Post by cornelius on Mar 5, 2011 20:06:38 GMT -5
RL Date: 04 March 2011
===Kelay Tavern. Another quiet night is interrupted===
Elijah shambles through the door, bare feet a filthy tread along battered floor. It is without hesitation that it cuts through the crowd, brushing past patrons and leaving smears of grease and grime in his wake. A rangy body, clothed in threadbare pants, marked most notably by the vision of ribs afforded along his fair-skinned torso. A wild mane stands atop that narrow visage, shaggy with coarse stubble. Teeth that are, most certainly, too white appear beneath that split-lipped and utterly mad grin. He is soon accosting patrons, pawing at them with filthy, gnarled fingers. "Coppers for tricks, skips, and flips." The words are sharp-tongued and swift, unnerving perhaps from such a shell of a man. His green eyes wild and glinting. "Coppers for tricks."
Cornelius wraps his cloak around himself, with a quick flick of the wrist
Mahri's attention is drawn from the centaur to the creature that enters about then. Automatically, the lycan draws in a breath to test the air, sifting scents into familiar and not. Elijah's certainly was not. There was something about him that set the wolf's teeth on edge. Roldan steps into the tavern, resplendent in his polished dragonscale. He looks around the room, his gaze drawn first to Teira, then to Mahri. Both females are given a flinty look before the lord turns to survey the board.
Elijah cuts his wild eyes across the room, finding faces with frightening certainty. That hatter's grin remains, grim upon such a scruffy and impoverished ruin of a face. For all the tavern's, it has shambled here, with its disjointed gait and lanky arms. It slips between groups of men and women, a gnarled hand extended with a greasy palm open. "Coppers." It says, informing more than inquiring. "For tricks."
Mahri hasn't noticed Roldan yet. Thank the Gods. Her attention is riveted on the shambling figure hawking tricks for coppers.
Cornelius looked at Elijah.
Cornelius produces a handful of coppers "I ask but a humble trick, messieur. Please tell me your name"
You dropped 10 copper.
Elijah moves. Were there anything to circumstance then this would be decided, an act of judgment from a beggar's eye and not the mad cast of fate. For madness, born of so many things, is afoot here. The urchin smothers a cough in its sinuous arm, ignoring the thick wad of phlegm left smeared across its skin. Such things beneath its account, undeserving a turn of its attention, which remains boldly and firmly upon the Knight. It's eyes shine like the figure's armor as it skirts near, sidestepping around a woman and leaving a smear of its filth on her hip as it brushes past. The stink of it of unwashed humanity, the stench of poverty and rot, unbidden and unapologetic as it reaches to grasp Roldan's forearm with slender, ugly fingers. "Copper for tricks, sir? Buy a fellow an ale and suffer the delights of the bizarre. You will count yourself entertained. This, to you, I would bet my watch and warrant upon."
Elijah appears not to hear the offered patronage, a consequence of the tavern's din and the rambling crowds, perhaps. More likely, it would seem, is the insane focus of the urchin upon the Knight. Wild-eyed, straying close. Close enough that its stink would sour the man's air. One might be inclined to pay for a "trick", simply to shoo the street rat away.
Cornelius whispers to Mahri "Seems the knight has more shine to him than I, wot?" So saying, he gathers up his coppers again
You picked up 10 copper.
Roldan shakes the beggar from his arm, stepping back to put the other at arms distance from himself. "I have no need of tricks," he says in tones of icy disdain. "But I will spare you some coin, for I see that you need it sorely." He reaches into his belt pouch, and produces a handful of coins. The firelight glints from red gold as the Larket lord drops the coins into the beggar's hand. "Do not spend it on drink," he instructs.
Roldan gave 10 gold to Elijah.
Elijah answers Roldan with clear words, mangy palm seemingly too narrow to suffer the weight of gold pieces. There is an almost indignant glint in the urchin's stare, a cutting thing that appraises the Lord's face without apology. "There now, sir, but I am a man who earns his means. Have you no need for tricks, I've no desire for your pretty, even if the color be generous."
Roldan almost smiles. Almost. "Very well then, what manner of tricks can you perform?"
Mahri eventually nods to Cornelius, "Must be." Roldan's noticed then and while she doesn't have the same reaction as in Leo's shop, her stomach does do one of those odd little flip-flop things that it by rights shouldn't be able to do. At least Mahri has bit more control of herself, for as long as it takes to excuse herself properly, "Thanks for the drinks, Cornelius. I appreciated them but I think it's time for me to go."
Cornelius arches an elegant brow "As you wish M'dear. I shall stay. This scenario is curious. I shall stay to see how it pans out"
Elijah smiles, though it is a cheshire's thing. A cruel twist of his thin lips, revealing startling white teeth in an otherwise mangy countenance. Circumstance. Pay the fates. Were it that the urchin's manner sharpened with the agreement, that the very ruin of its face seemed to draw lupine and keen, or some strange trick of the light's play upon it. Coincidence, maybe, when it began to cut a path to the bar with a wild, mad rush that sent a few startled commoners scattering. "Oh, witness, Sir! Witness! Pay witness to the many curiosities. Would you have your fortune told? Would you see feats of contortion? Dexterity otherwise unbidden? Would you rather a tale, perhaps? No. No, for you sir, something special. Something uncommon for the most uncommon of man! " It turned, spreading that horrible grin. The insanity dancing in its eyes set full upon Nancy, plucking a tumbler off her tray. The coin that ended there would not be seen to deposited, simply appear as though conjured. Sleight of hand, perhaps. Most certainly. Of course. "Gin, madame. This one requires it's medicine for this... big medicine."
Roldan narrows his eyes as his instructions regarding the usage of the gold go ignored, but he says nothing. Rather, he folds his arms across his chest and waits, his curiosity obviously piqued.
Mahri nods, tight-lipped and full of stress all over again. She'll skirt the odd little man on the way to the door, being extra careful not to come into contact with the peddler. The rather insanely unstable peddler. If no interruptions are imminent, the 'wolf will be gone, the door closing firmly behind her.
Elijah bought 1 whisky.
Cornelius watches Mahri leave before returning his gaze to the chaotic figure holding court in such preposterous fashion over the tavern. He subtly rummages in his leather satchel, but does not seem to withdraw anything. He begins to fidget with a bone ring on his right hand as he watches, a look of bored curiosity on his face.
Elijah does not appear to notice, or discern, that the tumbler is amber. One might not imagine it to matter. Beggars, certainly could not be choosers. Amidst the floor the urchin is an unimpressive thing, notably only for its awful uncleanliness and the mad certainty of its dancing eyes. They cut this and that, paying mind to so many things, before cutting sharply and swiftly to Roldan's visage. "A present to you, sir, a portrait. A vision of your likeness created by the most powerful of means. This world, and all others beyond it, are but canvas for us to mark in our wake. Will it not. The question, Sir Knight, is in the color. The inks that we choose. I wonder, sir, which color you prefer." The ramblings of the mad, almost elegant in their insane pacing and measure. The tumbler finds a chapped lip and a gnarled hand tosses it back, spilling some down the corner of its mouth and into the filthy stretch of its beard. Silence. And mark it, as you would, that the commoners have gone still. The tavern's din faded to the anxious tension of waiting. Mark it, and note, that this weedy figure reveals a sudden, tight-toothed smile. It vomits suddenly, through those teeth, spraying not bile but some unmentionable ichor across the floor. Oily, black as tar. Black as death. A stinking, putrid, toxic fluid that comes and comes, spraying from thin lips, and coating the tavern's floor in a wide puddle. A woman shouts, scrambles back. A man wretches and turns, only to look back. And still, this slip of a figure does not finish until it straightens, pawing a greasy hand across its mouth and gesturing suddenly to the floor. "Your likeness, sir, and the fates have spoken. I had expected red, but in truth, I have never been keen to the character of a Lord." And lo', upon the floor there is a vision. The stinking, putrid, fetid pool betrays a face. A very likeness of Roldan's features. The man's stern nature, however, is gone. The portrait upon the floor, already melting away into a blob of black ichor, is screaming.
Cornelius murmurs to himself, the bone ring seeming somehow darker on his bare skin "Well well. Never judge a man by his cover, but by what's inside, eh? The gameboard is changing, old bean." Imperceptibly, the dandy tenses certain muscles, arrays himself by his table in a fashion which continues to indicate boredom while he stares at the screaming portrait of ichor melt into the floor.
Roldan steps back, unable to keep from betraying shock for a brief moment, before he schools his features once more. He looks upon the hideous puddle, then eyes the beggar, mistrust in his gaze. "A fine trick," he says in tones that say much the contrary. "You have earned your gold, I suppose." He moves away, clearly dismissing Elijah, but he keeps a wary eye on him all the same.
Elijah begins to laugh. A deep, belly-filled laugh that sends tremors arching through its frame. Globs of ichor spray from its mouth until at last, it is gone, replaced by spittle. The urchin is already slipping towards the door, cutting back south towards the road beyond. Unfinished, though, is the moment. It stretches on, even to Roldan's back. "They come to collect, Sir Knight. Unpaid debts. Always unpaid. By the stars and the fates, pay your dues! Pay them now! Pay without pride." And then, belching more laughter before slipping away. "Or don't. Who is to say? We choose the inks if not the words!"
Cornelius raises an eyebrow, gauging the various reactions of the others to the abomination of black tar and vomit which but a moment ago had screamed its last. He retrieves a pair of black silk gloves from his satchel and pulls them onto his hands with a practiced tug, hiding the darkening bone ring from sight. He watches the figure intently, paying close attention to each movement made, watching him up until he vanishes from view
Roldan shakes his head, moving toward the door himself, once Elijah is gone. "A madman," he says, to himself. "More and more of them these days." Once outside, he mounts his stallion and rides off, without looking back.
Roldan exits south.
Jolie stepped in, a bloody-necked head hanging by its hair from her fist, its face at least partially recognisable as belonging to Lasarus. So intent was she on getting hold of a drink, she did not see the damned urchin who'd so bothered her in the alley on the prior night. Colliding with his bony frame, she hastily backed up, nose wrinkling in disgust.. perhaps something more. "Wretch," she spat, her skin crawling.
Elijah seemed to almost meld to Jolie's frame, curl about her with liquid ease before stepping back into the tavern's depths with her on his heels. The laughter was gone, but the mad smile returned, once white teeth stained charcoal. It reached, and pointed a gnarled finger towards the melding pool of fluid. It could have very well been tar, had it not suddenly stopped its seeping, stopped its flowing. Stopped. Instead, as if bound now by command, it became still. It gathered, stayed condensed, and shimmered darkly under the flickering candle light. Stinking. Putrid. Vile. It remained as the urchin's pale eyes caught Jolie's own, holding upon her features. "Oh, Madame. Madame, Madame, Madame. I've a trick for you. I… had wished to wait but the fates, you see, the fates have brought you here and I do not argue against their will."
Cornelius finds his second eyebrow lofting to meet its brother in an expression of surprise. He drains his brandy, and in the pretense of getting a refill finds himself a more advantageous position for any sudden movements They Who Watch may demand of him
Jolie 's head shook side to side, the one she held for a trophy dropped with a wet clump to the boards. "You're mad. And you, and your... filth..." She hardly flickered an eye toward that dark liquid, "... should stay away from me." Her hand rested on her dagger's hilt, though it remained undrawn. "You have only... tricks." The word churned her stomach, for the second time that day. "Nothing more. Be gone, before I slit your stinking throat."
Cornelius narrows his gaze. He recognises that peculiar set of micro-expressions on Jolie's face, even after all this time. The emotions he reads there disturbs him far more than any quantity of black ichor dancing for an appreciative crowd. No time for rash action this, but for observation - and observe he does, paying minute attention to the crazed beggar, as he inches around the bar closer to the exit and Jolie.
Elijah paid no mind to her threats, knowing what many might have guessed. Curiosity had certainly killed the cat. The ruinous urchin spread gnarled fingers then, and with a flicker, the puddle of filth stretched itself across the floor and forged itself into a perfect circle of ebon, portal like, save for the ungodly stench of rot and all things vile from its surface. "Oh, but curiosity killed the cat. You remember Thomas, don't you?" And now the horrors, beckoned forth, came calling. It came, drenched in the inky black liquid, stinking and mrowling miserably. The cat's belly hung split from throat to crotch, dragging slithered intestines behind it. Lurching, pulling itself across the floor. The once fat feline now dramatically less heavy, tail stuck straight up, dripping black. It's maw hung open, tongue lolled, and its eyes fit straight upon the girl's own. "And still more. So many more. Remember them?" One, then another. Creatures slaughtered in a vast assortment of horrible means. Some, missing limbs, shambled their way from the portal. They pawed, clawed, and scratched their way from its edge and onto the tavern floor as though coming from beneath. Drenching. Stinking. Whimpering, mrowling, squeaking. Insects and rodents, scurried forth, an army leaving black dribbles in their wake. The undeniable stench filtering up. And so, still coming, they made their way for Jolie's feet. "Go on. Give 'em a stroke."
Cornelius can barely maintain his look of bored indifference, even so, his upper lip curls in an expression of disgust, and he is glad for the brandy's calming effect on his stomach. He whispers to Mesthak "More rum. Just give me the bottle. And a match. I would like to enjoy some tobacco, but am out of flint" He glares at the dwarf, who is staring speechless at the grotesque display before him. "Now, Mesthak. I am a paying customer." Moving haltingly, Mesthak does as Cornelius asks
Cornelius bought 5 rum for 0 gold, 0 silver, and 40 copper.
Jolie dropped her gaze to one side only briefly, a more direct look taken at the horrors the urchin had manifested, before their sparking green settled on him again. She had not moved nor flinched, but to tighten her grip on the dagger's handle and did her best to simply ignore the writhing, limping, pitiful creatures thronging around them. And that foul, black water... "Tricks. Seen 'em all before," she said, her tone hard and brittle as flint. "Seen your kind before. And he's dead." Though her hands shook, the dagger drawn and kept in hand as part of the motion of reaching to pull her pack off her shoulder, the necromancer drew out a perfectly clean skull, marred only by strip of gristle keeping its lower jaw attached. Tossing it to him, she grinned, fangs locked together for a second. "Paid his dues." The knife was suddenly arcing upward, a single thrust aimed to his midriff at an angle destined to pierce a lung, the heart.
Jolie gave 1 humanoid skull to Elijah.
Elijah did not move. It made no effort. The skull was caught neatly in those long fingered hands, thick with greasy filth. It was a casual effort, as casual as its reaction to the blade's skilled placement. There was scarcely any resistance. It plunged beneath his ribs, punching upwards through fibrous tissue and muscle, buried itself into the sheer sack of his lung. She'd feel it when she got close, past his stench. Feel the way it's chest deflated, feel the hot rush down the blade's length and across her slender fingers. It was not blood, however. It could not be. To believe, that for even a moment, the girl had expected it to be would have been to subscribe to a madness more certain than that dancing in the light of its eyes. No, it was not blood. It was mercurial liquid, silvered. Shimmering. And it did not drip past her fingers but clung to them, took hold of her stubborn and unwavering in its intensity. Penny for your tricks. The body beneath her blade began to seep, began to flow. It's flesh melted under the tavern's candlelight, shimmered, and slithered. It found its way to the skull and embraced it, cushioned its fall from those hands towards the weathered floorboards, and then filled it. It poured in through the eyes, over the teeth. It stretched down beneath it and began to solidify, to take shape. First came bones, silvered visions of them, metallic and liquid all at once. And then meat, blackened. Putrid. The flesh was last, but came all the same. It rippled up to cover it, until at last that skull was standing. A man. A pant-clad urchin. A filthy ruin. A mad gutter rat with long fingers, dark hair, and green eyes. And on the floor, where Jolie's blade once lay buried within him, is a skull. The jawbone hanging by gristle. The mouth slightly open, eyes empty, staring up at the girl with a mirrored grin. An insane grin. A knowing, certain, mocking grin.
Jolie once more found her feet carrying her backward, though her rage impelled her to snap her jaws, sharp canines closing only on air around a half-growl, half whine, a confused sound, angry, frightened. "A trick, he is dead. I saw him die." Her eyes fixated on the daggered skull, flicked back again. "That is what's left." But in the back of her mind, there was doubt, a seed planted the night before that had grown in her drunken sleep, that had not drowned in the rum she'd used then and had used all day today to souse the memory of that alley, and the things she'd seen in it. "I don't know what you are. But you are not -him-." Two steps, four. Five. She was shaking, snarling at herself for it. "Mind-robber. Filthy psionist..." But hadn't he just... She shook her head again. A trick. But she was the Darkness, and this ... thing was darker than she. No knife. No sword. Only her steel will and a belly full of liquor. It had to be enough. "Come on then, wretch," her chin tilted up. "Show me what you've got."
Cornelius blinks twice; his brows furrow in perplexion for a moment before he catches himself and restores his features to that bland indifference he prefers in times of crisis. This was not quite what he had been banking on. He unstoppers the rum bottle, jams a kerchief into it and shakes so that the rum saturates the linen. The creature may not be looking at him, but he's not counting on any element of surprise. Still, he holds the bottle in such a fashion that the kercheif is not visible, nor is the match he deftly palmed away. "Jolly-girl. Hate to interrupt, darling, but methinks discretion is the better part of valour" So saying he moves swiftly, bringing him to what his calculations confirms is the outer edge of the circle of conflict
Elijah split its face with that sick, unsettling grin. White teeth behind chapped lips, coarse black beard, and grime-smeared features mimicking her. Snapping at air. Mocking, not just her position, but the manner in which few attempted to approach the lives that had been given to him. In the tavern's stretch it moved, once more disjointed in its gait, as though with every stride those lanky limbs dislocated. As if joints were dried and stiff to a cadaver's standard. It canted its head in an unnatural angle, this time the sound was accompanied by a series of explosive cracks from vertebrae. "Tell me, girl. When was the last time you checked in on the boy?" And suddenly, maliciously, it laughed. The sickening sound barking up from within, dry as leaves dragging along the road in the grip of the wind. The pale glint of its eyes mad, and bold, upon her own.
Jolie spared a glance at Cornelius. Old times. Good times. She recalled the last time he'd said those words. Jolie did not move, but was ready to either dive, or catch the bottle. "My boy's fine. You're a coward. Choke on that."
Elijah straightened, and considered. Some were simply too stubborn. It was a disease fettered by more than drink, more than pride. The rot of humanity was its inability to accept that it did not understand, did not know, and could not possibly handle some things. The truth lay in its endless stumble from one disaster to another and its endless dialogue. It was as though people willed themselves to forget the endless lessons of their own history, a marvel to which it had been introduced what felt like an age ago. Back when it was human. Back before it had been that thing. Back before it was now -this- thing. The girl, however, had forgotten. It would have been enough to let her go on like so many, oblivious, except that she had borrowed. She had taken. And she had never made square. The shambling hordes it had summoned, melted. The black liquid slithered back upon itself, a stinking puddle upon the floor before it drew up. The liquid horror slowly shedding its ebon exterior, turning silvered. Mercurial. Molten in appearance, like metal in some ways and like nothing known to the world in others. "It's been a long time since you took a dip, girl. Come on in. The water's fine." And then it rushed towards her, towards Jolie alone. She might escape it if she ran. It was not so quick as that. But it was swift, and she knew where it lead. She knew what that embrace meant.
Cornelius could curse. He really could, but appearances must be maintained at all costs. He bursts into blinding speed, glad that Jolie is still closer to the door than the abomination making mockery of life before him. He expects to be attacked, not unfamiliar with double- and triple-jointed limbs, prehensile tails, and certain sorceries. But it is so much to keep in mind, even for one with a natural talent for it. As he moves he strikes the match against something in his sleeve, and touches it to the linen kerchief. The rum-soaked linen lights up like the mad fires in the creatures eyes. Appropriate, Cornelius thinks as his old training sends him dancing towards the circle of death that is his opponent's presumed reach. Before he reaches that point, he hurls the bottle to fall crashing at the ground between Jolie and the creature, giving her a chance to take his advice. His footwork diverts him laterally away from the creature along what Vailkrin fencers used to call the line of infinity. He hopes he is fast enough, the creature slow enough, to make this first pass without having to alter his plan of attack "Jolly-girl, RUN!"
Elijah looked at Cornelius.
Jolie || She did not need telling twice. Nor had she waited for the bottle to fully crack into flames on the floor before her body sprang to a burst of fear-galvanised motion, averted from the onrush of the horror advancing, tables bumped to shriek woodenly across boards, chairs clattering over, patrons cussing as they were pushed, shouldered, shoved out of the way in her dash not to the door - he'd expect that, but to the many-paned window before which she skidded to a stop, bunching her legs, and took a fist-first dive straight through it. Shattered panes splintered glass over the drinkers nearby, and Jolie could be heard landing with a thump and grunt of expelled air when her body hit dirt like a sack of potatoes outside. Ungraceful. Painful. Animalistic reflexes, far overstepping old habits of judging her own capabilities. She was ten feet from the tavern wall, covered in cuts, and through that empty, jagged eye she saw flames. On her feet, sucking down the night air, she bolted for the nearest woods. Cornelius... ah, but this is what he lived for, wasn't it? Hopefully he'd live for it a while longer.
Elijah had not anticipated the other one interfering. The flames were far more effective than it might have hoped. The silvered liquid struck them moments after the girl had made her escape, and shrunk back, alight. The surface rippled like a mirror, wreathed in crimson and orange. It reflected its own burning off its silvered surface and shrunk back. Bubbles grew across it as it boiled, recoiling upon itself in a moment, before boiling again. The cycle would continue until the pool was gone, turned to filthy smoke in the tavern's confines. Inky. Stinking. As it seemed all things this urchin conjured were prone to be. For a moment, the trickster watched through the empty window as the girl made her escape. That sick smile spreading wide, unwavering. And then, steadily, it turned. The visage of a man giving way to something horrid, eyes vanishing to reveal empty sockets. The lips peeled back to reveal rotted teeth, bits of skull. A horror akin to a body in one of the grim states of decomposition. "Well?"
Jolie is out the window, running like buggery.
Cornelius grins as Jolie exits in her usual fashion and sketches a quick bow even as he makes some space to give him access to multiple exit points, deftly avoiding other patrons "Pleasure to meet you old bean! Say, do you still perform tricks for copper?"
Elijah nods once, and as if in an instant those features slip back. Return. Find their place as an urchin again. A wide grin, mad as can be, takes root. "And flips."
Cornelius drops some copper "Good sir, I ask if you could perform the following trick: tell me your name"
Elijah answers while regarding Cornelius, lantern-green eyes set thoroughly on the fire. "Elijah."
You bows again "Cornelius Von Penzance, at your service. It has been a pleasure, Elijah. Never thought I'd see Jolly-girl turn tail like that again in a million years."
He pulls out some gold, and moves to place it on the counter, keeping a close eye on Elijah's movements "Mesthak, this is for the window and the scorch marks. I like your brandy enough to want to be able to return".
Elijah vanished before your eyes, perhaps never to be seen again.
Cornelius breathes a massive sigh of relief as the creature leaves the tavern, somehow not feeling that the giving of a name was worthy enough a trick to deserve the coppers spread over the ground
Cornelius waves to all "Well, jolly good show and all that! I'm afraid I really must dash!" So saying, he takes a running leap, and vaults through the broken window, landing with a neat tumblers roll to spring to his feet before setting off after Jolie
===Kelay Tavern. Another quiet night is interrupted===
Elijah shambles through the door, bare feet a filthy tread along battered floor. It is without hesitation that it cuts through the crowd, brushing past patrons and leaving smears of grease and grime in his wake. A rangy body, clothed in threadbare pants, marked most notably by the vision of ribs afforded along his fair-skinned torso. A wild mane stands atop that narrow visage, shaggy with coarse stubble. Teeth that are, most certainly, too white appear beneath that split-lipped and utterly mad grin. He is soon accosting patrons, pawing at them with filthy, gnarled fingers. "Coppers for tricks, skips, and flips." The words are sharp-tongued and swift, unnerving perhaps from such a shell of a man. His green eyes wild and glinting. "Coppers for tricks."
Cornelius wraps his cloak around himself, with a quick flick of the wrist
Mahri's attention is drawn from the centaur to the creature that enters about then. Automatically, the lycan draws in a breath to test the air, sifting scents into familiar and not. Elijah's certainly was not. There was something about him that set the wolf's teeth on edge. Roldan steps into the tavern, resplendent in his polished dragonscale. He looks around the room, his gaze drawn first to Teira, then to Mahri. Both females are given a flinty look before the lord turns to survey the board.
Elijah cuts his wild eyes across the room, finding faces with frightening certainty. That hatter's grin remains, grim upon such a scruffy and impoverished ruin of a face. For all the tavern's, it has shambled here, with its disjointed gait and lanky arms. It slips between groups of men and women, a gnarled hand extended with a greasy palm open. "Coppers." It says, informing more than inquiring. "For tricks."
Mahri hasn't noticed Roldan yet. Thank the Gods. Her attention is riveted on the shambling figure hawking tricks for coppers.
Cornelius looked at Elijah.
Cornelius produces a handful of coppers "I ask but a humble trick, messieur. Please tell me your name"
You dropped 10 copper.
Elijah moves. Were there anything to circumstance then this would be decided, an act of judgment from a beggar's eye and not the mad cast of fate. For madness, born of so many things, is afoot here. The urchin smothers a cough in its sinuous arm, ignoring the thick wad of phlegm left smeared across its skin. Such things beneath its account, undeserving a turn of its attention, which remains boldly and firmly upon the Knight. It's eyes shine like the figure's armor as it skirts near, sidestepping around a woman and leaving a smear of its filth on her hip as it brushes past. The stink of it of unwashed humanity, the stench of poverty and rot, unbidden and unapologetic as it reaches to grasp Roldan's forearm with slender, ugly fingers. "Copper for tricks, sir? Buy a fellow an ale and suffer the delights of the bizarre. You will count yourself entertained. This, to you, I would bet my watch and warrant upon."
Elijah appears not to hear the offered patronage, a consequence of the tavern's din and the rambling crowds, perhaps. More likely, it would seem, is the insane focus of the urchin upon the Knight. Wild-eyed, straying close. Close enough that its stink would sour the man's air. One might be inclined to pay for a "trick", simply to shoo the street rat away.
Cornelius whispers to Mahri "Seems the knight has more shine to him than I, wot?" So saying, he gathers up his coppers again
You picked up 10 copper.
Roldan shakes the beggar from his arm, stepping back to put the other at arms distance from himself. "I have no need of tricks," he says in tones of icy disdain. "But I will spare you some coin, for I see that you need it sorely." He reaches into his belt pouch, and produces a handful of coins. The firelight glints from red gold as the Larket lord drops the coins into the beggar's hand. "Do not spend it on drink," he instructs.
Roldan gave 10 gold to Elijah.
Elijah answers Roldan with clear words, mangy palm seemingly too narrow to suffer the weight of gold pieces. There is an almost indignant glint in the urchin's stare, a cutting thing that appraises the Lord's face without apology. "There now, sir, but I am a man who earns his means. Have you no need for tricks, I've no desire for your pretty, even if the color be generous."
Roldan almost smiles. Almost. "Very well then, what manner of tricks can you perform?"
Mahri eventually nods to Cornelius, "Must be." Roldan's noticed then and while she doesn't have the same reaction as in Leo's shop, her stomach does do one of those odd little flip-flop things that it by rights shouldn't be able to do. At least Mahri has bit more control of herself, for as long as it takes to excuse herself properly, "Thanks for the drinks, Cornelius. I appreciated them but I think it's time for me to go."
Cornelius arches an elegant brow "As you wish M'dear. I shall stay. This scenario is curious. I shall stay to see how it pans out"
Elijah smiles, though it is a cheshire's thing. A cruel twist of his thin lips, revealing startling white teeth in an otherwise mangy countenance. Circumstance. Pay the fates. Were it that the urchin's manner sharpened with the agreement, that the very ruin of its face seemed to draw lupine and keen, or some strange trick of the light's play upon it. Coincidence, maybe, when it began to cut a path to the bar with a wild, mad rush that sent a few startled commoners scattering. "Oh, witness, Sir! Witness! Pay witness to the many curiosities. Would you have your fortune told? Would you see feats of contortion? Dexterity otherwise unbidden? Would you rather a tale, perhaps? No. No, for you sir, something special. Something uncommon for the most uncommon of man! " It turned, spreading that horrible grin. The insanity dancing in its eyes set full upon Nancy, plucking a tumbler off her tray. The coin that ended there would not be seen to deposited, simply appear as though conjured. Sleight of hand, perhaps. Most certainly. Of course. "Gin, madame. This one requires it's medicine for this... big medicine."
Roldan narrows his eyes as his instructions regarding the usage of the gold go ignored, but he says nothing. Rather, he folds his arms across his chest and waits, his curiosity obviously piqued.
Mahri nods, tight-lipped and full of stress all over again. She'll skirt the odd little man on the way to the door, being extra careful not to come into contact with the peddler. The rather insanely unstable peddler. If no interruptions are imminent, the 'wolf will be gone, the door closing firmly behind her.
Elijah bought 1 whisky.
Cornelius watches Mahri leave before returning his gaze to the chaotic figure holding court in such preposterous fashion over the tavern. He subtly rummages in his leather satchel, but does not seem to withdraw anything. He begins to fidget with a bone ring on his right hand as he watches, a look of bored curiosity on his face.
Elijah does not appear to notice, or discern, that the tumbler is amber. One might not imagine it to matter. Beggars, certainly could not be choosers. Amidst the floor the urchin is an unimpressive thing, notably only for its awful uncleanliness and the mad certainty of its dancing eyes. They cut this and that, paying mind to so many things, before cutting sharply and swiftly to Roldan's visage. "A present to you, sir, a portrait. A vision of your likeness created by the most powerful of means. This world, and all others beyond it, are but canvas for us to mark in our wake. Will it not. The question, Sir Knight, is in the color. The inks that we choose. I wonder, sir, which color you prefer." The ramblings of the mad, almost elegant in their insane pacing and measure. The tumbler finds a chapped lip and a gnarled hand tosses it back, spilling some down the corner of its mouth and into the filthy stretch of its beard. Silence. And mark it, as you would, that the commoners have gone still. The tavern's din faded to the anxious tension of waiting. Mark it, and note, that this weedy figure reveals a sudden, tight-toothed smile. It vomits suddenly, through those teeth, spraying not bile but some unmentionable ichor across the floor. Oily, black as tar. Black as death. A stinking, putrid, toxic fluid that comes and comes, spraying from thin lips, and coating the tavern's floor in a wide puddle. A woman shouts, scrambles back. A man wretches and turns, only to look back. And still, this slip of a figure does not finish until it straightens, pawing a greasy hand across its mouth and gesturing suddenly to the floor. "Your likeness, sir, and the fates have spoken. I had expected red, but in truth, I have never been keen to the character of a Lord." And lo', upon the floor there is a vision. The stinking, putrid, fetid pool betrays a face. A very likeness of Roldan's features. The man's stern nature, however, is gone. The portrait upon the floor, already melting away into a blob of black ichor, is screaming.
Cornelius murmurs to himself, the bone ring seeming somehow darker on his bare skin "Well well. Never judge a man by his cover, but by what's inside, eh? The gameboard is changing, old bean." Imperceptibly, the dandy tenses certain muscles, arrays himself by his table in a fashion which continues to indicate boredom while he stares at the screaming portrait of ichor melt into the floor.
Roldan steps back, unable to keep from betraying shock for a brief moment, before he schools his features once more. He looks upon the hideous puddle, then eyes the beggar, mistrust in his gaze. "A fine trick," he says in tones that say much the contrary. "You have earned your gold, I suppose." He moves away, clearly dismissing Elijah, but he keeps a wary eye on him all the same.
Elijah begins to laugh. A deep, belly-filled laugh that sends tremors arching through its frame. Globs of ichor spray from its mouth until at last, it is gone, replaced by spittle. The urchin is already slipping towards the door, cutting back south towards the road beyond. Unfinished, though, is the moment. It stretches on, even to Roldan's back. "They come to collect, Sir Knight. Unpaid debts. Always unpaid. By the stars and the fates, pay your dues! Pay them now! Pay without pride." And then, belching more laughter before slipping away. "Or don't. Who is to say? We choose the inks if not the words!"
Cornelius raises an eyebrow, gauging the various reactions of the others to the abomination of black tar and vomit which but a moment ago had screamed its last. He retrieves a pair of black silk gloves from his satchel and pulls them onto his hands with a practiced tug, hiding the darkening bone ring from sight. He watches the figure intently, paying close attention to each movement made, watching him up until he vanishes from view
Roldan shakes his head, moving toward the door himself, once Elijah is gone. "A madman," he says, to himself. "More and more of them these days." Once outside, he mounts his stallion and rides off, without looking back.
Roldan exits south.
Jolie stepped in, a bloody-necked head hanging by its hair from her fist, its face at least partially recognisable as belonging to Lasarus. So intent was she on getting hold of a drink, she did not see the damned urchin who'd so bothered her in the alley on the prior night. Colliding with his bony frame, she hastily backed up, nose wrinkling in disgust.. perhaps something more. "Wretch," she spat, her skin crawling.
Elijah seemed to almost meld to Jolie's frame, curl about her with liquid ease before stepping back into the tavern's depths with her on his heels. The laughter was gone, but the mad smile returned, once white teeth stained charcoal. It reached, and pointed a gnarled finger towards the melding pool of fluid. It could have very well been tar, had it not suddenly stopped its seeping, stopped its flowing. Stopped. Instead, as if bound now by command, it became still. It gathered, stayed condensed, and shimmered darkly under the flickering candle light. Stinking. Putrid. Vile. It remained as the urchin's pale eyes caught Jolie's own, holding upon her features. "Oh, Madame. Madame, Madame, Madame. I've a trick for you. I… had wished to wait but the fates, you see, the fates have brought you here and I do not argue against their will."
Cornelius finds his second eyebrow lofting to meet its brother in an expression of surprise. He drains his brandy, and in the pretense of getting a refill finds himself a more advantageous position for any sudden movements They Who Watch may demand of him
Jolie 's head shook side to side, the one she held for a trophy dropped with a wet clump to the boards. "You're mad. And you, and your... filth..." She hardly flickered an eye toward that dark liquid, "... should stay away from me." Her hand rested on her dagger's hilt, though it remained undrawn. "You have only... tricks." The word churned her stomach, for the second time that day. "Nothing more. Be gone, before I slit your stinking throat."
Cornelius narrows his gaze. He recognises that peculiar set of micro-expressions on Jolie's face, even after all this time. The emotions he reads there disturbs him far more than any quantity of black ichor dancing for an appreciative crowd. No time for rash action this, but for observation - and observe he does, paying minute attention to the crazed beggar, as he inches around the bar closer to the exit and Jolie.
Elijah paid no mind to her threats, knowing what many might have guessed. Curiosity had certainly killed the cat. The ruinous urchin spread gnarled fingers then, and with a flicker, the puddle of filth stretched itself across the floor and forged itself into a perfect circle of ebon, portal like, save for the ungodly stench of rot and all things vile from its surface. "Oh, but curiosity killed the cat. You remember Thomas, don't you?" And now the horrors, beckoned forth, came calling. It came, drenched in the inky black liquid, stinking and mrowling miserably. The cat's belly hung split from throat to crotch, dragging slithered intestines behind it. Lurching, pulling itself across the floor. The once fat feline now dramatically less heavy, tail stuck straight up, dripping black. It's maw hung open, tongue lolled, and its eyes fit straight upon the girl's own. "And still more. So many more. Remember them?" One, then another. Creatures slaughtered in a vast assortment of horrible means. Some, missing limbs, shambled their way from the portal. They pawed, clawed, and scratched their way from its edge and onto the tavern floor as though coming from beneath. Drenching. Stinking. Whimpering, mrowling, squeaking. Insects and rodents, scurried forth, an army leaving black dribbles in their wake. The undeniable stench filtering up. And so, still coming, they made their way for Jolie's feet. "Go on. Give 'em a stroke."
Cornelius can barely maintain his look of bored indifference, even so, his upper lip curls in an expression of disgust, and he is glad for the brandy's calming effect on his stomach. He whispers to Mesthak "More rum. Just give me the bottle. And a match. I would like to enjoy some tobacco, but am out of flint" He glares at the dwarf, who is staring speechless at the grotesque display before him. "Now, Mesthak. I am a paying customer." Moving haltingly, Mesthak does as Cornelius asks
Cornelius bought 5 rum for 0 gold, 0 silver, and 40 copper.
Jolie dropped her gaze to one side only briefly, a more direct look taken at the horrors the urchin had manifested, before their sparking green settled on him again. She had not moved nor flinched, but to tighten her grip on the dagger's handle and did her best to simply ignore the writhing, limping, pitiful creatures thronging around them. And that foul, black water... "Tricks. Seen 'em all before," she said, her tone hard and brittle as flint. "Seen your kind before. And he's dead." Though her hands shook, the dagger drawn and kept in hand as part of the motion of reaching to pull her pack off her shoulder, the necromancer drew out a perfectly clean skull, marred only by strip of gristle keeping its lower jaw attached. Tossing it to him, she grinned, fangs locked together for a second. "Paid his dues." The knife was suddenly arcing upward, a single thrust aimed to his midriff at an angle destined to pierce a lung, the heart.
Jolie gave 1 humanoid skull to Elijah.
Elijah did not move. It made no effort. The skull was caught neatly in those long fingered hands, thick with greasy filth. It was a casual effort, as casual as its reaction to the blade's skilled placement. There was scarcely any resistance. It plunged beneath his ribs, punching upwards through fibrous tissue and muscle, buried itself into the sheer sack of his lung. She'd feel it when she got close, past his stench. Feel the way it's chest deflated, feel the hot rush down the blade's length and across her slender fingers. It was not blood, however. It could not be. To believe, that for even a moment, the girl had expected it to be would have been to subscribe to a madness more certain than that dancing in the light of its eyes. No, it was not blood. It was mercurial liquid, silvered. Shimmering. And it did not drip past her fingers but clung to them, took hold of her stubborn and unwavering in its intensity. Penny for your tricks. The body beneath her blade began to seep, began to flow. It's flesh melted under the tavern's candlelight, shimmered, and slithered. It found its way to the skull and embraced it, cushioned its fall from those hands towards the weathered floorboards, and then filled it. It poured in through the eyes, over the teeth. It stretched down beneath it and began to solidify, to take shape. First came bones, silvered visions of them, metallic and liquid all at once. And then meat, blackened. Putrid. The flesh was last, but came all the same. It rippled up to cover it, until at last that skull was standing. A man. A pant-clad urchin. A filthy ruin. A mad gutter rat with long fingers, dark hair, and green eyes. And on the floor, where Jolie's blade once lay buried within him, is a skull. The jawbone hanging by gristle. The mouth slightly open, eyes empty, staring up at the girl with a mirrored grin. An insane grin. A knowing, certain, mocking grin.
Jolie once more found her feet carrying her backward, though her rage impelled her to snap her jaws, sharp canines closing only on air around a half-growl, half whine, a confused sound, angry, frightened. "A trick, he is dead. I saw him die." Her eyes fixated on the daggered skull, flicked back again. "That is what's left." But in the back of her mind, there was doubt, a seed planted the night before that had grown in her drunken sleep, that had not drowned in the rum she'd used then and had used all day today to souse the memory of that alley, and the things she'd seen in it. "I don't know what you are. But you are not -him-." Two steps, four. Five. She was shaking, snarling at herself for it. "Mind-robber. Filthy psionist..." But hadn't he just... She shook her head again. A trick. But she was the Darkness, and this ... thing was darker than she. No knife. No sword. Only her steel will and a belly full of liquor. It had to be enough. "Come on then, wretch," her chin tilted up. "Show me what you've got."
Cornelius blinks twice; his brows furrow in perplexion for a moment before he catches himself and restores his features to that bland indifference he prefers in times of crisis. This was not quite what he had been banking on. He unstoppers the rum bottle, jams a kerchief into it and shakes so that the rum saturates the linen. The creature may not be looking at him, but he's not counting on any element of surprise. Still, he holds the bottle in such a fashion that the kercheif is not visible, nor is the match he deftly palmed away. "Jolly-girl. Hate to interrupt, darling, but methinks discretion is the better part of valour" So saying he moves swiftly, bringing him to what his calculations confirms is the outer edge of the circle of conflict
Elijah split its face with that sick, unsettling grin. White teeth behind chapped lips, coarse black beard, and grime-smeared features mimicking her. Snapping at air. Mocking, not just her position, but the manner in which few attempted to approach the lives that had been given to him. In the tavern's stretch it moved, once more disjointed in its gait, as though with every stride those lanky limbs dislocated. As if joints were dried and stiff to a cadaver's standard. It canted its head in an unnatural angle, this time the sound was accompanied by a series of explosive cracks from vertebrae. "Tell me, girl. When was the last time you checked in on the boy?" And suddenly, maliciously, it laughed. The sickening sound barking up from within, dry as leaves dragging along the road in the grip of the wind. The pale glint of its eyes mad, and bold, upon her own.
Jolie spared a glance at Cornelius. Old times. Good times. She recalled the last time he'd said those words. Jolie did not move, but was ready to either dive, or catch the bottle. "My boy's fine. You're a coward. Choke on that."
Elijah straightened, and considered. Some were simply too stubborn. It was a disease fettered by more than drink, more than pride. The rot of humanity was its inability to accept that it did not understand, did not know, and could not possibly handle some things. The truth lay in its endless stumble from one disaster to another and its endless dialogue. It was as though people willed themselves to forget the endless lessons of their own history, a marvel to which it had been introduced what felt like an age ago. Back when it was human. Back before it had been that thing. Back before it was now -this- thing. The girl, however, had forgotten. It would have been enough to let her go on like so many, oblivious, except that she had borrowed. She had taken. And she had never made square. The shambling hordes it had summoned, melted. The black liquid slithered back upon itself, a stinking puddle upon the floor before it drew up. The liquid horror slowly shedding its ebon exterior, turning silvered. Mercurial. Molten in appearance, like metal in some ways and like nothing known to the world in others. "It's been a long time since you took a dip, girl. Come on in. The water's fine." And then it rushed towards her, towards Jolie alone. She might escape it if she ran. It was not so quick as that. But it was swift, and she knew where it lead. She knew what that embrace meant.
Cornelius could curse. He really could, but appearances must be maintained at all costs. He bursts into blinding speed, glad that Jolie is still closer to the door than the abomination making mockery of life before him. He expects to be attacked, not unfamiliar with double- and triple-jointed limbs, prehensile tails, and certain sorceries. But it is so much to keep in mind, even for one with a natural talent for it. As he moves he strikes the match against something in his sleeve, and touches it to the linen kerchief. The rum-soaked linen lights up like the mad fires in the creatures eyes. Appropriate, Cornelius thinks as his old training sends him dancing towards the circle of death that is his opponent's presumed reach. Before he reaches that point, he hurls the bottle to fall crashing at the ground between Jolie and the creature, giving her a chance to take his advice. His footwork diverts him laterally away from the creature along what Vailkrin fencers used to call the line of infinity. He hopes he is fast enough, the creature slow enough, to make this first pass without having to alter his plan of attack "Jolly-girl, RUN!"
Elijah looked at Cornelius.
Jolie || She did not need telling twice. Nor had she waited for the bottle to fully crack into flames on the floor before her body sprang to a burst of fear-galvanised motion, averted from the onrush of the horror advancing, tables bumped to shriek woodenly across boards, chairs clattering over, patrons cussing as they were pushed, shouldered, shoved out of the way in her dash not to the door - he'd expect that, but to the many-paned window before which she skidded to a stop, bunching her legs, and took a fist-first dive straight through it. Shattered panes splintered glass over the drinkers nearby, and Jolie could be heard landing with a thump and grunt of expelled air when her body hit dirt like a sack of potatoes outside. Ungraceful. Painful. Animalistic reflexes, far overstepping old habits of judging her own capabilities. She was ten feet from the tavern wall, covered in cuts, and through that empty, jagged eye she saw flames. On her feet, sucking down the night air, she bolted for the nearest woods. Cornelius... ah, but this is what he lived for, wasn't it? Hopefully he'd live for it a while longer.
Elijah had not anticipated the other one interfering. The flames were far more effective than it might have hoped. The silvered liquid struck them moments after the girl had made her escape, and shrunk back, alight. The surface rippled like a mirror, wreathed in crimson and orange. It reflected its own burning off its silvered surface and shrunk back. Bubbles grew across it as it boiled, recoiling upon itself in a moment, before boiling again. The cycle would continue until the pool was gone, turned to filthy smoke in the tavern's confines. Inky. Stinking. As it seemed all things this urchin conjured were prone to be. For a moment, the trickster watched through the empty window as the girl made her escape. That sick smile spreading wide, unwavering. And then, steadily, it turned. The visage of a man giving way to something horrid, eyes vanishing to reveal empty sockets. The lips peeled back to reveal rotted teeth, bits of skull. A horror akin to a body in one of the grim states of decomposition. "Well?"
Jolie is out the window, running like buggery.
Cornelius grins as Jolie exits in her usual fashion and sketches a quick bow even as he makes some space to give him access to multiple exit points, deftly avoiding other patrons "Pleasure to meet you old bean! Say, do you still perform tricks for copper?"
Elijah nods once, and as if in an instant those features slip back. Return. Find their place as an urchin again. A wide grin, mad as can be, takes root. "And flips."
Cornelius drops some copper "Good sir, I ask if you could perform the following trick: tell me your name"
Elijah answers while regarding Cornelius, lantern-green eyes set thoroughly on the fire. "Elijah."
You bows again "Cornelius Von Penzance, at your service. It has been a pleasure, Elijah. Never thought I'd see Jolly-girl turn tail like that again in a million years."
He pulls out some gold, and moves to place it on the counter, keeping a close eye on Elijah's movements "Mesthak, this is for the window and the scorch marks. I like your brandy enough to want to be able to return".
Elijah vanished before your eyes, perhaps never to be seen again.
Cornelius breathes a massive sigh of relief as the creature leaves the tavern, somehow not feeling that the giving of a name was worthy enough a trick to deserve the coppers spread over the ground
Cornelius waves to all "Well, jolly good show and all that! I'm afraid I really must dash!" So saying, he takes a running leap, and vaults through the broken window, landing with a neat tumblers roll to spring to his feet before setting off after Jolie