," He blew smoke over, and did not move an inch. "Do you have any special talents? Strength, good eyesight, a talent for swimming?"

“I was never in water deep enough.”

The hint of a smile appeared on the strange man's face. "Good."

“I’m getting tired of this.” I turned away and started walking homeward.

"What about your cart?"

I whistled, and Ratter started walking.

The man lost his balance from the sudden movement of his support. His pipe fell from his lips and raced to the ground. He jumped forward, catching the object, but hit the street hard.

"You damn..." he swore.

I skipped further, Ratter barely catching up to me. I let out a small laugh, which caused many of the bystanders to look at me in fearful concern.

When I was back on the path home, I stopped Ratter. It was a little early to plant seeds, and Mother and Father would profit more from a well maintained path. I took the shovel and got to work.

When I was back at home, the sun was close to the horizon. Back at Hazelbrook, the army men were in their camp, while the locals grouped up to go into the chapel.

I stored away the seeds in our storage. Despite what the church wanted, we won't use their blessed seeds for our field; seeds from last year's harvest sprouted more plentifully in our soil.

Then I tended to the animals in the last light and said my goodbyes. Some of them would die before I’d come back in one- or two-years’ time.

When I went back inside, a savory smell hit my nostrils, coming from the cast iron pot in the middle of the table. Father sat by the table, with short hair and close to no beard now. Mother stood beside one of the chairs, with shears in her hand.

“Smells good like always" I said.

“Rabbit stew, a hare went into the trap,” Mother said, pushing me down on a chair close to the entrance. “But first we need to take care of your unruly mane.”

“For what reason? Nobody cares how I look. Not even me.”

Mother ignored me, and started to cut along my scalp. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll find a nice girl to bring home on your journey.”

“I already found a nice girl years ago.”

My mother didn’t comment. She continued cutting my hair and then moved on to my beard.

When she finished, she took a step back and looked at me. "See, if you're groomed properly, you are quite a handsome young man."

I scoffed. There were many things that one could use to describe me; handsome was not one of them. With the same pointy chin and hawk-like nose, I looked like a copy of my father, save his wrinkles and warts that undoubtedly would come with time.

"Thanks, mum."

I stood up and joined my father at the table. Mother scooped some of the steaming stew into my bowl.

I took a spoonful and moaned at the taste. It could have used more salt, but that’s a luxury we didn’t have. I finished my first bowl with a side of the hard bread and took seconds, the pot still not empty.

“This could’ve fed us for days,” I said while putting another spoonful in my mouth.

“Yes, but I just…” my mother’s voice broke as she struggled for words. “I thought you’d like it as a last meal at home.”

I looked into her brown eyes. “I guess it’s only a little battle on the other side of the map. I should be back within a year.”

The sombre silence settled between us again.

After the meal, my mother went to sleep, and I washed the pot and the bowls with the rainwater outside. When I went back in, my father still sat at the table.

“Sit down, son.”

“I still need to pack my stuff.”

"I already prepared that for you."

He pointed at the corner, where clothes, provisions and other things I might need on the journey lay beside the rucksack we normally use to carry tools.

“Please, sit down.”

I sighed and slid back on the bench.

He started, "The battlefield is a place you will wish you’d never come to."

My hand formed into a fist. I knew this spiel. "Are you drunk again? Are you also going to claim again that you punted the allmage?"

A line formed between his brows and his jaw clenched. "No." He stared deep into my eyes. "I know I normally only talked about the war when I've had a few, but now, I'm sober and you need to listen to me so you're aware what will come for you. The battle is chaos, pain, and loss. I've seen some of my bravest friends freeze at the sheer sight of it. And that cost them their lives."

He reached for my hand. "You will have to make difficult decisions within a heartbeat. Spare a man, and he will drag you to the floor. Kill him, and you'd live your whole life with the tears of his family. Give your life for the lives of others,..." He sighed. "Maker knows that I and my company didn't always choose right."

His eyes reflected the horrors he had seen. "In the end, you can only come home and hope everything will be alright."

I remained silent. He didn't even get this luxury.

He reached under the table and took out a bottle of schnapps and put it on the table between us. I stared at him, anger welling up inside me.

"Don't worry," he said. "This is my promise to you. It doesn't matter how hard it's going to get; this bottle will stay closed. And when you come back, we can decide what to do with it."

I looked in his eyes and gave him a small nod.

My old man pushed himself up, grunting when putting weight on his hurt leg. "Don't be too long. You have long days ahead of you."

With these words he stumbled to the sleeping room, leaving me alone at the table.

Before long, I stood up, took the candle holder and made my way over to the things my father had prepared for me:

My spare clothes, a water skin, provisions like bread, sausage, eggs and carrots for a few days, patches and threads and a needle for repairs, shears to cut my beard,...

The only things missing were my knife, and the tunic that I still wore. I put all of them into the rucksack, then tested its weight. Manageable.

My eyes fell on the patch in the pattern of a flower on the rucksack. I traced my fingers around it. The leather of the patch was a bit softer, I hoped it and the seam would survive the journey. I breathed out of my nose and took my hand off again.

It was time to go to sleep. The tall candle had shrunk significantly, only a few minutes of dim light left. Just enough time to check something.

Instead of going to rest, I fetched a chair to reach the books stored away on the top of the cupboard. ‘Books’ was a generous term; they were collections of self-made parchment pages bound in shoddy leather. I took the one on the very bottom of the stack and carried it over to the table. Carefully, I opened the cover. The first page stuck to it, and when I freed it, the edge of the brittle parchment broke off.

In the candlelight, a rudimentary map of the kingdom appeared, as well as Yrgal could draw it from memory on the uneven parchment. Hazelbrook lay far to the east, Sunhill just a bit further west. That was the farthest I’d been in my life. I traced my fingers further along the indicated street. Not far after, there was a city called ‘Arkyras’, the seat of our baron. Then, the path continued along the coast of the Granaq river, which turned southward as if to escape the massive forest that made up the centre of the map. Eventually, the Granaq reached the city of Torza, where it turned westward again, past the city of Eugenia, to Westpass. From there, the road turned north, along another river to Forlam, the capital of the Kingdom. Simply going there would take months, and going back would take just as long.

I sighed and flipped to the next page. With effort, I deciphered the heading in the highfont symbol.

Naiad

Thankfully, the more common name of the race was written beside it in simple script.

Gargoyle

I turned the page. I knew enough of the blue skinned people with down feathers above their ears.

I turned the next few pages as well. Zivot, dwarf, berserker, elf, orc,... I knew the strange man I’d met today was none of those.

The next page spoke about ‘Albos’.

‘White hair, red eyes,...”

As soon as I started to read the first line, I knew that was not it either.

That left the last page. The highfont on this page was even less readable. I remembered, this was around the time when Yrgal taught me to write.

Squinting as hard as I could at the page in the low light, I deciphered the symbol on top.

“Souvra,” I said.

At that moment, the candle finally died down, leaving me in the dark.

“Damn it.”

If there was still time tomorrow, I’d need to read further in the morning. I yawned at the unusual time. I placed myself on the coarse straw and pulled the wool blanket over me.

#chapter #story #new story #novel #writing community #writer #book #bookblr #writeblr #fantasy #high fantasy #tw swearing #copying it here got rid off all italics #I hope I redid them all #fantasy novel

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the-deeds-to-shibden · 4 years ago

Text

Sunday 15 September 1839

[Sadly, the bugs did bite Ann the previous night. But she is rewarded by the finest view she has ever seen, the bay of Vyborg, and sketches its fortress. Meanwhile, Anne is appreciative of the local costumes and food, and as usual entranced by the botany and geology. She even tastes the local seawater! Anne’s trusty parasol comes handy in scientific enquiry, not for the first or the last time. Her own sketch, of a bridge, is, uh, not very accomplished, but the engineering detail is recognisable. As ever on this overland trip to St. Petersburg, which is nearing its end, Anne writes and writes and writes, and this day’s entry is *very* full of researchable detail, including a stately home they pass by, which is perfectly identifiable from her notes, and which has a slightly tenuous lesbian connection...]

[up at] 4 3/4

[to bed at] 10 1/4

Damp morning Fahrenheit 60 1/2º at 5 a.m. I am all ready now at 5 35/” no coach house therefore paid for man watching the carriage last night -/50 and paid Gross this morning for paid yesterday for ditto ditto – -/50 – with all the exertion I have made it is 6 3/” when we get off – 3 minutes later than the time – damp hazy morning – forest immediately on leaving the station neither of us slept well last night – Ann much bit – we had nothing but plates and cups and saucers and knives and forks and table linen and our one double bedded room and servants room and paid 4/20 – Scotch fir this morning barked all round for a yard or 2 from the ground at 6 20/” little distant left fjord or lake – road red coarse as yesterday sandy but good tho’ much rain in the night – forest and little breaks all the way to Säcjarvi at 7 1/2 a lone house in the forest – small but goodish – as the gentleman said yesterday at Högfors one might sleep at

Nisalak 15 1/6 v[ersts] Helsingfors 237 v[ersts]

Urpala 16 4/6 v[ersts] Wiborg 44 1/2 v[ersts]

St. Petersburg 181 v[ersts]

Säcjarvi but Urpala seems a good deal the better of the two – same sort of forest and road as yesterday but less population and boulders not so strikingly large – the soil here a fine red gravel as yesterday and many examples of gravel-conglomerate boulders – more cattle this morning than ever before since Åbo – no sheep today as yet – so few in those northern countries can only be just enough to supply the inhabitants with wool and a little cheese and mutton – they salt the legs (the hams) for winter – the Russian male costume this morning very pretty and picturesque a white frock coat and red belt – or blue or dark and often bound with the same – the women wear a strong linen? dark with narrow red stripes for petticoats and a boddice a jacket . . . and a white handkerchief on the head – they all weave the red striped stuff – and I have seen many men wear it for jackets and trowsers

8 25/” several baggage little waggons and 1 horse and some soldiers on foot now at 8 25/” just crossed little bridge over little stream and crossed a broader stream some time ago the only two streams this stage so far – the forest too less swampy than the forests yesterday at 8 3/4 considerable break in the forest – unpainted hamlet (we pass thro’) – one of the largest flocks of sheep we have seen (recently shorn) – log houses the trees not flattened big boulders all among the cottages – peasants wear black leather gloves like our hedging mittens – hardly out of the hamlet before the young forest begins again (Scotch fir and birch, alder bushes everywhere in the swampy places) – but more break, and fields another hamlet (scattered) at 8 55/” and at 9 over neat little ochre-yellow and white-seamed station house at Nisalaks the older portion of the house under the same room unpainted flattened log-house – breakfast boiled milk and Wiborg (criks?)

Wiburg 29 2/6 Helsingfors 252 1/2

Säcjarvi 15 1/6 St. Petersburg 165 5/6

Kiskila 14 1/6

bread tied up in a sort of rose – and made tea, and took my pint bottle full away with us – all ready at 10 – off at 10 20/” from Nisalax we should have lived better here than we did at Urpala, I suspect – nice little station – a little meat on the fire boiling when we came in, and our milk ready in 10 minutes or 1/6 hour – In 5 minutes pass thro’ the little hamlet – and then rocky forest and big boulders again road coarse red sandy as before but good – forest, till 11 1/4 good river – 2 or 3 good wood yellow painted houses scattered about and little unpainted scattered hamlet – nice bit of open cultivated country – then road red sand (but good) and the soil red sand – still damp and rather hazy – (Reading Handbook article Moscow) – soon forest again – at 11 3/4 look down upon beyond us (left) the handsomest gentleman’s house we have seen in Finland, surrounded with park-like grounds – little hamlet scattered hereabouts – house and 2 wings – white with pea green roof – at 11 51/” our neat good yellow and white pilastered station at Kaskilä and broad sheet of water at a little distance – front – another pavillion-like gentleman’s house almost in front (to the right) from our station yellow with pea green roof and white corners and a white hexastyle portico (with pediment – the gable end) fancifully painted coach houses and stabling and unpainted barns and cottages scattered about the fine sheet of water coming close to the house – very pretty

Wiborg 15 1/6 Niserlax 14 1/6

St. Petersburg 153 2/3 Helsingfors 266 ½

hue – our stage last night to Urpala very picturesque – and ditto this morning – big boulders again conglomerate red granite as yesterday picturesque foresty stage to here – corn (rye) out in cocks here – soon Scotch fir forest again – the cranberry and moss and heather dispute as usual possession of the rock and boulder – 12 7/” a little farm and 2 little stacks of corn thatched with straw and then spruce branches laid on the tops – here and everywhere about they lay Spruce fir branches at the doors to keep one clean instead of mats when it is dirty as it always must be in wet weather was this custom of strewing branches in this way (as palm branches as our Saviour rode along etc.) originally to keep one out of the dirt? now at 12 50/” sandy and heavy road up hill in the forest – at 1 from the top of hill Wiborg in sight, and its fine islandy fjord, immense expanse of water and 10 arch wood bridge over arm of the fjord on left to which we wind down and cross (deals and big boulders) now a 1 7/” – beautiful wooded islandy expanse of water on each side – very fine drive from here – at 1 10/” cross another 10 arch wooden bridge – the large square tower and 3 small pointed towers of Wiborg full in view left from the bridge – fine wooded drive from here – the water right – damp very small drizzling rain – bouldery common just before entering Wiborg – at 1 20/” the 1st barrier and archway – then a 2nd archway and water and wood bridge 13 arches to cross a steamer lying at the quai – very fine view of fjord and tower, the old, brick castle close (right) on a little island – this was the large square tower I saw at the top of hill at 1 – enter the town at 1 25/” – at the Society’s house good Inn at 1 1/2 – sent Gross with my passport to the police – asleep – could not be seen till 3 – had my hair done and Ann and I out at 2 40/” took Gross to shew us the police – close to the gate by which we entered the town – recrossed the bridge on 20 wood pillars piers each formed of 5 – then up the fort-hill – near the bridge right on entering the town – beautiful view of the fjord and suburb to the westward – returned by the water side – observed the big pieces of red felspar in the porphyritic (conglomerate?) of the rocks – then on passing the bridge again and reentering the town turned left along the rampart – Ann stood sketching the old brick castle on a little island fjord or round moat all round – Ann sketched the old castle – its tower octagon that looked square in the distance – the 3 upper stories of the tower seem roofless – the fjord on this side (towards the sea) very beautiful islandy and wooded as far as one can see – the water on the opposite side the tower very picturesque but more like a pretty islandy lake – Deal sheds – a large raff yard near left (looking northwards) and little unpainted hamlet scattered a long way along the water’s edge – hamlets, too, right, and nearer, sweeping round to the town, a large handsome suburb with good church yellow with red roof and tower cupola pea green – Viborg a large town taking in its suburbs – a large handsome church in the large square opposite our Inn – 2/3 the men one sees are soldiers in their long, plaited-in-behind fawn-grey great coats – they look like monks or women? then along the rampart to a little postern gate – went out came in at 5 1/4 dinner at 6 to 6 3/4 out at 7 for a minute or 2 to see the church en face by it about 1/2 way or more towards the good suburb – then turned (right) towards the sea, along the outside rampart breast-work, of the fortress – went to the water’s edge – tasted the water – merely a little brackish – not at all salt – beautiful view from a round knoll of bare granite rock of each pier formed of five uprights with a spur from each side of the foot of each upright

on the top of the rock (right, on entering the town – and close to the bridge – some sort of fortification there) on the top of the rock large where bare, observed the same ochre-yellow moss I saw on the large old oaks in the park at Stockholm – and in returning by the water side a little of the blood-red moss I first observed north of Upsala – scraped a little off with the point of my parasol stick – it was pulpy and vegetable-like – tho’ the water trickling down it, made it look shining and so like recent blood, I almost thought at 1st (there being but a little patch of it) that it might be blood – the wide-expanded, lovely, wooded amphitheatric islandy fjord – the light at 4 3/4, beautiful – the dark distant boundary of pine forest backing the smooth light water very fine – Ann thought she had never admired a scene more – 2 brigs on the stocks here (little trading vessels) returned by the gate nearest the sea, the road winding within the outworks – then sauntered along the rampart within the walls – very fine view, nearly the same as before, of the fjord, but saw rather more of it – good town – a regular fortress – reminded me in this respect of Rocroi where we slept last year – came in at 5 1/4 – wrote a little dinner at 6 – very good fried Sprax a fish tasting a little like carp? excellent veal cutlet with currants on the top and lemon and I ate it with excellent preserved raspberry, and we very good preserved green gooseberries looking like olives and preserved candied lemon, and sago pudding, and good coffee afterwards – after dinner the opposite church door open, went in for a minute or 2 – a sort of priest or man about the church came to see what we should do – 2 candles burning at 2 silvery shrines – but nobody in the church – too dark to see much – back at 7 1/4 and had Grotza, but so long about getting and paying for Podoroshna and changing money and paying the bills that it was after 9 before all this was done – the small damp rain and haze cleared off between 2 and 3 p.m. and afterwards fine afternoon and evening Fahrenheit 58º now at 9 10/” p.m. our bill 16/20 – could get no copper money – pretended they had difficulty in giving me 2 five kopek pieces change against the bill – and in charging my money they gave me two 25 kopeck bills and one 5 kopek – 55 Rubles for my Finnish rubel notes some kopek notes 75s and a few 50s

Anne’s marginal notes:

Russian costume

men black beavers with buckles

strewing Spruce branches instead of mats

WYAS pages: SH:7/ML/TR/14/0005 SH:7/ML/TR/14/0006 SH:7/ML/TR/14/0007 SH:7/ML/TR/14/0008

“Wiborg bread tied up in a sort of rose” that Anne and Ann had at Nisalahti (today’s Chulkovo) station during this leg (click here for a recipe):

“another pavillion-like gentleman’s house almost in front (to the right) from our station yellow with pea green roof and white corners and a white hexastyle portico (with pediment – the gable end)” - the house Anne saw on the way and described thus is the main building of Kiiskilä Manor, where members of an important family of 19th-century Finnish intellectuals grew up, including Helmi Krohn, the first biographer of “the Sappho of Finland”, Isa Asp (image source):

A view of Vyborg in 1837, by Pehr Adolf Kruskopf (image source):

The Vyborg Society House (left), the inn where Anne and Ann stayed in Vyborg (image source). The building was destroyed during the Continuation War.

Vyborg around 1938, including the castle and the Fortress Bridge (image source), an earlier (but similar) incarnation of which Anne sketched in her journal in 1839:

The Fortres Bridge in the early 18th century (image source):

and in Anne’s sketch:

A view of Vyborg Castle, by Torsten Wilhelm Forstén, from 1840, a year after Anne and Ann saw it - and Ann sketched it (image source):

A view of Vyborg bay - “ Ann thought she had never admired a scene more“ (image source):

#anne lister #ann walker #gentleman jack #travelnotes1839 #finland1839 #russia1839 #russianempire1839 #annelister #annwalker #anne lister code breaker

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rabbitcruiser · 5 years ago

Photo

Frauenkirche, Nuremberg (No. 2)

The west facade of the Frauenkirche is richly decorated with a central porch creating a narthex and an elaborate projection above flanked by two engaged stair towers. The portals on the porch are decorated on the west with sculptures of Adam, Eve, the Virgin, and prophets. On the left, the porch is decorated with male saints, while on the right are female saints. At the corners are sculptures of royal benefactors. The porch encloses a narthex that is richly polychromed (a later restoration). All four sides of the narthex have portals, the jambs and archivolts of which are decorated with sculptures. The second stage of the porch features a complex tracery balustrade with heraldic shields and blind round arches framing the pointed arched windows. Within the narthex, the ribs are completely decorated with sculptures and the main entry to the church features a tympanum showing the Nativity. The stepped gable of the west facade features a series of arcades that once contained sculpture. Each step is topped with a quatrefoil and is demarcated by pinnacles. In the center is a narrow octagonal tower with a copper dome. The other facades of the church, by contrast, are very plain.

The Frauenkirche is a hall church with two aisles and a tribune for the emperor. The church contains nine bays supported by four columns. The triforium, named the Imperial Loft or St. Michael's Loft, opens on to the nave by means of an arcade, the arches of which are filled with floating tracery, consisting of three rosettes supported by a segmental arch.

Inside the Frauenkirche, numerous works of art from the Middle Ages are displayed, but they often only came to the church in the early 19th century, when it was re-established for Catholic worship after centuries of Protestant use. For example, the so-called "Cloth altar" (around 1440/1450) comes from the demolished Augustinian church, the Perringdorf sandstone epitaph by Adam Kraft (around 1498) was also from the Augustinian monastery. However, many of the original medieval furnishings of the Frauenkirche have been preserved, albeit in museums rather than in the church itself. Surviving remnants include: a stone sculpture cycle from around 1360 in the choir (including adoration of the kings and St. Wenceslas; an Annunciation angel and candlestick angel from the school of Veit Stoss (early 16th century); remains of the first high altar table around 1400 (the painted panels are today in the Germanic National Museum in Nuremberg and in Frankfurt's Städel Museum); and several terracotta sculptures, some of which are in the Prague National Gallery. The successor on the high altar, the so-called "Catfish" retable from the early 16th century, is only preserved in fragments today (in the Germanic National Museum). The famous “Nuremberg Tonapostel” from around 1400 was originally in the Frauenkirche and is divided between the German National Museum and St. James Church. A rosary tablet from the area around Veit Stoss is also in the Germanic National Museum today. The stained glass in the choir dates from 1519 and depicts saints and crests.

One of the most notable features of the church is the Männleinlaufen, a mechanical clock that commemorates the Golden Bull of 1356. The clock was installed in the church between 1506 and 1509. The Holy Roman Emperor is shown seated with the prince-electors surrounding him.

The clock mechanism is activated at midday, when a bell is rung to start the sequence and is followed by the trumpeters and drummer. Then there is a procession of the electors around the figure of the Holy Roman Emperor.

Source: Wikipedia

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joonsrack · 6 years ago

Text

+Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Jeon Jungkook

+Genre: rags to riches au, kind of college au, SFW, slow burn, WIP.

+Word count: ~2.2k (for this chapter)

+Chapter: Prologue | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | ?

+Summary:

“Funny how even in this ridiculously absurd situation, life had made Taehyung a third-wheel. Or a sixth.

If Bangtan Dry Cleaning was his fairy godmother, Jimin his little mouse, the jacket his magic dress and the club scene his ball, where the fuck was his prince charming?

A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts.”

+Warnings: very cliché, very unrealistic.

+A/N: betaed by the amazing @shadowsremedy 💖

It all started innocently enough.

“I can’t believe August D and Hope are a few miles away from here, and I won’t be able to be in their general vicinity.” Jimin signed for the nth time after looking at his twitter feed.

Taehyung looked over at his friend, curious as to what had his friend in such a low spirit that night. “Why? Are they doing a gig somewhere around?”

“Even sadder.’’ He sighed again, putting his phone away and aggressively zipping up a garment bag. ”They’re hanging out at Octagon tonight, and well, Octagon’s cover to access the VIP lounge is 150,000 won, so completely unreasonable for my wallet. Plus, I’ve got nothing to wear that doesn’t scream ‘I’m a dirt poor struggling make up artist’. Even if I somehow found a way to get the money, I would never be allowed up to the VIP floor, not with Octagon’s dress code.”

Taehyung was about to morosely agree with his friend when the zipper of the garment bag he was zipping up got stuck on the Versace dress stored in it. Something hit him then. A beam of light brought things into a new perspective. Or maybe it was the fluorescent?

He was closing up shop in a place full of luxury clothes, some pieces more expensive than a whole year of his rent, and none of it would be missed by their owner for the night.

Bangtan Dry Cleaning, Gangnam’s all-time-favorite dry cleaner for VIPs to drop off their barely worn high-end brand pieces, was closed on the weekend. He and Jimin were the last men on scene since their boss usually left early on Friday nights.

Having the keys to the shop also meant having access to an unlimited amount of resources; clothes that could easily be borrowed for a few hours, refreshed over the weekend, and found undisturbed by their boss on Monday morning.

Ok, so maybe the idea had been slowly simmering inside of him for months.

“What?’’ Jimin pressed, pout deepening. “I know that look, Tae.”

“Say the clothing part was covered, would you have enough for the regular entry fees?”

His eyebrows pinched in confusion, trying to understand Taehyung’s point.

“I guess? But that would be useless, I doubt they’d hang out with the regular people. They’ll probably stick to the VIP section… ’’

Taehyung’s lips slowly crept into one of his signature mischievous smile.

“I think I have an idea.”

Jimin took one look at him and shook his head violently. “Last time you said that we had to hitchhike for four hours in the rain in the back of a pick-up truck to get back home. I might be poor, but I have a pretty face to maintain. You don’t get to have ideas anymore.”

“Jimin, just this once, you’ll have to trust me.”

About an hour later, dripping from head to toe in designer clothes carefully selected by Taehyung, both men exchanged perplexed looks.

“Is this what it feels like? To be rich? I’m pretty sure I could buy a year's worth of groceries with my outfit.” Jimin said, scratching his head with stiff movement, feeling out of place in his newly borrowed Gucci bomber jacket.

Taehyung was messing around with his blazer, a million-something-won Christian Pellizzari piece he had his eyes on since he’d seen it earlier.

“That jacket you’re wearing is worth 5 million won alone.” He said, then caught his friend’s reaction in the mirror.

“Five what now?” Jimin repeated, face going pale and body tensing up like any wrong movement could rip the jacket apart. “I want it off,” he said, voice quiet but with a cutting edge. “I’m not doing this.”

“Hey, look here,” Taehyung grabbed him delicately by the face, both hands framing his jaw. “Jimin. Jiminie. We’ll have to be careful, but everything will be fine. It’ll all be fine.”

“I’m not so sure. 5 million won, Taehyung. Million.”

“We’re literally the person to come to if anything gets stained. We got this. Plus, you look amazing! And if we play our cards right, you might get to meet with- with … Automne D and-“

Jimin couldn’t hold back a small snicker, finally relaxing a little. “Agust D.”

“Yeah, that's what I said. And, huh,-“

“Hope.”

“Yes, exactly. Now go get your makeup case, you got two faces to beat.”

While Jimin was counting the creased bills in his hands, making sure he had enough for the regular entree fees, Taehyung was observing the entrance of the club on the other side of the street. The line was slowly getting longer, while no one was let in. They would not make it inside anytime soon, his friend’s favorite musicians probably long gone by then, but Jimin didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Jiminie?”

“Hmm?” He said, not looking away from his small change he was now recounting.

“You remember those jeans I made for you, perfectly tailored to make you look bomb-ass-tic?”

“Why are you bringing that up, Tae? That was ages ago, I told you I was sorry I ripped them-”

“That’s not the point,” Taehyung said, now facing his friend. “Remember how you walked in those? Like the weight of the world’s beauty was pushing your chin up and making you look like a stuck up asshole?”

“A beautiful one, yeah.”

“I’m going to need you to walk like that again. Channel that beautiful stuck up asshole.”

“Ooohkay..?”

“Now, let’s go.”

“Wait, I think I’m missing a bill.”

“Put your money away. If we do this right, you won’t need it.”

His friend made an interrogative noise but pushed the money back into his (borrowed) pocket nevertheless.

Then, after making sure Jimin was following with his chin high as the sky, he started walking the walk, the same walk he taught the students that modelled for his collection at the traditional end of semester runaway.

Taehyung crossed the street without looking, ignoring Jimin’s muffled shrieks as he made his way to the entrance. The bouncer, a 6ft superhuman looking man, probably hearing all the commotion of cars braking and honking, was now making direct eye contact with him. Taehyung held it coldly, going for ‘unimpressed important person’. Celebrities were usually let in for free, right? So if they could manage to pass off as some idols, maybe they could make this plan work. New groups were popping up left and right these days; with their looks, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for people to assume Taehyung and Jimin were members of a group or something.

He knew his neutral face made him look kind of intimidating, all he was hoping for was for Jimin to not freak out.

Without a word, once the street was crossed and most of the people in line had gone silent looking at them, the bouncer took a step aside, opening the rope barrier and nodding them in.

Not risking a look back at his friend, Taehyung patted the bouncer’s shoulder on the way in, hoping the man wouldn’t notice the slight tremble of them.

The bouncer followed them in, sidestepping them to whisper something into the ear of a big burly man posted inside. Taehyung couldn’t hear anything over the loud music, but he didn’t like it.

He didn’t know how but they had somehow made it inside without paying, and all he needed now was to find a way to get into the VIP lounge. The look on the big burly man’s face though, it wasn’t good.

The bouncer went back to his post outside, leaving them with the literal tank standing in front of them and blocking their access to the rest of the club. He was studying them with a crooked eyebrow, something nonchalant in his look.

But if Taehyung was good at something, it was mirroring those kinds of looks.

“This way, sir.” He finally said after stretching the minutes, barely loud enough to be heard over the loud thumping of the bass playing somewhere further into the club. He felt Jimin’s cold hand grab at his wrist but followed nonetheless. The worst that could happen would be to be kicked out.

Which is not what happened.

They were led through a narrow hallway and up a little staircase, then through a door with another bouncer. And then, they were in a room with a whole wall made of glass that overlooked the main dance floor.

Sitting in the softened light of the luxurious lounge were a few people, conversing among each other in various corners of the room furnished with little couches and tables.

Taehyung could make out at least five famous people, and the rest were probably rich chaebols who got to hang out with them.

Somehow they had ended up in the VIP Lounge much sooner than expected, and Taehyung suddenly started believing in miracles.

They sat on one of the empty couches, a drink menu rapidly dropped in front of them.

“Tonight is on the house.” The tankman said as parting words and promptly disappeared.

An attractive waitress took his place only a fraction of second later, sporting a cool smile.

“What could I get you, sir … ” She said, dragging the last vowel in a question.

“Kim.” Taehyung said, “And Park,” He added. “Just sparkling water for now, please. Thank you.”

The waitress bowed slightly before disappearing behind yet another door, leaving them alone save for the people softly conversing among themselves.

“I think I’m gonna pee my pants in excitement,” Jimin whispered, voice going high. “Is this what you meant when you said you had an idea?”

“Up until that part where they let us in,” he said, voice equally as soft. “I have no idea how we ended up in the VIP lounge without paying. Didn’t even have to try.”

“Maybe they mistook us for someone else?”

“Maybe? she asked for our names, though.” Taehyung took the drink menu to look like he was doing something. Truth is, he didn’t know how to act. He felt like ordering the wrong drink would out them as poor people. Most of the bottles listed on the menu went over 200,000 won, though. “D’you think ordering a somaek will blow our cover?”

“We don’t even know what our cover is!” Jimin said, panicking a little. He suddenly didn’t look so excited to be there. “They clearly think we’re something or somebody we’re not.”

“Breath Jiminie.” He said, putting a hand on his knee. “You have got to stay calm. We aren’t robbing a bank here. We just somehow got really fucking lucky. Plus, they said it was on the house, we can drink things tonight we will most likely never get to drink again.”

As if on cue, the waitress showed up with a tray, unloading it with graceful and practiced movements, starting with two crystal tumblers in which she delicately dropped perfectly shaped ice cubes with some golden ice thongs. Then, she set on the table a cone-shaped bottle adorned with little crystals, and topped off with a literal crown-shaped cap.

After she was done pouring their glasses, she retreated behind that same door.

“Jiminie. Jimin. What the hell. That’s Fillico.”

“What?” He said, reaching for the tumbler and bringing it up to his mouth, the excitement of the night making his throat feel parched.

“That bottle of sparkling water is worth almost 250,000 won.”

He froze, mouth going tense, and put the tumbler back down. “Honestly, this night is getting too much for my heart,” Jimin said, just as the most handsome man they had ever laid eyes on appeared in front of them.

“I just heard the most fantastically hilarious rumor.” The man said without waiting for introductions, amused smile making his handsome features look childish. He had his hands on his slim hips, body framed by a Balenciaga outfit. The loose t-shirt stretched by a set of wide shoulders made it look classy yet comfy.

He carried on, not letting them speak.

“Apparently, terrifyingly handsome heirs of a mob empire are sipping sparkling water in my VIP lounge. Would you happen to have seen them?”

Jimin and Taehyung shared a look of understanding, the reason they were sitting where they were sitting finally dawning on them. After a stretch of silence, the man’s amusement not receding, Taehyung finally answered.

“It’s the eyeliner, isn’t it?” He said, aiming for vague.

The man’s smile grew.

“Now, maybe my petrified employees might have mistaken you two for scary mobsters, with that blue steel look in your eyes, but I went to school with a bunch of heir and heiress of the mafia and I know one when I see one. I bet you two aren’t.”

Jimin shrugged as their only response, which prompted a peal of laughter from their interlocutor.

“I’m Kim Seokjin, my family owns this place. I’ve never seen my employees so terrified. It’s very entertaining, especially our bouncers. They’re all combing the web for information on the family trees of the main mod clan of Korea as we speak.” He sat down with them, presenting them his hand.

“Park Jimin,” his friend said, reciprocating the hand. “I can play up my Busan satoori if you want.” He added with a shy smile.

“That would be fantastic. Maybe fake a phone call where you make super vague allusions to things that seem illegal?”

“Just tell me when.” He answered with a small laugh. Then Seokjin turned his attention to him.

“Kim Taehyung,” he said, “My satoori is less intimidating though.”

“Just keep your handsome face neutral and you won't have to talk to scare them.” Seokjin said with a wink, making Taehyung try to hold back a blush.

“Is it your first time at Octagon? I’m pretty sure I would have remembered you guys if you’d been here before.”

“We don’t really go out… But-”

“Jin-Hyung!”

The three of them turned around to watch a small group of people approach. They all looked familiar to Taehyung, but he couldn’t remember from where. It’s only when he saw Jimin’s face, blank with shock, did he remember the original reason why they were sitting in a VIP lounge, drinking 250,000 won sparkling water, dressed in borrowed luxury clothes and chatting with someone who probably made three times their monthly salary in a minute.

There, walking toward them, was the rapping duo August D and Hope, and their equally talented and acclaimed friend RM.

And that moment was the beginning of the beginning.

Previous chapter | Next Chapter

#bts fanfic #taekook fanfic #bts rags to riches #taekook #i know its the third time i post this but it just. wont. show up in the tags #magicshopnet #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #park jimin #jung hoseok #ot7

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hrexandro · 5 years ago

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OSR session 1

4th day of the first month of spring, Year of the Rat

Tomb of the Serpent Kings, ran with OSE, using the Death & Dismemberment Table from GLOG.

Player characters:

Pier, Magic-User

Jessica, Thief

Priest, Cleric

The adventurers, lured by the prospect of buried riches, followed a map bought by Priest from an old wanderer and ventured a day’s travel distance from the town of Torsfeld, into the hilly wilderness to the Northeast.

They arrived in the early evening. Upon entering the dungeon’s corridor, they investigated the first room to the right. The party huddled around a clay statue depicting a snake-man. Priest decided to do what came naturally to him, as an Iconoclastic zealot, and promptly smashed the monstrous image with his warhammer. As they were placed around pretty tightly, none escaped the toxic poison gas exploding from within. Pier became sickly from the toxin. Jessica, however, was hit hardest – the poison ravaged her body, her left leg and right eye became numb and useless.

The party brought her out and stabilized her. Afterwards, Priest scoured the remains, recovering a golden amulet and smashing the skeletal remains within the pile. They decided to hole up in the chamber to spend the next day to recuperate, after gathering enough firewood to keep them with ample light and warmth, and scattering dry wood around the corridor to warn them of anyone who might be approaching. They discuss whether to cut off Jessica’s numb leg, which remained useless, making it necessary for the party to assist her in movement, but decide against it.

The next day (evening) they cursorily investigated the other rooms branching from the corridor and approached the Sorcerer’s Tomb, containing another clay statue with the image of a snake-man sorcerer. Priest wanted to pry off a silver ring from the figure’s finger. Wary of poison gas, he carefully used a crowbar to remove the item, whilst being tied with a rope and held by the others to pull him out at the first sign of poison gas. They succeeded.

After that they used a sling to destroy the statues in the remaining two rooms, removing their amulets and smashing the snake-men bones within. Moving on to the barred door at the end of the corridor, when they figured two of them weren’t strong enough to lift the stone bar blocking the entrance, they decided to move it sideways. After the bar moved past one of the iron pegs on which it rested, it clicked and moved upwards. Upon noticing that, they ran away immediately. Causing the bar to partly fall to the side. However it still partly weighted down on the other peg, so the hammer trap hiding in the ceiling remained unsprung.

Then they tied a rope to the bar and working in unison, pulled it off the peg from a safe distance. Activating the hammer trap and smashing the stone door. They entered a large chamber with another three clay statues to the North, an exit to the South, and piles of rotten grave goods in the middle. After having the limping Jessica check the walls of the room, they pierced the leftmost statue with a sling shot. A skeletal hand appeared in the hole. When they enlarged the hole with another shot, a skeletal Snakeoid head emerged, which was quickly blown off with Pier’s magic missile spell, the skeleton still pursued them, however, but they managed to quickly defeat it. It yielded them no treasure.

After that they went back to the chamber they spent the last day in, and slept the night, enabling Pier to regenerate his spell. They moved on to smash the rightmost statue. The emerging skeleton was promptly turned by Priest’s holy symbol. The skeleton escaped deeper into the tomb. The party heard various loud and intriguing sounds from the direction it went and decided to follow it, ignoring the remaining middle coffin.

The next small room had a statue of a horrid snake-man god (“resembling a cross between a toad, a heap of intestines, and a melted candle”) and a hole in the floor, eroded by flowing water. They investigated the statue and the hole, tied a rope to the statue and ventured down.

The corridor below was filled with six statues of snake-men warriors, upon noticing that one of them was out of alignment, they moved it so that it stood straight. When that did nothing, they moved it back the way it was, but no further, then abandoned it and moved on.

The corridor led to an octagonal chamber with a black pond in the middle, and a stone door on each wall, except the SE one, that had a wooden door, and the SW one, that had an open corridor. Each of the doors had a pair of snake-men statues on each side, each wielding various instruments of war, torture, agriculture or science. They diligently noted what each of the statues was holding and Pier threw a dagger into the pond (from a safe distance), figuring that one of the statues held a dagger, perhaps throwing a dagger would cause the stone door next to it to open.

When Priest approached the pond, a mummified hand crawled out of it, but was immediately smashed by Priest’s hammer. However, a second hand emerged from the pond and scratched his leg, before being zapped by Pier’s magic missile. While they were trying to patch-up bleeding and screaming Priest, the turned skeletal snake-man crawled out of the pond and escaped to the SW corridor.

They did not manage to stabilize Priest, he bled out from his leg and died. Jessica and Pier took some of his equipment, including the silver ring and golden amulet, then threw his body into the pond. They were disappointed that this “sacrifice” did not cause any of the doors (which they did not investigate, even cursorily) to open.

Priest’s body was thrown into the pond still bearing his, backpack, waterskin, tinderbox, rations, holy symbol, 12 torches, oil, hammer, dagger, sling, leather armor, 20 pieces of gold, and notably, the map that led them to the dungeon.

Jessica and Pier decide to return to town. The journey lasts notably longer due to Jessica’s limp. On their way they meet an Acolyte (random encounter), lost in the woods after avoiding a marauding tribe of troglodytes. They talk with him a bit, but remain suspicious.

Finally they reach the town of Torsfeld. Jessica buys a salve to treat her leg, paying with one of the golden amulets, but sees no immediate improvement. Pier makes use of a bathhouse, then leaves the remaining amulets and silver ring to the local wizard, Antymon, to identify whether they are magical. The wizard can keep one of the amulets as payment for the service. The turns out to be magical, the amulets, not.

They wait in town until Pier’s sickness comes to an end. Jessica puts on the silver ring, her finger becomes longer, her nail turns into a bifurcated claw. She is unable to remove the ring. At that moment, Jessica has a blind right eye, numb left leg and a double-clawed right ring finger. The next day they recruit a fighter found in a dark alley, he calls himself Swordsman. While they are talking, the ring’s poison takes effect. Jessica panics and demand Swordsman to quickly cut off the finger, he obliges. While she is suffering from the poison and bleeding from the amputation, Pier and Swordsman prove unable to stabilize her, made worse by the fact that they spent one round on cutting the finger off. Jessica dies. Pier and Swordsman take all her stuff and leave her dead in the dark alley where she bled out.

They attempt to sell the silver ring to dwarven cloth merchants staying at the local tavern, but they’re not happy with the price offered. Swordsman takes the ring to Antymon and manages to sell it, after divulging the magical properties of the cursed ring, that he himself was witness to.

They find the Acolyte that they met earlier to join them on an adventure for their next venture into the Tomb. His name is Bogumił. Pier visits the bathhouse again, while Swordsman stays at the tavern. Swordsman is approached by five men-at-arms and brought to the local Horka (baron). He is interrogated on the dead girl and answers truthfully, that the death was not his doing, but caused by a cursed ring. However, he admitted to taking Jessica’s belongings, and during interrogation mentioned that he is not a Christian. He is disarmed, stripped naked, and brought to a dungeon. Meanwhile Pier returns to the tavern, and after learning from the innkeeper that Swordsman was taken by the Horka’s men, goes to the noble’s residence, where he is also promptly arrested, tied, interrogated (he corroborates the Swordsman’s story), then stripped naked and imprisoned.

After an undisclosed period of time, Swordsman is brought out and offered baptism, to which he agrees. He is baptized, then brought back to the dungeon.

Both characters are taken to the Horka, he states that the local wizard Antymon confirmed what they said about the cursed ring. However, for the crime of robbing a dead person, they are sentenced to have both their hands cut off and then lashed 50 times.

Pier perished during the lashing.

Swordsman perished during the amputation, then was lashed post-mortem.

Bogumił, not knowing the way to the Tomb, as all the adventurers who have ventured there ended up dead, and not having a map (which was left with Priest’s body), decides to forego adventuring, for now.

Entries into the Book of the Dead:

†Priest, killed by a demonic hand in the Serpent Tomb.

†Jessica, perished from poison and blood loss In a dark alley of Torsfeld

†Pier, perished whilst being lashed for robbing a deceased person

†Swordsman, perished while having his hands amputated for robbing a deceased person

#osr #ose #tomb of the serpent kings #ttrpg #tabletop #rpg #d&d #dungeons and dragons

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chiselarts · 5 years ago

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alitheamateur · 6 years ago

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The Grind-Chapter 9

Warnings: Mentions of violence.

Colton had offered to retrieve my car and park it on the top level of the parking garage, so the herd of relentless paparazzi outside wouldn’t catch a shot of me leaving the hotel in clothes from the night before, at 10 a.m the following day. The 16-minute drive back to my apartment had soothed me deeper into a sleepy trance, along with the settling smorgasbord from breakfast. A dizzy nausea was attacking me too, as the nerves for Colton’s fight in only a handful of hours kept growing, and growing. He liked to be the overly-confident big mouth when it came to the topic, but I knew there had to be a sliver of anxious stress somewhere in him. I knew because I’d heard him go on & on about how “important this was to his career,” and he “hated to admit it, but he really needed to prove himself across the world of MMA.”

I gulped a swig of Pepto Bismol from the bathroom medicine cabinet, and stripped my clothes for a much needed power nap in my bed which suddenly felt like rocky ground after sleeping on the expensive pillowtop at the hotel last night.

Warmer days were more & more frequent in the city now, so I was able to wear a suede peep-toe bootie that night. I followed instruction and sported my leather jacket per Colton’s request, along with a loose-fitting black shift dress that rubbed at my mid-thigh. My makeup a bit more dramatic courtesy of the cobalt blue trace of eyeliner I added, and my hair left down, tousled with loose waves. I never usually let it get much passed shoulder length as it held more tangles in doing so. But, the man in my life had quite the attraction to my now very lengthy, ombre blonde strands. Any time he’d escort me to the shower, I was required to turn my back to him for a brief moment so he could observe the water cascading through my hair, causing it to paint slickly down to the bra line of my back. He combed his digits through the ends, tracing the flow of warm water down to the noticeable dimples indented in the small of my back. So, not quite ready to let go of that particular little habit he had developed, I indulged him with a longer style for now. Wrestling with myself after awaking from my nap, I texted him.

L: Thanks again for last night <3 I’ll be sure to pack my first aid kit in case you need some extra TLC tonight!

Fully expecting just to be left on “read” without a reply, I was all the more pleasantly surprised when I heard his designated text tone chime across the bedroom.

C: No. Thank YOU for last night. And if those medical supplies you’re talkin’ about include a tight fittin’ little nurse outfit then YES PLEASE!!!!! I love you, Livvy Caroline.

After arriving at the Palumbo Center, I decided to park my Honda in the covered complex rather than on the street, figuring I’d probably be loaded up into the black Suburban that Colt had rented so he & the team could all ride together this weekend, to paint the town after his victory. I tucked my arm through the chained strap of my crossbody purse & adjusted the “L” pendant necklace that was nestled between my cleavage. I felt sexy; important even. No one else in the arena knew that I was the girlfriend of the lethal animal that would be headlining tonight, but I certainly did. And it made me high.

I strolled boldly into the side entrance, greeting one of the guards I had become familiar with throughout the countless other events I had covered at the Palombo. Emmett, a towering steel wall of unyielding strength.

“Pretty as ever, Ms. Liv. How you doin’?” he said with the polite tipping of his worn tan Ascot hat.

“Doing fantastic, Emmett! You ready for this one?” We always exchanged predictive play-by-plays of whatever particular event of the night was, and I appreciated the fact that he didn’t chuckle or mock when a woman such as myself chimed an opinion in regard to athletics. Something rare, but regretfully present at at least two hockey games I attended for work when I first moved here. One being from a coach I approached for a question post-game, stating that he was “sure I could give him pointers on how to improve the teams’ uniforms if he needed them, but otherwise he didn’t have time to speak with me.” That was the first instance I questioned whether the big city of Pittsburgh would ever be the place for me.

“Oooooooooh girl, you know this gonna be a brawl.”

Chuckling lightly to his animated response, I shook my head with a pat to his arm and moved passed to head to the main room and locate my seat. Since I had entered from the private entrance, I had to navigate through the hallways and locker rooms to reach the arena floor. Smiling blankly at by passers, I reached into the side pocket of my bag for the nude lipstick I planned to apply at my pitstop to the restroom. My pace slowed a bit in struggle to locate it, eyes looking down in search. When I finally grasped it tucked away under a wad of crinkled receipts, my gaze lifted again to push open the door of the ladies’ room. However, I couldn’t seem to muster the very minimal effort it would’ve taken to open it, due to the hooded man marching down the wide hallway.

Mac was leading the pack, and Colton tailed the end of the line with his hands settled into the front pocket of a sweatshirt, headphones adorning his neck. His thinned, focused eyes instantly found mine, rendering me unable to even blink. Just as he was strolling right past me, those very same eyes sank to the now heavy rise & fall of my chest, then traced down the span of my glowy, toned legs. Last on the list of body parts for him to make love to with his eyes, he locked his penetrating sights onto my sex, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. He need not use words, because I knew unmistakably what those black pupils were envisioning. I watched his head turn then to face forward as he was escorted into what I assumed was his locker room. Now that my underwear were sopping for the evening, that was that.

The profuse adrenaline spreading like a smoky vapor throughout the arena almost had me stimulated like a wave of lust. Not near as much as the very rated PG-13 encounter I had just had with Colton backstage, but stimulated, nonetheless. Black folding chairs lined the room, neon lights showing the stains of gum, spilled soda and ketchup splatters that covered the concrete floors. My seat was two rows behind the announcers table, and I was pleased with the exceptional view I would have for the fight. The jumbotron hanging from the rafters displayed a countdown clock reading 37 minutes until the match would be underway. I settled in, tucking my purse into my lap after removing my cell phone for some leisure social media catch up to aid in passing the time.

The crowd steadily poured into the empty seats, along with the television broadcasters at the booth in front of me. Luckily, I was able to eaves drop on the preshow now underway, hearing one of the suited men state that “Danny Mendez was in for a true contest with Colton Ritter.” An ounce of relief came over me that there were people other than myself and members of Colt’s camp who sincerely believed he had a very likely shot of stealing the belt tonight, but not enough relief to still the tapping of my toe, or erase the clamming of my twiddling hands. Suddenly the bulbs of the LED gym lights began clicking off row by row, and rap music began to thump from the mega speakers. 15 minutes running down the clock now. Short clips of Danny’s past battles flashed on the theater size screen, along with a few clips from Colton at the gym. Before I knew it, total darkness for a moment, followed by circling blue spotlights all around the cage.

Realizing it was indeed showtime now, whistles, claps and sporadic shouting ensued under the arena rooftop. Everyone began standing when the chords of “Let’s Go” by Run The Jewels struck up and a single white light aimed towards the tunnel entrance. Colton had left me with the daunting responsibility of selecting his song of introduction, so I knew any moment he would emerge into sight when I heard the tune begin.

Colton came trudging into view wearing the same sweatshirt he’d been sporting earlier, only now changed into his red fighting trunks. Mac’s logo, along with several other local business names were stamped as sponsors down the sides of his shorts. I was shocked at how many fans of his were revealed by the off-beat chants of his name, and of course the army of female admirers hooting like retrievers in heat. He didn’t waste any time making his way to the waiting referee, offering no high fives or fist bumps to hecklers swatting over the steel barricades of the aisle. He stripped the sweat absorbed shirt handing it to Mac, raised his arms to be patted from top to feet, then pulled back his lips to reveal he was wearing his required mouthguard. I always loved the way the chunky plastic made his lips fatten out when clenched between his teeth.

Next, the black latex gloves of the official smeared a thin layer of petroleum jelly onto each cheek bone, along the bridge of his nose, then across his perspiring forehead, and granted him entry into the cage door. Colton took one of the three steps entering and proceeded to jog two laps around the perilous steel playpen, rolling and stretching his bulging neck and trap muscles. He continued familiarizing himself with every square inch of the octagon mat taking in deep gulps of air through his nostrils, then exhaling gradually out his mouth. From what I could see, he gave the impression of a man prepared, focused and dangerously hungry for blood. The boom of Danny’s theme song didn’t seem to faulter Colton’s bluish eyes. Clear eyes, just like I had told him.

The second fighter followed his own pattern of flashy introductions kissing the cheeks of two women and a baby along his journey in, then aiming a single middle finger towards Colt during his examination from the same ref. When the door was latched behind him, both warriors stalked their opponent.

The suited announcer took his mark in the center, microphone in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, good evening and welcome! The following match up is for the Professional Fighter’s Federation Middleweight Championship. Introducing first in the left corner your challenger weighing in at 184 pounds in his PFF debut, Colton Ritterrrrrr.”

“And in your right corner, the current undisputed Middleweight champion with a weight of 181 pounds Danny “The Matador” Mendez.”

I wanted to join the thundering “boo” at the mention of his name too, but refrained professionally. Mendez had fans, but many of them boastful douchebags such as himself.

I felt as if I needed to bury both hands over my heart to trap it inside my chest, and I can only imagine the feelings that were swarming Colton’s body. Tyson O’Brien, the preferred ring official across the circuit was passed the mic and motioned Mendez and Colton to step to him.

“Alright fellas, we’ve been over the rules. Protect yourself at all times, and you will follow my instructions. We’re gonna have a clean fight tonight. Touch gloves.”

Neither seething man extended a hand, instead retreated to their labeled corners with no interest other than drawing blood.

Tyson addressed Colton, “you ready?” Receiving one single nod in answer. After the same reply from his opponent, he dropped a hand to begin the time. The clock began ticking on potentially the most sickeningly vexing 25 minutes on my sheltered life.

Round One

Twenty-five seconds in, and a fist had yet to be thrown. The two danced gracefully barefoot around each other, faces hid partially behind gloved fists. I could tell by the unsteady breaths from his nostrils that Colt was holding back a brutal eruption. Mac coached him to pace himself, because Mendez had a reputation of exhausting an opponent to the point of break, then he would unleash. So slow and steady would most likely win this race.

Colton would be the first to stretch forth in assault, however only connecting with Mendez’s thrown block. I swear I could hear a wisp of power cut through the air. The instant combo of left-right-right he threw next though, tagged his opponent just below the right eye. Danny smiled at the pain, now extremely ready to get things started indeed. Colton seemed to have a bit of an advantage with a reach much longer than Mendez, resulting in explosive strikes to the reddening body of the predicted victor. His head movements strategically executed to clear any blows to the face in the first 2.5 minutes, but the leg kicks from the current champ were connecting painfully to his thighs. The handsome combatant carried a slight limp on his left leg for a moment, babying it from the strike. One leg lift however played in his favor when he was able to grab Danny’s calf and manage a powerful takedown that sent his back crashing to the ground.

Before he was pinned under Colt’s powerful legs, he managed to turn on all fours on his elbows. The attempt to escape was lost nevertheless when my red shorted fighter wrapped one arm around his torso, crushing with the force of a vice grip. He had evidently done his homework for this match up. His hands pounded like concrete blocks against the cauliflower ear and exposed temple of Danny, one blow he connected on the corner of his brow even resulted in the first blood secretion on the mat. He was like a great white in the open water inhaling the sent of a wounded seal. His right-hand imposed fist after fist, and Mendez was visibly shook. 37 seconds remained on the timer.

Shortly thereafter the time keeper smacked together his wooden blocks to notify now only 30 seconds left in the round. Dan wormed his way out of the hold to stand to his feet, placing ample space between the two of them for a brief instant before charging Colton with a swift roundhouse kick, thankfully missing. A blow horn shrieked, and the men retreated to corners joined by training staff members. I thought I may need medical attention next when I released a breath of momentary relaxation and noticed the half moons of nail marks I had pushed into the inside of my thigh. This round undoubtably belonged to Colton.

I was suffocating the urge to dart straight to the concession stand for a generous dose of nerve settling liquor. Was I cut out to be the girlfriend of a fighter? Could I really stomach watching him suffer blow after blow to the head, or have to spend the weeks after a match nursing a concussion? Driving him around the city in search of an oral surgeon to repair the teeth that had been forcibly removed from his gums? Was I thick-skinned enough to tarry that journey? The answer is no. The idea of it all made me want to projectile vomit the lavish breakfast I had with him that morning. The daunting apprehension that even every day mundane tasks like choosing where to get gas, or what facial cleanser wouldn’t cause a rash literally sent my brain into unnerving override. I didn’t have the thickened skin for it. I wasn’t designed for dramatic unraveling’s. But, he was like a computer technician rewiring a hard drive from the inside out when it came to my old habits. Colton Ritter was reviving me, rebuilding me into the daring, strong and ultimately better version of myself, and I would forever be grateful. I could feel myself developing the depth of not only headstrong, flourishing journalist, but loyal, passionate life partner as well. So, if nursing contusions or taping broken fingers was necessary to my repertoire, then so be it.

I dialed in on the announcers again in effort to gather expert opinion on predictions now that the first round was in the books.

“I’m gonna be real honest with you, man. This is not at all how I saw this going. Ritter came out explosive! The kid ain’t the slouch that most of the locker room had expected. Matter of fact, Jake, a few guys for Danny’s camp have been callin’ him a ‘pretty boy’.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard that little nickname floating around too, Brett. But it seems to me that so-called pretty boy is doin’ some serious punishing in that cage right now. Solid fist round for the newcomer.”

Pretty boy? Colt would roll over if he heard these guys refer to him that way on the radio. It absolutely suited him on the outward appearance, 98% of the heterosexual female population would agree. Still, it lacked the desired malevolent intimidation factor for the nickname of a mixed martial artist.

How can you spin this, Eliiot? Make it work…hmmm… Pittsburgh Pretty Boy? Ew no, too WWE. Pretty boy.. pretty boy. Pretty Boy Punisher? Oooooh, that’s got a ring to it. The Pretty Boy Punisher.

I would definitely add that to my article. Anything to deter the entire world of cage fighting from calling him a pretty boy, and taking him for a joke.

The coaches scurried suddenly to the outer walls of the cage, clearing out water bottles and folding black stools before the next round began, and inhuman beasts attacked each other once more.

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935

#Tom Hardy #tomhardy #tommy conlon #tom hardy fanfiction #tomhardyfanfic #tommy riordan #elizabeth olsen

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maniculum · 2 years ago

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The College of Grotesque Arts -- Week Eight and a Half

For new people, I’m doing the Dungeon23 megadungeon project, basing each room on the marginalia of a different page in the 14th-century Luttrell Psalter. Previous entries in this project can be found here.

This one’s pretty late, sorry. I spent the week finishing a dissertation chapter. I know, right? Where are my priorities?

I mean, the only one reading my dissertation draft is my advisor, whereas I think as many as half a dozen people might be reading these. Clearly, the numbers are not on the “dissertation” side.

Anyway, here’s the last section of Level Two. Map and words below the cut.

Room 2.26: f.41r

And we’re off to a strong start, because this is the room I’d marked as Februaria’s main laboratory. That means that if the PCs have access to Februaria’s Keyring, this is the room that it can teleport them to. However, in actual fact, the Gatekeepers have the Keyring, so this is the hub of their activity on Level Two — that’s the reason why there are more of them around on this level than on Level One, by the way.

Anyway, the doors to this room are all intact, and appear to be recent constructions rather than an original part of the dungeon. These doors are all large double-door setups, because the original dungeon layout just had these entrances as open passageways, so the Gatekeepers had to built something that filled the space. They’re also actually locked, unlike most of the other doors in the dungeon. If the PCs knock, the Gatekeepers inside the room will answer, but may not let them in unless they’re polite or offer payment. (PCs can also pay to use this room as a safe place to rest, at the same rates as the Gatekeepers charge to use their facilities on the surface.) Pre-built barricades are waiting along the walls next to each of the doors, so that the Gatekeepers can lock the room down if they think a dangerous beaſt is liable to be heading their way.

An additional security feature on the southeast entrance is original to the dungeon, but its reason for being is pointless and inexplicable: the short corridor from that entrance to another passage is concealed by an illusory wall.

The laboratory itself is a huge, octagonal room with a high ceiling held up by sturdy stone pillars. Another of those long counter-and-cabinets arrangements is along the western wall. All the lab equipment, notes, and detritus have long since been cleared away, and now it seems to be in use as a food storage area. In a rough square around the center of the room are eight square stone tables about five feet on a side — the tables are original to the dungeon, and are absolutely covered in cracks, chips (the damage kind, not the food kind), and stains. Many of the table legs are held up by something wedged under them, a few are held together by splint-like arrangements of wood, and one appears to have been fully destroyed and replaced with a stack of bricks. A couple dozen seats can be found at the tables; these are not original. Several are plain-but-functional wooden stools, probably built by whoever made the doors, but there are at least as many makeshift seats that seem to have been created by dragging anything reasonably sturdy and roughly the right height over. There are a couple barrels, several pieces of tree trunk that happened to be about the correct size, and one irregular stone block that may have already been in here. The counter and tables comprise the only remaining items that were in here back when this was a working laboratory.

A number of those unusually friendly squirrels from Room 2.10 seem to have been relocated here, where they serve as pets/mascots for the Gatekeepers assigned to this duty.

The northwest, northeast and southwest portions of the room have wooden partitions set up to provide some measure of security and privacy. They’re not fully their own rooms — they’re less than ten feet high and don’t have ceilings, so they’re closer to large cubicles than anything else — but they do have walls and doors. The room labeled 26a is Tollanus’s quarters; 26c is Wulveva’s quarters; 26b is storage; 26d contains a double row of cots. At any given time, the doors to all except 26d are locked; Wulveva and Tollanus each have a keyring that contains both the key to their own quarters and the key to the storage room. There is also a secret compartment inside 26c, built into the stone wall and original to the dungeon. It opens if you knock thrice on the pillar nearby, and contains a small stash of coins that the operation down here has collected but not bothered to transfer to the main treasury.

There are two Gatekeepers who spend the majority of their time down here, as you may have gathered from the above paragraph. They share the space with whichever rank-and-file members happen to be assigned here at the time — whom you can just give generic level-one stats and randomly-generated names. These two get sub-entries because they’re here virtually 24/7 — they come and go if they have errands elsewhere, but ensure that at any given time at least one of them is present. (Which is easy enough to do; if one of them uses the Keyring to teleport to the surface, the only way the other can leave is to go up through the dungeon.) Helpfully, this page actually has illustrations we can use for them.

Tollanus

Tollanus is a mid-level ranger — at the very least, higher in level than the PCs. He’s in charge of Gatekeeper operations on this level of the dungeon, which is in practice mostly handling the wyvern-breeding project in Room 2.16. Being down in the dungeon at all times wears on him at times, and a lot of his “errands” outside of this room are trips into the surrounding forest to engage in his falconry hobby or just ride around on his horse for a while. (His horse, Fryse, is a pedigree mare kept in the Gatekeepers’ stables above ground.)

Tollanus dresses well and seems a bit of a fop, but that’s really just his “talking to outsiders” face. In fact, he’s ruthless and highly competent. Within his quarters, one might find a well-made but battered set of leather armor and a rather nice longsword. Both are enchanted. Those are mostly for when he travels elsewhere in the dungeon, though; in this room, he delegates the violence to Wulveva. On him at all times is the Figurine of the Watchful Serpent (see Room 1.16) and Februaria’s Keyring.

Wulveva

Wulveva handles security for the Gatekeepers on this level. She’s a serious woman of few words, tall, heavily scarred, and built like a brick sh*thouse. (Yeah, I know you don't have to censor things on Tumblr, but this is a shared podcast account and we bleep on the podcast, so... anyway.) The armor she wears at all times was clearly once impressively gilded, but is now covered in scratches and dings. It, as well as the sword at her hip, is heavily enchanted.

Wulveva is a fairly high-level fallen paladin. This is kind of a retirement gig for her, and a place to hide out in relative comfort. In her previous career, she was actually a paladin of some renown, but it’s unlikely the PCs will recognize her. (If they do, you’ll have to invent a backstory for her yourself, sorry.) Her face isn’t exactly well-known, as she habitually wore — and often still wears — a concealing helmet. The heraldic device on her shield — Or, a lion rampant Vert — is not her own. And, of course, “Wulveva” is an alias.

She’s not fully retired, as far as anyone can figure. She does something, occasionally going out on unspecified errands that nobody is willing to ask about. The Gatekeeper leadership, the only ones aware of her fallen paladin status, have come to the unspoken understanding that they don’t really want to know what kind of “errands” a fallen paladin has.

Though Tollanus and Wulveva are both capable of posing a threat to the PCs, they probably won’t do so unless the PCs have upset the Gatekeepers in some way — or either of them personally. (They do both ping on a detect evil check, though, so this is a bad time to have a trigger-happy paladin.) As long as the PCs are down here with the Gatekeepers’ permission and aren’t doing anything to screw up their operations, Tollanus and Wulveva kind of don’t care. If the PCs are willing to fork over some cash, they may even be helpful; they have a pretty good idea of the layout of this level of the dungeon, and definitely have tips about how to deal with various threats. As mentioned, this room is a safe place to stay overnight for a fee; 26d has enough extra cots for the PCs to use. The contents of room 26b include plenty of dungeoneering equipment and other mundane items; they’re technically for the use of the Gatekeepers assigned to this level, but Tollanus is amenable to selling them to the PCs at a markup, since he can always requisition more from the surface.

Room 2.27: f.41v

The doors of this room are intact, and someone has been making an effort to clean it up a bit. It looks like it’s in the process of being converted into a barn-like arrangement.

Within are several twasuls. They’re a bit like bipedal donkeys, with the long tail you’re beginning to recognize as the sign of something Part Plant. They’re docile-ish (they bite if provoked) but strong, and the Gatekeepers are toying with the idea of trying to domesticate some to see if they can be used as beasts of burden. In concept, it might work, as they’re basically donkeys that eat less and can’t kick you.

Twasul: CR 1, XP 400; N Medium Animal; Init -1; Senses Low-Light Vision; Perception +0

DEFENSE: AC 11, touch 9, flat-footed 11 (-1 Dex, +2 natural); hp 16 (2d8+7); Saves Fort +5, Ref +2, Will +0

OFFENSE: Speed 30 ft.; Melee bite +4 (1d6+3)

STATISTICS: Str 17, Dex 8, Con 14, Int 2, Wis 10, Cha 10; Base Atk +1; CMB +3; CMD 12; Feats Toughness; Skills Survival +2; Special Qualities: Part Plant

SPECIAL ABILITIES:

Part Plant (Ex): Anything that is Part Plant has a flat 50% chance of ignoring any paralysis, poison, or stun effects. They gain +5 to any save against mind-affecting effects and sleep effects on account of their brain working a little different now. Sneak attacks on something that is Part Plant have a 10% failure chance; the organs aren’t all where they’re supposed to be. They can photosynthesize so long as their leaves are exposed to sun during the daylight hours; this cuts their food requirement in half. Their sleep requirements are also halved. Any magical effects that target plants (e.g. control plants) have a 50% chance of working on them; any effect that does damage to plants does half damage to them. To any spell or effect that checks a creature’s type, they count as a plant in addition to their original creature type.

For some reason, this makes Jesus sad:

(That's apropos of nothing; I just saw this bas-de-page image and was struck by his facial expression. Whatever is going on clearly makes him sad.)

Room 2.28: f.42r

As the PCs approach this room, they hear screams and the sound of a struggle. Since we’re very near Room 2.26, there’s a good chance Wulveva or some of the other Gatekeepers will also hear the noise and respond soon, but through a coincidence of timing, the PCs have the opportunity to be first on the scene.

Within the room, a wandering wyvern is attempting to eat a young woman. (The figure on the page is fairly genderless, and most of the illustrations I’ve used for this level are male, so I’m taking the opportunity to add a woman. Or maybe they’re non-binary. You know what, you pick, but I’ll go ahead and use female pronouns for the rest of this entry.) This is Langusa, a random low-level member of the Gatekeepers (give her one level in a class of your choice, preferably not anything too flashy). She decided to get a moment to herself by taking a short walk around the corridors in this section, which is usually a pretty safe choice since the Gatekeepers move about this corner of the dungeon all the time. However, nobody was aware that a wyvern had just wandered in from elsewhere in the dungeon.

That’s right, y’all! Your PCs now get to fight a dragon (technically a dragon) and rescue a maiden (probably not technically a maiden)! Or possibly just also get eaten, who knows. This can also get you some good will with the Gatekeepers, or at least with Langusa.

All right, all caught up to where I was supposed to be five days ago, and that’s the end of Level Two — wait. There’s end-of-level stuff.

Random Encounters

Yep, random encounters for Level Two. To quote the text from Level One:

I recommend rolling on it frequently; since most of the results are more flavor than threat, using it often should help make the dungeon feel alive without making every moment a danger. It’s intended that you roll on it when your party enters a new passage, or the passage turns and a new section becomes visible, or if they stay in the same location for an extended period.

Note that if the PCs camp in the dungeon at night, they have a 100% chance of encountering the Caretakers doing their rounds.

Map

And here’s the map for the whole level, done up digitally.

Now Level Two is done. And it’s only ⅔ the page count of Level One, so clearly I’m making progress in the brevity department.

#dungeon23 #college of grotesque arts #d&d #dnd #dungeons and dragons #pathfinder #medieval art #medieval creatures #medieval

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the-original-b · 5 years ago

Text

Archangel--Chapter 3: the Caruso Calamity

Format: Prose / Fiction, multi-entry

Part in Series: 4 of 9 (Previous Chapter | First Chapter)

Word Count: c. 9,700

Summary: the Specialist follows the trail of clues to an underground lounge, a nightmare space where dreams are made manifest, and unearths truths that were never meant to see the light of day.

Trigger warning(s): blood, violence, sexually suggestive material, torture

The fight had dragged on for thirty rounds, with neither man able to floor the other. Their brows were cut, their movements were slow, and their knuckles bled. The cheer of the spectators and the blaring industrial metal around them faded out of focus while they squared each other up for the next round.

A man in a black suit and shirt with a red tie crossed the catwalk overlooking the fight below him. He made his way toward the back of the building and entered the Red Room, where the proprietor of the establishment rested on a comfortably upholstered sofa between two scantily clad women. In the man’s hand was a cordless phone he had muted.

“I’m sorry to intrude, sir, but he asked for you by name,” he said, handing his boss the phone.

The boss watched the fight unfold on a television screen against the wall. He looked up away from the monitor, over the rim of his tinted lenses at him for a full two seconds before taking the phone. He spread himself over most of the width of the couch, his collared shirt half-unbuttoned to expose his chest. He snaked his left hand out from under the woman leaning on him to retrieve the handset.

“Caruso,” he said, putting it up against his ear.

The voice on the other end was distorted, filtered. “You check the news lately?”

Caruso’s expression flattened. He slithered out from between the two escorts keeping him company and walked out to continue the conversation. “Yeah,” he answered. “Police found six bodies in a Bayside alleyway, done executioner-style, they say.” He stopped on the catwalk overlooking the floor below, where ravers moved to the live music in a drug-induced trance to his right on one side of the floor, while the two contestants he watched on the monitors traded blows in a spot-lit octagonal chain-link cage opposite a bar area to his left on the other. Even from this height he could smell the blood and sweat below him.

“He took them out behind Pharaohs,” the voice explained.

“And I’m sorry for your loss.” He leaned on the handrail, trying to see how many couples he could spot in the dance floor—if it could be called that—foregoing the music and just having sex with each other in the dim red light. The most he ever found at once was twelve.

“Pharaohs,” the voice repeated. “Right in their back yard. He’s working his way down the list.”

“What list?”

“The list..! A few weeks ago Silvio’s entourage goes missing, and his dad goes fire-and-brimstone on him about sleeping with the enemy. And now this—how are you not seeing the pattern here?”

“Because I’m keeping my patrons happy with drugs and trim enough for days,” he explained, looking directly ahead at the booths in the mezzanine, were couples—and often groups—would enter and not come out for sometimes hours, and would leave in varying degrees of undress. “And I’m keeping my boss very happy with 15% off the top. This place is a money-printing factory wrapped in a fortress, and it runs too well with me at its head for him to knock me off, so this sounds more like it’s your problem than mine.”

The voice sighed audibly on the other end. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” it growled. “How! Stupid! Are! You!? All the money, drugs, and puss in the world can’t buy your life from the Powers That Be once this guy exposes you—”

“Once again,” Caruso interrupted, “Your problem. Because if I’m exposed, so are you. And unlike me, The Powers That Be have no reason to keep you alive.” He stood back up and looked over back to the octagon to watch the aftermath of the cage match; one contestant splayed out across the floor with the referee hovering over him, the other fighter with his hands in the air celebrating his victory. He turned and strolled down the catwalk toward the Red Room again, his free hand in his pocket. “You’re supposed to be all-seeing, how’d you miss that little detail?”

The voice was quiet for a while, then spoke up again. “So you’re saying it’s on me. Again.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Now, if you have nothing else to tell me,” Caruso said as he turned the corner and crossed the doorway, “I’m off to go fuck.” He ended the call and handed the phone back to the man who delivered to him, reclaiming his place between the escorts.

~~~~

Krueger stopped running to catch his breath. He bent over, bracing himself on his knees while he looked at the monitor: five-point-zero-one miles in forty-six minutes. His pulse measured 174. He fought to gain control his breathing again, holding it for increasingly long periods of time before releasing and exchanging for fresh oxygen. He held it for longer each time, and eventually his breathing returned to normal. He took one final deep breath before starting back to his car.

His breakfast of oats with fruit and egg whites was almost finished before the buzz of his business phone in his sweatpants pocket got his attention. He swallowed his last bite before answering.

By now he’d recognized the number on the caller ID. “Good morning, Miss Khai,” he said.

“Hello, Krueger,” Khai said. “How’s your weekend?”

“Not bad,” he replied. He stood up to place his dishes in the sink, making a note to wash them when he was off the phone, and took a few steps over to the window to look out at the passing traffic with his espresso. “Placed an order for furniture, caught up on some reading. Even started to work on my Spanish again.”

“¿De Verdad?” Her smile was audible through the phone.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his own mouth. “Sí, estoy aprendiendo.”

“We’ll have to practice together some time!” She was quiet for a few seconds before continuing. “I hate to talk about work on a Sunday, but I compiled some information about the next phase. I can send it to you when you’re ready.”

“Go ahead,” Krueger said. He made his way back across the kitchenette to the living area, its walls marked with blue tape noting the dimensions of the pieces he ordered from Amelia’s. He sat on a worn leather sofa and opened his laptop on the coffee table. He logged in to review her correspondence. “I’m opening it now.” He switched to his headset to free both his hands.

“You remember Daniel Caruso, yes?” she began. “Enforcer-turned-captain, brimming with ruthless ambition and licentiousness. Womanizer, scoundrel, and textbook scumbag.”

“He rings a bell,” Krueger noted. He perused the documents as she spoke, stopping when he recognized the address of the establishment he captained. “Cloud Nyne,” he said, incredulous.

“You’re familiar?”

“I shut it down for an anonymous client some time ago. It was called Brimstone back then.”

“That was you?” Khai was quiet again. “I had read a specialist cleaned it out but I had no idea… you were thorough..!”

“Apparently not thorough enough.” Krueger scrolled down further, examining the photos she included. He saw the patrons genuinely enjoying themselves in the still images. “Appears much tamer than before.”

“That’s just the surface. The old Brimstone club is still very much alive in an underground lounge. Open up the next attachment.”

Krueger did as instructed. “I thought Wells’ people only operated in the boroughs and Long Island. Why send one of his top lieutenants to Hoboken?”

“He didn’t,” Khai clarified. “The Regional Manager hand-picked him; given his inclinations and business savvy, I can’t say I’d have chosen otherwise.”

“I see…” Krueger took a moment to review the schematics. “VIP section?”

“That’s a liberal use of the term, but yes,” she said. “They call it Nyne Circles.”

“As in Dante’s Hell.”

“Top marks,” Khai added. “And believe me when I say all nine circles are present there… cage fights, sex shows, drug use, gambling; if it provokes people’s lowest desires, Nyne Circles hosts it in excess.” She was quiet again. “It’s atrocious, what goes on down there,” she finally noted.

Krueger examined the schematics further. He noted a ground level called Sodom with a bar and small round tables near an elevated octagonal stage enclosed in chain-link fence, and an open space on the opposite side of the floor with second stage facing it. “How is it that nothing has surfaced in public about this place?”

“The staff confiscates cell phones upon entry,” Khai explained. “And there’s a thorough pat-down at a secondary checkpoint before entering. And if anything does happen to make it past the staff, well… the person or people caught with the devices take a dive into the Hudson River.”

Meaning once inside, he would be on his own. “Mhm…” Krueger looked at the illustrations detailing a second mezzanine floor called Gomorrah that featured a small lounge area in one corner and half a dozen walk-in booths adjacent to it along the wall. He had a feeling he knew what they were for. “I take it that means I won’t have any tools for this one.”

“That’s right. Any weapons you need will have to be procured on-site.”

Krueger examined the last of the blueprints. There was a catwalk opposite the mezzanine leading to a place called the Red Room, and further down was an office.

“Still,” Khai continued. “I would suggest coming in for some things.”

“How soon can you meet me at the Armory?”

“I’m home in Westchester, but I can get there in ninety minutes.”

That gave him an hour before he had to leave. “I’ll see you then.” Krueger ended the call and headed back to the kitchen to wash his dishes.

~~~~

Khai held out a passport-sized booklet. “That’s your invitation,” she said. “I pulled some strings and got you VIP status. It’ll get you into the Red Room, where Caruso is likeliest to enjoy the fruits of his kingdom. Although getting him out will be a whole other matter with its own set of problems.”

“I can’t just kill him?” Krueger always believed in the simplest solutions for complex problems.

“As much as I’d love that, no. Wells wants to question him, and see how many other accomplices he worked with.”

Krueger clenched his jaw, only for the briefest moment. “That’s dangerously close to something I don’t agree with.”

“I understand that,” Khai acknowledged. “But it’s the surest way to get to the bottom of everything that’s happened as of late.” She knew it still didn’t sit well with him. She offered him an apologetic look. “It’s unfortunate, but we don’t have a choice.”

Krueger sighed, taking the invitation and reading the inside fold. “Dress to impress,” he said.

“Not a problem for you,” she added playfully. “But I can offer some assistance in that regard.” She gestured a mannequin on the far wall, dressed in a well-fitting suit and collared shirt, and handed him ear protection.

Krueger shot her a look and accepted the earmuffs, watching Khai as she put her own pair on and picked a Desert Eagle up off the table. She slid a fresh .50 Action Express magazine into it and chambered the first round, then held a perfect isosceles stance and squeezed the trigger seven times, emptying the magazine and putting each round into the mannequin’s chest.

When she was done, Krueger took his earmuffs off and looked at her with newfound admiration. “You never cease to surprise, Miss Khai,” he said with an earnest smile. “Impressive.”

“Perks of the job,” she added with a jest grin. “Shooting classes are included in the benefits package.” She placed the empty hand cannon back onto the table and led him over to the bust, removing its jacket and shirt to reveal a vest. Then she peeled the body armor off the rig and showed him what was below.

“Zero penetration,” Krueger noted.

“Ceramic tiles over Kevlar fibers, maintains flexibility without sacrificing durability,” Khai explained, showcasing the bulges in the vest’s inside where it took the bullets. “It’ll hurt—a lot—but you’ll live.”

“Good to know,” Krueger said. “I’ll tell them to aim for my chest.” He took the vest from Khai, examining the damaged and broken fibers visible on the vest’s inside. “You don’t expect me to wear this one?”

“Of course not,” she said. “We have five more in inventory, I’ll supply you with a fresh one.” She led Krueger back toward the table. “Although they are all we have,” she elaborated, “so try not to get shot tonight.”

“No promises, Miss Khai.”

“Mhm,” Khai acknowledged with a slow nod. “Once Caruso’s outside I’ll have a detail of Simon’s guys pick him up. I’ll be there with them to vouch for you, so you won’t have to worry about them harassing you. Good hunting, specialist.”

~~~~

Krueger picked out his outfit when he returned home that afternoon—a medium gray slacks-and-waistcoat combination with a black cuffed shirt and deep red regimental tie with alternating white, gray, and black pinstripes. He decided on black lace-up shoes, and selected a belt and watch to wear with them. He reviewed an old text on basic human anatomy before stealing a few hours to get some rest for what he hoped was the last phase of this job.

It was half-past one in the morning when he arrived at Cloud Nyne, a popular hangout that was equal parts upscale bar and lounge, event space, and nightclub. The main attraction—a games room offering billiards, darts, and tabletop party games was upstairs, and the dance floor was on the ground level. From the first-floor ceiling hung stage- and strobe lights that spot-lit the dancing crowd, and every so often an aerial hoop performer would dip down from the ceiling to tempt and tantalize the patrons below.

But Krueger could see through the shiny new veneers and flashing lights and recognized the bones of the old Brimstone club, now alive with the steady beat of house music. And he knew beneath the festive façades and luminous displays beat the heart of the old beast he once thought he put down for good.

At this hour the patrons had begun to vacate the venue, which made it easier for Krueger to pass between the crowds and make his way to the back of the dance floor, near an emergency exit—or back entrance. He was met by a broad-shouldered doorman in a black suit and shirt with a red tie. He wore an earpiece attached to a coiled wire that disappeared into his shirt collar.

“Sorry, sir,” he said holding his hand up in front of Krueger. “Private party tonight. I can’t let you through.” He noted the glint of a handgun holster in the doorman’s jacket, and naturally assumed he was carrying.

In the old days, Krueger would have just broken the man’s arm and incapacitated him; this time he would have to save the violence for later. “I know,” he said. “I’m meeting somebody inside.” He presented his invitation booklet to them.

The doorman took the booklet and shined a UV-A flashlight on the inside fold. “Looking forward to seeing the Dead Men?”

That was a trick question—they performed there yesterday. “Next time,” Krueger said. He made a mental note to thank Khai for that piece of intel later.

“They’re real crowd pleasers.” The doorman returned Krueger’s pass. “Right through this door, and hang a left at the end of the hall.”

“My thanks.”

Krueger did as instructed, following the dim guide lights on the floor toward the second checkpoint, where he met two more men in black suits and red ties with ear pieces. He removed his wallet and a thick clip of $20 bills from his inside coat pockets, and placed them into a tray along with his invitation. Then he handed his coat to one of the doormen and held his hands out to be frisked.

Once he passed inspection and reclaimed his belongings, he was guided to an old lift that a third man in black and red operated. As the lift descended, the tones and groove of the house music yielded to the rising pulse of a club beat that permeated through Krueger’s bones. Last time he rode this lift he had his hands on a SPAS-12; this time he clasped his hands together, letting them hang in front of his lap.

When the lift finally came to a stop and the gate parted, Krueger stepped forward into a short hallway; on its far wall was a handwritten memo, lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate, and just below that two arrows. The one pointing upward to the left was labelled Gomorrah, the other pointed down and to the right and read Sodom. He went to the right and descended five steps to behold the area before him.

Immediately ahead of him was a collection of small round tables on which the patrons drank and plunged their faces into mountains of…what Krueger could only assume was cocaine, it was hard to tell in the red light. To his right was a well-appointed bar behind which a singular woman in a corset and not much else took orders for drinks and drugs, and accepted generous tips. To his left was the octagonal cage he had seen in Khai’s report. Around it spectators gathered and cheered, separated from the objects of their obsession by chain-link fence. Krueger couldn’t see much of what was inside the cage—all he could readily identify was one person’s head buried in the crotch of another seated person, whose head in turn was buried between the legs of a third, standing person.

Krueger weaved between the tables and found an empty spot on the far side of the bar. He ordered a whiskey neat and faked slow sips while he scanned the room some more. He kept his drink in front of him while he turned in his stool and looked across the space at the patrons writhing with each other to the DJ’s music on the dance floor, and turned his gaze upward to the mezzanine where he could see couples leaning on the banister and looking down below at the spectacle, whispering in each other’s ears. He looked directly above him at the catwalk leading to the Red Room at the back of the establishment, where he knew his prey was roosting. By now he had hoped he would have some kind of exit strategy, but the more he scanned the room, the more it seemed there was only one exit. And it was the same as the entrance.

Krueger got up from the bar, leaving his drink on one of the tables for somebody else to finish, and made his way up to the Gomorrah level, where he himself leaned on the handrail to get a better look at the faces in the crowd below him. He spotted one face in the crowd looking back up at him on the mezzanine.

The grim-looking person looking up at him wore a dark suit and tie with a white shirt—conservative dress in a place where there wasn’t a single white shirt in sight, not even among the staff. Krueger shot a look to his left to see another person, identically dressed looking across to the catwalk, where he in turn spotted a third and fourth. He looked back down and quickly found two more of them.

This was no coincidence, Krueger thought. These men in uniform were here after the same person he was. Of course Heimdallr would try to tie loose ends. He knew they couldn’t have brought weapons into the club with them, but realized they wouldn’t have to—not when they could incapacitate the guards and take theirs, knowing the patrons wouldn’t care while otherwise occupied with drugs, drinks, and sex. All hell could break loose within these walls and nobody would even know until it was far too late, if at all.

How many more were there? How many upstairs? How could Krueger not spot them sooner? “Hundesohn..!” he cursed.

“My guy upstairs tells me you have a VIP pass!” a good-looking, stocky man in an ivory suit and carmine red shirt announced. He approached Krueger from his left, one hand on the narrow waist of a woman in black stilettos, thigh-high stockings and a satin robe; his other hand on a champagne flute. “Happy to see you’re getting the most of your experience here!” He wore tinted lenses and had a wide grin; the woman next to him held a smirk and two more flutes.

Krueger recognized this king of the castle immediately, and he was sure Heimdallr’s men did too. “Of course, Mr. Caruso,” he said, saving face and matching his tone. It was the only way two people could hold a conversation amidst the loud music.

“I guess my reputation precedes me..!” Caruso said with a laugh. He radiated charisma and confidence. “Tell me, friend,” he said as he finished his champagne. “Did you come alone?”

“Unfortunately my friend couldn’t make it.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” he disclosed, gesturing the grinning woman on his arm. “Because Tara here was just looking for a friend to spend tonight with!” Caruso guided Tara toward him; she handed Krueger one of the champagne flutes with a friendly smile.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Caruso.” Krueger accepted the flute as Caruso walked away from the two of them. “Tell me,” he called out after him. “Is the Red Room open?”

“It will be in about an hour!” Caruso noted with boisterous laughter. He turned back and beckoned three other escorts dressed like Tara to follow him there.

“I see you’re a man who knows why he’s here..!” Tara said, lifting her glass.

“You can say that.” Krueger brought his glass to hers and watched Tara as she sipped from it. He brought the glass to his own lips and took a minuscule sample from the flute, letting rest on his tongue and not tasting anything bitter or uncharacteristic, but covertly spit it back into the glass. He maintained that he couldn’t take the chance with anything offered here.

“We still have an hour before the Red Room opens. Let’s talk a little.” Tara took Krueger by the hand to one of the six booths on the back wall. He left his champagne on the handrail, and looked quickly over his shoulder to try and spot Heimdallr’s men again. They had moved, likely into position, and Krueger couldn’t find them before Tara turned the corner and pulled him into the booth after her.

She slid the lock into place and looked back at Krueger, flashing him a coquettish smirk and circled him, swaying her hips as she walked and letting the robe fall off her shoulders to advertise her slim frame, stocking suspenders, black lace thong, and matching brassiere. In this light, Krueger could get a better look at her. She was maybe forty, with dark-rooted platinum blonde hair cut in a bob and green eyes.

Tara placed her half-finished champagne glass on a small circular table in the center of the booth, and took a seat on the wrap-around couch opposite the door, crossing her long, shapely legs and inviting Krueger to join her with a libidinous look.

Anyone else would have been tempted by her that day. “Tara, right?” Krueger said, taking a seat next to her.

“That’s me,” she charmed. “And what do I call you?”

“Not important.”

Tara chuckled. “I think I’ll call you Arthur, then.”

She didn’t address him by either name; that meant she wasn’t with Caruso or Heimdallr. That also meant she was innocent. “Tara, I need you to do something for me,” Krueger appealed.

“For a hundred bucks an hour, I’ll do whatever you want me to, handsome.” She leaned in close to him, running her fingertips on his chest

“Anything?”

“Anything,” she purred. Inches separated her lips from his.

Krueger took her hand and placed several bills into her palm, curling her fingers around it. “Here’s one-forty. I want you to get out of here, quickly.”

Tara recoiled. “Wait, what?”

“There are men here to kill Daniel Caruso. I counted six of them, and I’m betting there’s more.”

Tara scoffed at first, but her skepticism evaporated as Krueger stared at her unblinking. Terror consumed her. “Oh, God,” she gasped. “You’re serious..!”

“I am,” he confirmed. “And I’m here to protect him from them. They’re not here for you or anyone else, so leave now while you can. Before the shooting starts.”

Tara sat in disbelief, staring at the door for a few seconds before she nodded, stood up, and reclaimed her robe from the floor. She hastily put it on over herself and went for the door, Krueger right behind her.

Before leaving, Tara turned around and looked at him. “You know, he probably wouldn’t have given me that heads-up. So thanks for that.” Krueger watched her take her leave, heading for the lift and eventually, probably, her coat upstairs. He instead headed for the catwalk, making his way to the Red Room where a bouncer was waiting outside the door.

“Sir,” the bouncer said, “you’re gonna have to wait for—”

Krueger stopped him with quick strikes to the sides of his neck, just above the collarbones. The bouncer fell limp immediately, and Krueger held onto the bouncer’s jacket to slow his fall. “Thank me when you wake up,” he said, stepping over the fallen bouncer and walking in on Caruso with his pants undone underneath the three escorts.

Caruso sprang to face the door. “What the f—!”

“You three,” Krueger commanded, “out. Now. You—pull your pants up. I’m getting you out of here.”

Horrified, the escorts covered themselves and darted out of the room, passing Krueger on either side of him. Caruso’s ire began to boil as he stood back up and fastened his belt. “What the fuck are you doing in here, asshole!?”

“Saving your life,” Krueger continued. He threw Caruso’s jacket at him to put back on. “There are men here tonight who want to kill you; your bosses hired me to stop that from happening.”

“What are you talking about?” Caruso added, incredulous. “Only people here with guns are my own—”

“They’re going to incapacitate your staff, possibly even kill them, and take their weapons. Then they’ll turn them against you… it’s how I would do it.”

“How—”

“It’s a dark, crowded space; you of all people should know how easy it is to get away with anything here.” He took Caruso by the lapels and pulled him up to straighten his posture. “Now do exactly as I say and we might make it out of here alive—”

Heimdallr’s men had other plans—the door burst open again, and through it came three of the men clad in white shirts. They wedged themselves between Krueger and Caruso, the three of them pinning him up against the wall as they checked him for weapons.

“We got the specialist,” one of them said into his shirt collar communicator for the other two to hear. “He’s unarmed.”

“Don’t take any chances,” another one said as he got himself off Krueger and moved toward Caruso. “He’s dangerous.” He pulled from his waist a Glock 17 and held it up to Caruso’s forehead.

Krueger knew what he had to do next, but knew it could kill Caruso if done incorrectly. He also knew if he didn’t act, they would both die.

He wasn’t going to waste any more time weighing his lack of options—the instant he felt a shift in their weight he muscled through their grip and grabbed onto the first rigid thing he could feel on the other person. His finger found the trigger and squeezed three times as he pulled his hand back, sending shockwaves up his wrist and into his elbow as 9mm rounds entered each of the assailants. Once the three men in white shirts fell he raised the gun with both hands and pointed it at the door.

He waited, frozen with his finger on the trigger as Caruso collapsed to the floor to his right. When he was sure it was safe to breathe again, he lowered the handgun and visually inspected Caruso. There was no damage he could see on him, so Krueger released the magazine to examine the rounds loaded in the gun.

As he suspected, they were hollow points. If Caruso’s men ever had to shoot somebody inside the walls of the establishment, they could do so with virtually no risk of collateral damage. For a moment he admired Caruso’s ingenuity in equipping his staff as such.

Peripherally, he caught movement from one of the dying men on the floor; he slid the magazine back into the grip then quickly raised the gun and finished him with a single well-placed shot. Then inspected himself, finding blood all over the front of his waistcoat and tie. There was probably more of it on his slacks, shoes, and shirt, but he would have to worry about them later. “Verdammt,” he signed. He kept his gun trained on the doorway as he undid one of his shirt cuffs and folded it twice up his arm and rolled it up to his elbow, then switched hands to do the other sleeve. He took a few measured steps toward the door and quickly glanced down the catwalk, but found no more incoming threats. For once, he was grateful for the loud music—it bought him precious seconds more while the enemy below remained unaware of what happened. But he couldn’t waste any more time.

Krueger lowered the gun and returned to Caruso. “Are you alright?” He knelt down in front of the other man.

Caruso blinked twice and nodded, clearly shaken. “Yeah… got blood on my suit, but yeah I think so.”

“Do you want to live?”

“Wha—?”

Krueger slapped Caruso clear across his cheek. “Do you want to live, Mr. Caruso?”

Caruso held that side of his face with both hands. “Yeah! Yeah, I want to live! Get me the hell out of here!”

Krueger pulled the other man to his feet. “Then do exactly as I say,” he repeated.

“Alright.” Caruso’s enemies had breached his fortress and attacked him where he was most vulnerable. The king of the castle was exposed, and all of his confidence, charisma, and ego were long gone now. “Alright, I can do that.”

“Good man.” Krueger stepped over to the fallen men, checking for their guns and taking the magazines from them. “Is there an exit other than the lift at the front?”

“Just one,” Caruso said. “There’s a secret door in one of the mezzanine booths. Leads to a stairwell that takes us to the alleyway behind the building. I can have my guys pick us up a few blocks away.”

Krueger put the magazines in his trouser pockets and went for the doorway again, peering over his right shoulder down the catwalk and spotting two more men in white shirts coming their way with their handguns drawn. “Then let’s get there, we don’t have time to waste.” He moved the Glock to his left hand and popped out of cover to fire four times, dropping both of them before they could react. He suspected the other patrons would soon catch wind of what has happening, and would start to panic.

“The key’s in my office,” Caruso added. “It’s just across the hall.”

“Go,” Krueger commanded, keeping his gun ready and eyes ahead. “Go..!”

Caruso darted across the hall to his office door, bursting through it to get behind the desk and break open the locked drawer to retrieve the key.

Three more men in suits ascended the stairs at the end of the catwalk and started shooting. Krueger ducked back into cover. “Get behind something, Mr. Caruso!” he shouted across the hallway. Suddenly he could hear himself again, as the music had cut and the patrons could hear everything now. As Krueger expected, they panicked and rushed for the exit lift. For better or worse, this meant any other of Heimdallr’s men in suits would be trapped with the masses, meaning they wouldn’t be able to join Krueger and Caruso on the second floor.

But first, he had to deal with these three, and make it across to the booths. He retreated deeper into the Red Room and waited until their bullets stopped hitting the doorway before dropping to one knee and raising his gun again, waiting for the three of them to inspect the rooms.

The first one to cross his line of sight turned into the dark office; the second began turning into the Red Room before Krueger shot him twice in the chest rapidly, sprang to his feet and shot him a third time before he rushed past him to the second man. As he turned with the gun Krueger stopped it by grabbing onto its slide with his left hand and holding tight while he pressed the barrel of his own gun into the man’s gut, firing twice. As he lurched forward, Krueger brought his left knee up into the man’s nose and knocked him backward to the floor. Immediately Krueger dropped the other man’s gun in his left hand and moved to place his shin across the fallen man’s neck, turning to face the doorway just as the third of Heimdallr’s men came into view. One-handed, he squeezed the trigger four times to clear the magazine and kill the intruder.

He returned to his feet, looking down at the now-deceased man below him, and swapped the spent magazine for a fresh one, chambering the first round. For the first time since the shooting started, he could hear the screams of the panicking crowd below him. He almost would rather have heard the deafening music.

“Mr. Caruso?” he called out.

Caruso popped his head out from behind his desk, his hands up by his ears.

“Do you have the key?”

He dropped one hand to retrieve it and held it up. “Right here,” he replied.

“Then arrange for pickup and let’s move.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice..!” Caruso hit a silent alarm button under his desk before standing up to join Krueger at the office doorway. The two of them kept their heads low as they began to cross the catwalk.

Gun fire from the panicking crowd below put a halt on their designs. Krueger immediately sprawled to the floor, and Caruso followed suit, holding his head down and yelping “oh-shit, oh-shit” to anybody who would listen.

Krueger took him by the back of the neck, pressing his fingers firmly on one side and his thumb on the other. “On your feet, Mr. Caruso,” he commanded. “We are leaving!” He pulled him up from the floor and maintained a squat as he led Caruso in a sprint to the stairwell and threw him across the gap in the wall that led downstairs to the main floor. Krueger himself stayed behind to check the stairs quickly before joining him on the other side. He spotted at least two of Heimdallr’s hitmen in the crowded entry, but couldn’t risk shooting at them with so many others in the same space.

Krueger followed Caruso to the last of the six mezzanine booths, keeping his head low to avoid gunfire from below as Caruso worked to open the secret door. He turned around just in time to take two rounds in his torso, one in his upper right chest and the other in his lower left abdomen.

He fell onto his back and immediately took a supine stance, holding his Glock steady between his spread knees and sighting the two men the spotted earlier. He fired seven times in rapid succession at them, a lot more than was necessary.

Khai was right about the armor—it stopped the bullets but did nothing about the pain. “Scheisse..!” he hissed, slowly sitting back up and keeping the gun pointed at the main stairwell. He got to his knees and eventually returned to his feet before stepping backwards into the last booth to follow Caruso up the hidden stairwell to the secret exit. He made a point to leave the door open and allow the patrons to see the light that spilled into the dark space and guide them out of there.

~~~~

When they arrived on street level, Caruso led Krueger through the alley down several blocks to the meeting location. “Hide the gun,” he advised, his words forming a chimney plume in the cold night air. “Back in the basement I hit a silent alarm to signal some of my guys to get me here, like we talked about. They’ll want to know who you are.”

Krueger knew it wasn’t his men that would be there to get him. “That won’t be a problem, Mr. Caruso,” he said coolly.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” By now, a few of Wells’ people had begun arrived on scene.

“They were made aware of who I am, and know why I’m here.” Krueger held the gun at waist level and pointed it at Caruso. “Unfortunately when I said I was hired to get you out of the building, I neglected to share the details.”

Caruso’s admiration for the specialist was replaced by rage in that instant. “Oh, you’ve gotta be f—”

“Somebody close to Simon Wells implanted surveillance equipment in his conference room phone,” Krueger explained, “thereby allowing his enemies to act on stolen information.”

“You expect me to believe you? You might have gotten me out of there alive but I don’t even know you. For all I know, you’re just the hundredth guy to point a gun at me today.” More of Wells’ associates gathered around them now—they numbered about a dozen.

“I don’t expect you to believe me, Mr. Caruso, I expect you to believe your own… there were only three of you Simon Wells trusted enough to leave unattended in his conference room: CJ Silvio isn’t clever enough to mastermind something like that, and Henry Everett would cut his own heart out before betraying the Partners. But it was Everett that named you directly, even if process of elimination didn’t point me to you.”

Caruso looked to the men and women around them. “You’re just gonna stand there and let this guy spew all this bullshit? Do something..!”

“They won’t. Because they’re not with you.” Krueger shot a quick look to his left and then returned his gaze to Caruso. “Are they, Miss Khai?”

“No, specialist.” Khai emerged from her subordinates, an overcoat folded over her arms. “These fine ladies and gentlemen aren’t with him, they’re with me.” She took a few measured steps toward Caruso. “Exemplary work as always, Krueger.”

Krueger lowered the gun. His part in this was finished. “Danke schön.”

Caruso crossed his arms in contempt as Khai walked up to him. “Liz Khai,” he snarled. “Hayden’s pet harpy. Should’ve known you were behind this smear job somehow, you two-timing bitch.”

Khai smirked. Even dead to rights the man maintained his innocence. “Are you seriously going to lecture me about duplicity?” she commented.

“I’ll do what I want to you. You may keep Simon’s head on straight, but I’ve made more money for him in a week than you’ve done for him in a year..!” He took a confrontational step toward her. “It’s your word against mine, honey.”

“I know,” she continued. “That’s why you’re going to tell him.” She signaled three of her associates to collect Caruso and take him to be questioned, as the others disappeared into the cold night.

Then she walked up to Krueger, eyeing him up and down and giving him a questioning look.

No doubt she was asking about the blood on his tie, waistcoat, slacks, and shoes. “Don’t worry,” Krueger said. “None of it is mine.”

“But those are,” she said, motioning the bullet holes. “I thought I asked you not to get shot.” She handed him the coat in her arms.

“I don’t seem to recall making such a promise.” He traded the Glock in his hand for the coat, and she put it into her own inside coat pocket. “How good is Mr. Wells’ laundry?” He grimaced as he slid his arms through the sleeves and let it fall over his shoulders—adrenaline had reduced the pain of taking the rounds through the body armor, but now that it was filtering out of his blood he was starting to feel it all over again.

She looked back at the stains on his outfit. “Not that good, I’m afraid. But his tailor is superb. I’ll book you an appointment in the morning.”

“Much appreciated.” He put his hands into his coat pockets and looked off in the direction Danny Caruso was taken. “So what happens now?”

“Now?” She put her hands in her own pockets and looked in the same direction. “Police shut down the Nyne Circles, it gets replaced by something worse in a year or so, and the Partners pick somebody else to run it.”

She was probably right about every word. Krueger had witnessed that very sequence of events, after all. “Ja,” he nodded. “Das klingt richtig.”

~~~~

A box of donuts sat on a table top between Khai and Krueger in a small room with a single door and no mirrors. He turned his wrist upward to look at his watch. It read 03:20, which meant Simon Wells had worked on Danny Caruso for half an hour, subjecting him to all manner of discomfort. But he waited in silence beside Khai for the entire thirty minutes in the next room for him to finish. There was no mirror connecting the rooms, but they heard every chilling second of what happened over a set of speakers wired into the room.

This what the part of the job he never handled himself—torture didn’t sit well with him for personal reasons. Even when he led his own group years ago he almost never set foot into an interrogation room to extract information from the person or people being questioned.

Despite it all, in this instance he felt he could accomplish the job much more efficiently, saving a lot of time, pain, and bloodshed.

Finally, Simon Wells stepped into the observation room with Khai and Krueger, wiping his hands off with a towel. “Son of a bitch is tough,” he sighed. “I mean I’ve thought of everything to do to this guy and he’s not giving up a thing.”

“Maybe doing everything isn’t enough,” Krueger noted. “Maybe you only need to do one thing to get what you need from men like him.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Fear.” He stood up, unbuttoning his waistcoat and undoing his shirt collar. “He’s not talking because he’s not afraid of you.” He draped his waistcoat over the back of the chair, and laid his tie on top of it, fully aware of his decision to intervene. “He’s terrified of me.”

“So you want a crack at him? You’re welcome to try, but I’ve broken every bone in him I could think of. I don’t think you’re going to get very far with him.”

“Just let me work, Mr. Wells. I’ll get what you need from him.” He picked the Glock 17 he used before up off the table and placed it in his slacks. Then went to enter the room as Simon took a seat next to Khai.

The first thing Krueger noticed when he entered the room was the smell of blood. He took a look at a small table to Caruso’s right, noting a pair of pliers, a claw hammer, and a straight razor all covered in it. He looked and saw a baseball bat leaning against the table as well, and heard Caruso’s labored breathing. He made sense of what happened and walked around to Caruso’s front, putting on a pair of latex gloves and picking up a shred of fabric that was once part of the shirt Caruso wore before pulling up a chair and straddling it to face him.

Caruso was tied down to the wooden chair, slumped over and stripped down to his underwear, having fallen so far from when Krueger first laid eyes on him. He could have been mistaken for dead—motionless with growing purple blotches up and down his body and blood dripping from his nose and mouth—if not for the audible breathing. Simon likely broke some ribs, possibly punctured some organs.

“He started with the bat, didn’t he?” Krueger suggested.

“Fuck you,” Caruso croaked.

“He started with your legs. Then he worked his way up to your ribs. Judging from the bruising all around your back and shoulders, he didn’t stop there. Not for a long time at least.”

Caruso’s silence confirmed it.

“Then he went to the hammer. Probably started with your hands and then pounded at your feet. After he broke every bone he could with it, he bound them to the chair.” Krueger stood up, making his way back around behind Caruso and pulling his head back by the chin to see his face. Caruso let a quiet whimper slip out when Krueger moved his face.

“Then he moved up to the razor,” Krueger continued, looking him in the eye as he did, “cutting you again and again until what’s left would turn even the most desperate woman away. And then when he lost patience, he graduated to the pliers and started excising molars one at a time.” He pressed Caruso’s cheeks with his thumb and finger, drawing another pained groan from the man tied down. “Five, by my count.” He released Caruso. “He got lazy—I wouldn’t have stopped until after pulling the other seven.”

“What the fuck do you want, man!?” Caruso yelled.

Krueger inhaled. “To be done with this, Mr. Caruso. I don’t enjoy torture—it’s barbarous amateurism at best and sadism at worst. And pain is such an unreliable motivator. I’ve always felt excitement to be more effective.”

“You think you can tempt me with anything—?”

“Of course I can’t, I’m not a fool. But there’s another emotion that motivates people, and it’s far more effective than excitement or pain.” Krueger tied the shred of fabric around Caruso’s eyes, blindfolding him. “Fear.”

“I’m not afraid of Liz Khai’s pet hitman..!”

“No, Mr. Caruso, you are. Fear was in your eyes when I freed us both in the Red Room, and again when I cleared your office.” He returned to his original place in front of Caruso. “You looked at me with fear, and because you fear me, you did exactly as I ordered. And you’ll do as I say again.”

Once again, Caruso’s silence confirmed it.

“Now we already know you planted the microphone in Mr. Wells’ conference room phone. Just tell me why.”

Caruso lifted his head back up to face the direction from which he heard Krueger’s voice. “Fuck! You! Kraut!”

Krueger sighed. “I had hoped we could do this without resorting to violence,” he disclosed. Then he kicked Caruso in the chest, forcing him to land onto his bound, broken wrists.

He let out a high-pitched shriek unlike any he had while Simon worked on him.

Krueger drew his handgun and pulled the slide back, releasing it and chambering a round with a loud click. “Tell me, Mr. Caruso,” he began, “Do you know what that is?”

“Wha—?”

Krueger fired at the floor, landing the bullet next to Caruso’s ear, drawing a yelp from him. “How about now? Do you know what that is?”

“A gun!” he screamed. “It’s a gun!!”

“That’s right, it’s a gun. Do you know what I’m going to do if you don’t tell me what I want to know?”

“…wha-what, you’re gonna kill me?”

“Not immediately,” Krueger corrected. “I’ll shoot you low in the bowel. Your body cavity will fill with excrement, and you’ll become septic. You’ll be in so much pain that all you can do is scream and cry. You’ll beg for somebody to come and kill you. Then you’ll probably go into shock. And then you’ll die. Eventually. It might take a few days, I’ve never been able to get an exact measurement… Now,” he said, stepping over Caruso and placing the still-hot barrel on his stomach right over where his descending colon would be. “I’m going to count to three. And if you don’t tell me exactly what I and Mr. Wells want to know, I’m going to shoot you in the stomach, leave you here to die alone, and have Miss Khai get what we need from your personal records.”

Caruso began to cry quietly under Krueger. Still, he kept his mouth shut.

“Eins…”

Caruso started shifting in the chair, but bound as he was, he didn’t move a whole lot.

“Zwei…”

Caruso started whimpering audibly.

“Drei..!” Krueger pressed the Glock into Caruso’s stomach and tightened his grip, moving his finger to the trigger.

“Alright!!” Caruso couldn’t take it anymore. “Alright, I’ll talk, just stop! Stop!!”

Krueger put the handgun away and pulled the chair back onto its legs. “Start talking, then,” he ordered.

“I planted the mic, yeah. But it wasn’t mine. I was paid to do it for somebody else.”

“Heimdallr,” Krueger surmised.

“Who?”

“That’s it. Three..!” Krueger drew the gun again.

“No!!” Frantic, Caruso nearly jumped out of the chair. “I don’t know who that is! I swear on my grandma’s grave I never heard that name before!”

“Then what name have you heard?”

“Orham,” he said. “His name was Orham. I swear to you, I’ve never heard of a Hymn Dollar.”

Which meant Orham didn’t start calling himself Heimdallr until after his deal with Caruso, when he had direct access to the most closely kept secrets of one of the country’s most profitable criminal enterprises. Only afterward did he call himself all-seeing. So why try to reach Silvio after he had what he needed from the Branch? Maybe to break into the Southeast Region… or something else. Krueger wasn’t going to get anywhere by theorizing. “What is Orham after?”

“If he has some sort of grand plan,” Caruso confessed, “he didn’t share it with me. All he had me do was plant the bug. I swear to you that’s the whole truth.”

Then there was no point in continuing this conversation. “I believe you, Mr. Caruso,” Krueger said before putting the handgun down on the floor next to him. “Thank you for your cooperation.” He started for the door.

“Wait,” Caruso enquired, almost relieved, “so you’re not going to shoot me in the stomach?”

“I’m not.” Krueger confirmed. “But I can’t say for sure what Mr. Wells will do to you.” He left Caruso blindfolded in the empty interrogation room.

When Krueger returned to the observation room, he was met with a congratulatory handshake from Simon. “Well done, Krueger,” he said. “I should have had you do this from the get-go; we would have saved ourselves some time.”

“I’m a professional, Mr. Wells,” Krueger articulated, “not a monster. Consider what I just did a favor. One I won’t do again.”

“Not for free, at least,” Simon jested. He turned to Khai to include her in the conversation. “We have our man,” he said to both of them.

“But not a location.”

“My contact in Marine Park is working on that,” Khai added. “I’ll forward him what we found out just now, with the devices we’ve given him and the name we got from Caruso he should be able to give us GPS coordinates accurate to the half-mile.”

“That sounds like great news,” Simon said, “and I’m sure we’ll have more on that story as it develops.” He turned away from them and headed for the door. “Go home, you two. Get some rest and we’ll reconvene in the afternoon.” He motioned the interrogation room next door. “I still have work to do.” He shut the door behind him as he walked out the room.

Khai walked over to the speaker system on the far wall and turned it off. She decided she didn’t need to hear what would become of Danny Caruso. She looked back at Krueger, taking a few steps toward him. “You okay?” she asked.

Krueger grimaced, avoiding her eyes. “We didn’t have to force it out of him,” he said. “We could have avoided all of this.”

Khai nodded. “I understand how you feel about all of this,” she said, offering consolation with a hand placed gently on his forearm. “And I’m sorry for putting you in this position.” She stroked the skin a little with her thumb. “But it’s almost over, now. We’ll find Orham and get this whole mess cleaned up.”

A half-smile tugged at the corner of Krueger’s mouth. “And then?” He turned to look at her, and again her big brown eyes cut right through him, rendering him vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Khai shrugged, pulling her hand back. “Then it’s back to business as usual,” she said. “I go back to Branch management and you…” She looked away from him briefly, then reclaimed his eyes. “You take the next job from the next client.”

“That’s a shame,” Krueger noted. “I rather liked working with you.” His eyes lingered on her lips for a moment before he looked back up at her face—a face framed perfectly by her black wavy hair. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Good night, Miss Khai.” He turned to retrieve his bloody clothes from the chair and headed for the door.

The following afternoon—Monday—Krueger sat in the waiting area in front of Simon Well’s conference room. He noted the new placement of surveillance cameras to cover the blind spot he found the other day and smirked as he finished his water.

The receptionist behind the desk answered her ringing phone, listened to the voice on the other end, and placed it back in the cradle. “Mr. Krueger?” she said.

Krueger raised his brow to acknowledge her.

“Miss Khai and Mr. Wells are ready for you now.”

“Perfect,” he said. “Thank you.”

Krueger stood up, taking his water with him to conference room where Khai and Simon already sat. Simon wore a pale gray suit with a deep purple shirt and brown loafers; Khai wore a conservative navy suit and pale gray blouse with black pumps. Krueger, dressed in a dark gray crew neck sweater and khaki slacks with black lace-up shoes didn’t feel underdressed.

“There he is,” Simon said, gesturing him from behind his desk. “The man of the hour..! Tell him the good news, Khai.”

She turned in her chair to face him. “We found him,” she said. “Miles Orham: information dealer. For the past decade, he’s made a living selling secrets to small-scale criminal organizations. He moved up in the world when he started doing business for the Company, and after his deal with Caruso to spy on Mr. Wells, he began calling himself Heimdallr, the all-seeing.”

“But he got careless,” Simon added. “Greedy, even; either way he couldn’t cover his tracks in time. Now we got the son of a bitch.”

Krueger hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Where is Orham now?”

“Currently, he operates out of a self-sustaining cabin in the woods off of Interstate-81. Northeast Pennsylvania. We can’t expect him to stay there for long, though. Not with everything that’s happened as of late, so we have to move in as soon as possible.”

“Rules of engagement?”

Simon put his hands together. “Scorched Earth, Krueger,” he said. “I mean it, full Dresden. Nothing left.”

Krueger shifted a little. “With respect, sir, I have to disagree.”

“Say again?”

“I suggest we retrieve what information we can before destroying everything. It may be useful to you.”

“I’m with Krueger on this one,” Khai added. “That place is a potential goldmine, especially if he’s been dealing with so many operations. Think of the leverage you’d have on every independent crook and gangster he’s ever dealt with. That information could be instrumental in folding them into our operations.”

After a brief pause, Simon smiled and chuckled. “That’s why I pay you two the big bucks!” he laughed. “I love it—you two get in and recover the data. After that, do what you want with Orham. Fold him in or take him out, I guess it doesn’t really matter in the end.”

Krueger arched his brow. “Two?”

“That’s right,” Khai said. “I’ll be with you on this one. We’ve acquired a state-of-the-art reconnaissance drone from some associates in high places. I’ll be able to give you visual support for this operation.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Krueger said, hiding his excitement. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. There’s more good news,” Khai said with a grin. “The order from Heckler & Koch arrives tonight. You’ll have your weapons for this assignment.”

“That is good news, Miss Khai. I look forward to working with you in the field.” He looked back at Simon. “Is there anything else you need from me today?”

“No,” he said, swiveling in his chair. “I think that about covers it.”

“Then I’ll take my leave,” he said with a nod. He turned and headed for the door.

“Rest well, Specialist Krueger,” Khai said. She then excused herself shortly afterward to return to her office and review the information one more time. For as long as she worked with the Branch, Khai had never actually been out in the field, and she needed to ensure everything ran smoothly.

(Next Chapter | Masterlist)

#fiction #original work #original content #original fiction #prose #creative writing #drama #crime fiction

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chiselarts · 5 years ago

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mytripadvisor-blog · 8 years ago

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6 best baths in Budapest

Enjoy a long hot soak at one of these luxurious bath houses in the 'City of Spas'.

Fancy de-stresssing from the daily grind? Got some r&r, or perhaps even discover the secret to eternal youth, in one of these beautiful bath houses.

Image source : Travel Agents in UK

Since the Bronze Age people have been bathing in Budapest’s natural thermal waters, believing them to cure lots of ailments, from skin conditions to stress. Whatever the medicinal properties might be of a mineral spring, few can deny the simple pleasure of a good, hot bath – and Budapest has these in abundance.

In fact, the so-called _City of Spas has _more than one hundred springs bubbling beneath it and the bath houses are a hub of Hungarian everyday life. Business meetings, chess matches, romantic dates and family parties all take place in these pools, making a dip a tradition rather than an indulgence. Here’s our pick of the best places to get soaking:

1. Gellert

A great choice if you only have time for one and are happy to tarry with the tourists. The Gellert has a beautiful tiled main pool for swimming (caps required) as well as indoor and outdoor thermal pools. The Art Nouveau steam baths are lovely, though this is one of the baths best visited in summer when the large open-air wave pool is open and the shaded terraces offer a relaxing spot in the heart of the city. There are also English-speaking staff and a range of additional treatments, such as Thai massage and private bathing

2. Szechenyi

This vast Neo-baroque bath in the heart of the city’s main park is ideal on sunny days, when the three outdoor pools really come into their own. Swimming caps are compulsory in the main swimming pool, where serious swimmers plough up and down. For a more sedentary soak, we recommend you stick to the whirlpool and the hot pool, where people play chess (bring your own set if you want to join in). Always mixed sex, this is an ideal choice for couples; use the rear entrance (from Állatkerti körút) for easier access to the private cabins. There are pool parties here on Saturday nights in summer too.

3. Kiraly

This is one of Budapest’s oldest baths, as well as one of its smallest. Built by the Turks in the 16th century, it retains much of its Turkish architecture including the traditional octagonal roof. It’s a beautiful place to relax, in four thermal pools said to help arthritis and joint problems, plus a steam bath and sauna. Once popular with the gay community, today it appeals more to couples with its daily mixed bathing. There are also treatments such as underwater jet massage and pedicures.

4. Rudas

Right on very edge of the Danube, Rudas has the best view from any Budapest bath – the circular whirlpool on the roof’s new Wellness section overlooks the river and Pest beyond. This is one of the city’s original Turkish baths, built in the 16th century, and when the sun breaks through the holes in the dome above the indoor octagonal pool there is nowhere lovelier for a soak. Mixed days here are Saturdays and Sundays, during the week it’s women only on Tuesdays, the rest of the days are men only. The Wellness area is mixed every day though and there’s mixed night bathing on Fridays and Saturdays from 10pm-4am too.

5. Veli Bej

Top pick of the Turkish-style baths is this complex at the Csaszar Hotel. It dates from the 16th century but the features are thoroughly modern, from the glass ceilings right down to the infra-sauna, which is heated by infrared light. Under the Turkish dome you’ll find the traditional octagonal pool, dimly lit for relaxation, with four smaller pools surrounding it with water of varying temperatures. Veli Bej is mixed sex at all times, but note that the numbers are limited so on weekends you may find it full.

6. Lukacs

Want something more local? Few tourists make it to Lukacs, and you won’t find grand architectural flourishes here. What you will find are five thermal pools, said to cure all sorts of joint and spinal problems. Look out for the marble tables proclaiming the gratitude of those cured here and don’t miss a chance to drink the therapeutic waters. The pools are arranged in two courtyards and there is also a steam room and sauna, plus a hospital offering water-based medical treatments.

A few tips:

Buy your entry ticket at the booth (penztar) on arrival. You’ll be given a plastic wristwatch-style key to get you through the turnstiles and into the baths. If you want to change in private you’ll need to stump up extra for a cabin, which is then yours for the duration of your time in the baths and gives you somewhere safe to keep your things too. Plus you can share with whoever you’re visiting with. Some baths have single-sex days, when there will be separate areas for men and women, so check in advance if this will be an issue. As well as your swimwear, bring flip flops and your own towel, and a swimming cap if you have one (they’re obligatory in some pools, though can always be hired or bought).

Looking for more info on Budapest? Check these out:

Top 10 things to see and do in Budapest

From pubs to spas, wine tasting to caving, find out the 10 best things to see and do in the Hungarian capital.

7 things to do in Budapest on a budget

In Buda and Pest, you get two for the price of one. Even better, you can see it all on a tight budget. We reveal seven of our favourite low-cost things to do on both sides on the Danube.

Find flights to Budapest

Hotels in Budapest

This article content & Information source (copyright) : https://www.skyscanner.net/news/6-best-baths-budapest

#travel #travel destinations #destinations #budapest #travel blog #blog

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chvrchesrp · 8 years ago

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Welcome to CHVRCHES’ seventh event!

The Centennial Ball is our second choice event, in which we set a scene and split your characters up into groups dependent on how many points you’ve acquired so far. Once in that setting, you can create threads as you see fit for your muse. The settings and information shared in this post are considered game canon, whether or not you explore it deeply. While this event will have its own shocker of an ending, during the first part, we want to let you guys explore the ball and have some fun.

The date stamp for the event is Saturday, March 25th. Be sure to include that in your posts for timeline purposes—though you aren’t restricted to beginning them the 25th, of course—you can even begin them today ♥ Long post ahead:

The night blooms with possibility. The columns beckon you in, as if you were always meant to be among the shining throng of those blessed with prosperity and good fortune. The air smells of sandalwood and a hint of jasmine, just enough to tantalize the senses, but exceedingly subtle. The windows are draped in expensive fineries: promise and nostalgia. The mansion normally calls to mind many things, but tonight, it feels literally like walking into a dream, another world, a parallel universe where anything can happen—and might. You retain control but everything around you feels... gorgeous and precious and fleeting, where anything can be yours reach out to touch it. Indeed, everything here is meant to be touched, tasted, enjoyed. It is a party big enough to be intimate: privacy among all of the moving bodies, nobody listening too closely—a party meant for masks, for indulging in your innermost desires and curiosities, with no one the judge or jury. It's freedom—for a night.

What do you do with it?

"In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars..."

When you enter the entryway, you take in the setting: the stairs that wind themselves upward on either side, the glass doors straight through that open onto the veranda and the salt water pools beyond. There are fireplaces and corridors, but you've been instructed, just for now, to wait. That the waiting makes everything sweeter, the anticipation, the curiosity for the unknown almost so tantalizingly knowable. You were given a loose blindfold to tie over your mask when you entered, told you would know when to use it. The music is alive around you; there is a balcony with the sounds of a live band playing electroswing, the perfect mix of modern dance and 1920s memories. Caro Emerald croons into a dated looking microphone, her hair as perfect as her smile, singing A Night Like This. Slowly, two silhouettes make themselves known at the top and center of the stairs.

Front and center is Renee Thornton, Vice of the Church of Sinners, here in all her regalia to present the evening at its finest. Her black gossamer dress is adorned with swarovski detailing, setting her to shimmer like a dark jewel in the center of the pale hall. Behind her stands Lucifer, his arm out with hers regally on top of it, as a proper escort. His suit is finely tailored, but understated. There are hints of gold in the cufflinks, the tie bar, but overall he is a man whose suit is class. He smiles brightly at the crowd as Renee gives a welcoming speech, speaking with pride about the hundred years the Church has been active, has grown to one of the three largest in the world. Only when she is done, do the two share the first dance. Then Renee invites everyone to put on their blindfolds; each person is led into a room, thereafter able to remove their blindfold and experience the evening.

Six people are left in the entryway:

Babylon, Maria, Magda, Elijah, Adele, and Renee.

As the people with the highest amount of points (14 apiece), these muses are free to roam about the cabin, as it were. They can go to whatever room intrigues them: the choice is theirs and theirs alone. The one offer they are given is this: For the price of 24 points total, one person can make a request of Lucifer with no strings attached. (Think of it like the Godfather on the wedding day.) The caveat is that it must be a defined favour, not one to be owed at a future date. Determine which person should ask it of him, who contributes which points, and what should be asked for.

Special Notes: Elijah will willingly sell his soul tonight.

The rest are moved into one of 7 rooms upstairs: (There are 3 people per room; we ask you try to thread with each person, if possible, so 2 threads per player—try to use this as an exercise to engage in ways they might not usually, given the scenario, and branch out who you write with, if the scene doesn’t come naturally. You won’t be held to this, but we would encourage it! After you do at least one thread start in your room, you can move to other rooms to do as you will.)

Evening Notes: Do not drink more than one bottle without discussing with Admins first (some effects clash!), so choose your first bottle carefully! The effects will only last for the night.

ENVY

Leviathan (0), Shibah (1), Abaddon (3)

This room is an octagon. Once inside, it appears as though there is no way out of it. Each wall is a 2-way mirror, so while those on the outside can't see in, everyone inside of it can see out. One wall shows the pale hall, but all of the others show glimpses of the other rooms that everyone else can enjoy—but all you can do is watch, and envy, and figure out how to open the door without a handle. The room is empty apart from a small glass table with legs in the shape of snakes, not unlike the feel of Alice in Wonderland, with a series of stoppered bottles on it. Some are pearlescent and shimmery, marked with "trip" - others are gold and sparkling, marked "fortuna." If your muse elects to drink one, let an Admin know so you know what surprises are in store...

WRATH

Cassiel (3), Olivia (4), Donato (7)

Special Notes: Tonight, Lucifer has released his grasp from Olivia. She will feel better than she has since she can remember—not only is she no longer sick, she’s no longer possessed. The weight in her chest, the pressure behind her eyes, and all of those things have suddenly disappeared on entry.

This room has a taxidermied lion in it, appearing to weep diamonds, at the center. Beside it is a small table with stoppered bottles on it: some are a deep, fiery red that looks viscous, marked “furia” and the others are a pale, translucent gold with red flecks, marked “invicta.” If your muse elects to drink one, let an Admin know so you know what surprises are in store... Elsewhere in the room, there are things that cause and accept damage. An expensive looking couch and a chainsaw; a baseball bat and a computer; a fine china cabinet near a wall covered in small spikes; other things of this nature. Also found, for those feeling a bit—darker—is a ‘confessional’ behind a curtain, where a cat o’nine and paddles and whips and a ball gag could be found.

GREED

Noah (7), Satan (7), Grace (7)

This room’s wallpaper is damask, but the subtle pattern in it is that of a toad watching over all of the festivities. The room is a miniature casino; a dealer is at the ready with high-stakes blackjack. There’s a roulette wheel asking you to name your wager: anything but money. There’s a slot machine where the prize—should you be so lucky as to win—is a LaFerrari Aperta. Drinks are freely offered, champagne and rocks glasses move throughout the space, and among those glasses—if you can spot one—are small, stoppered bottles. A few are pearlescent and purple, marked “lotus,” others are marked “streak” and are as green as money, swirled with pale notes of tan. If your muse elects to drink one, let an Admin know so you know what surprises are in store...

SLOTH

Naomi (7), Dominic (9), Kezia (9)

This room plays to the dreamscape. The windows are open, the sheer curtains billow like clouds, the entire floor is plush and soft. The ceiling is painted like the night sky. There are soft blankets, a loveseat draped in suede, a fainting couch for reclining. Soothing sounds play the ocean lapping at the tides. There is a sand box—yes, a literal sand box—in one corner to enjoy playing in, or just running your hands through the grains and relaxing. There is a masseuse offering hand and foot rubs, and another person available to feed you grapes. There is a small cabinet with a snail-shaped latch against a wall that houses some stopped bottles: some are aqua and glittery, marked “lucid,” others are swirly seafoam coloured, marked “tranquil.” If your muse elects to drink one, let an Admin know so you know what surprises are in store...

LUST

Ethan (10), Isadora (10), Zoe (10)

Of course there’s a bed, of course there is, and it’s round on every side except for the headboard, which is intricately carved mahogany with a scene of a goat grazing. The entire room is, in effect, a master bedroom—there’s the bed, yes, but also a fireplace and a beautiful crystal chandelier. There’s a small banquet by the window of aphrodisiacs: a chocolate fountain with bananas and strawberries; oysters and artichokes; figs and honey. There’s a table laid out with items to experience sensuality: a feather teaser, rose petals, whipped cream, body dust, reams of soft rope, massage oils, swathes of satin and faux fur. The armoire has lingerie and other attire inside of it of a wide variety. And of course, there’s the milk bath in the ornate claw-foot tub. Around the tub are small stoppered bottles, one hot pink and thick, marked “rouge,” and another “adora,” which is syrupy and red. If your muse elects to drink one, let an Admin know so you know what surprises are in store...

GLUTTONY

Raziel (11), Jairus (11), Crowley (11)

This room actually has an alive, small piglet in it for your company and enjoyment. Please don’t hurt her, her name is Maenad, but by all means pet her. The room is its own banquet hall; the center and import of the room is a long, carefully carved and imported table upon which a black silk cloth is laid, so that the food stands out upon it. Not only is there an endless array of all kinds of sumptuous foods—anything you could want—it’s all taken great care to look as good as it tastes. Plating is superb and each dish that holds food was chosen with care, with its own luxuries. The seats are so comfortable, you may never want to get up. There are two people, naked, who are hired as waiters—but who have also consented to let you eat off of them, if you desire. They each hold a tray with stoppered bottles: one sort is pure white, like milk, with small red flecks and marked “snow,” another is mixed gold glitter in syrupy berry coloured liquid, marked “harvest.” If your muse elects to drink one, let an Admin know so you know what surprises are in store...

PRIDE

Belial (12), Kiara (12), Isaiah (13)

Pride is an old-style smoking lounge of the early 1900s. It doesn’t smell because it’s incredibly well ventilated; inside are soft leather chairs, velvet curtains, and a small Turkish antique weapons collection. Smoking jackets are available for any who might enjoy to don them. There is a wall dedicated to expensive wines and the glasses that go with them to accordingly enjoy, as well as after-dinner drinks like brandies and cognacs. Of course, a wide variety of cigars are available to try, as well as hookahs in a range of flavours and bases. There are rare pieces of art on the walls and all the marks of those who have lived life well. The centerpiece around which the art is displayed is an arrangement of peacock feathers. In this room, there is an intercom, and anything reasonable will be delivered to you on request. The stoppered bottles in this room are pure gold, marked “prima,” or like black ink, marked “securitas.” If your muse elects to drink one, let an Admin know so you know what surprises are in store...

At 2am, a shock moves through the mansion. Details on why will be revealed to you on Sunday. Enjoy!

#chvrchesrp #lsrpg #original rp #bio rp #literate rp #event #event 007

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