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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 13:26:24 GMT -5
While the inne-keeper was relieved to have his daughter in good health, he could not deny that the tragic accident with the children, had not been profitable. It might even have been a source of guilt for him. The news of such a strange occurrence had spread quite quickly to the surrounding and larger towns, his letter that would bring his daughter not the only one that flew out of the village by messenger or bird and his daughter not the only one to arrive. The crowd around the tents had at first been only the villagers..but whispers spread like wildfire, and soon there half as many from outside the village, curious onlookers that would spread the mystery ever further with time. It was not yet a circus atmosphere..the quiet of a village night still held, but the inne was full.
Time. That was what her first wonder was as her mind did that odd blinking that did not involve her eyes. It was quick and disorienting, her silver banded cane appearing from the depths of her cloak and planting into the wet dirt to stabilize her balance. There was much to prevent someone from using a Golden Traveler to go back in time..but how harmless a small jump into the future seemed.
This thought was barely formed and realized, before one of the children....Lily it was, a strange little child, wrapped around her in a clinging hug. Crickets jaw flexed tight..though not with distaste as it might have appeared, but with the effort it took not to show any emotion at all. Instead, one gloved hand came gently up to caress the back of Lilys damp hair as her eyes glanced from Lyall to Mr. A and his Maggie..taking in the lack of his extra servant as he had claimed. Her gaze ticked back to the careworn mother who looked on, desperate for help. Her voice was quiet, rich with its odd accent as she spoke to her with a hint of sadness she could not hide.
"We are here to try, Madam, I can promise no more."
Her eyes ticked across the tent and she took a deeper breath, dropping her gaze to Lily as she gently pulled her from her embrace, a gloved hand slipping along her arm to catch her hand as she drew the child to her side, and walked her the few steps to the woman spoken to.
Not among the first to arrive, but strategic in his choice of Inne rooms, through pane of glass on corner's vantage looked Bainbridge Martin. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a tone more olive in hue had brought with it the nickname, "Bain the Black", and though he was Irish through and through the man was afforded anonymity amidst his European counterparts. Thus he stood for some time, observing, watching, as this villager and that traveler sought the sights of living statues, so young and angelic despite the earth's mud turning the scene in to a brown wash of misery and toil. Hands, strong and of the laboring class, drew away from a thin vest, used to pull forward a waist length riding jacket. Gloves met fingers, then palms, and with a pinch of snuff snorted sharply the room was left without company.
Outside tall boots fended off the muddy street's sticky grasp. Something within the local soil was fit to be harvested for binding, unlike other elements used to lubricate mechanical works. Mental note was scrawled to a page in an ever-growing book as the man tread towards tents. His brow knit, and his eyes turned upward momentarily, spying at a distance the culmination of cloud, sun's rays, and a small murder of crows. Not unlike home, dread and dreary, but this place offered not even the brilliant greens to remind the public of nature's return. Ears pricked to the ebb and flow of tidal conversation, the occasional gasp tempered by another's quiet prayer. Bainbridge studied the two seeming corpses, ever mindful of those surrounding him.
Some minutes later the Innekeeper, a city or town's often well-informed operator of rumor's mill, found himself sharing breath with the Irishman. It was the foreigner that spoke, his voice of a sort of calm and quietly expressed surprise. "A curiosity, they're right about that. Curse or other, who bares such ill will against so young a victim? Hm, what manner of man offends God in such a way?" It did not appear that the foreigner actually adressed the keep so much as rhetorically posed the two questions, though an expectant look of explanation befell the fellow once dark eyes turned back upon him. Whilst the keep contemplated and perhaps responded the traveler put coin to countertop, settling his debt for the day.
Hours and hours ticked by, judged solemnly by the sun's angle, as if the man humbly respected the burning globe's tireless consistency. Wares were studied, local fare tasted, and a number of pauses were taken to seek from vest a small tin, and from it the finely ground tobacco product found way in to nasal cavities, making even the most boring encounter memorable.
And then the night came, and the lanterns were lit, and the villagers retreated to their corners. Bainbridge, once more, stood in a corner room of the inne, watching, waiting.
Talk was therapy. The man may not have been hoping for a response, but the man was quick to give it. Everyone in town was aware of what happened and the guy liked the feeling that there was someone knew to inform and that he was in the position to do it, "It's been said that the kids were going through the bag of a stranger when he was passing by. Something happened, I don't know," the innkeeper paused and then tilted his head as he recalled, "I saw a light outside my windows and the man went out there, saw the children and ran." His sigh came out long, like he wished there had been something cheerful to add to what he said. Instead it ended with, "There had been a woman who the children had grown accustomed to and she was asked to help. She left, too, but we haven't seen her since."
It was easy to believe the Silver Ouroboros was a curse. It had all the results of a curse with illness, possible death and disappearances and the villagers left with no answers or even a sense that what they were doing for the children was even helpful. Would it be more humane to let them die? No one had said that yet but a few people in town had it on their minds.
Until their arrival.
It was obvious that A was uneasy with the way the crowd was growing around them after they appeared. People from the inn, hearing a disturbance on what were usually boring nights, were starting to pile up. Word was getting to the real locals about what was occurring. Rumors ranged from there being a wizard with that woman, to there being no women at all and just some strange men gathered. The man named A looked less aloof as the crowd grew. Cricket had been right about his wish to be anonymous and it was clear he grew uncomfortable with the increasing number of eyes and ears. His smile before had been unpleasant but now it was hollow and forced, something anyone who knew him for five minutes could have recognized. To the crowd, for now, he was cordial and polished. His smile was unmovable and he stepped toward the tents, his hand around Maggie's wrist. He could have no more been aware of Bain the Black than any other crowd member.
Lilly looked at Cricket and smiled, though was confused briefly by the other men. She hadn't seen Lyall on his first visit to town, so all the rest of them looked new. She wondered why Cricket had brought so many people and what it all meant.
Inside was like a cozy tomb. two candles burning and two children who looked dead wrapped in blankets. It was clear they had lost some weight. He didn't know them well enough to know that they looked any different from any other day. He kneeled down to examine the children. After a moment he noticed that the child who had it was the little girl, the bracelet wrapped around her wrist and one end partly circling her thumb. There was a brief moment of admiration for the silvery thing, the creature that was alive and had desire but no heartbeat of its own. He looked at Maggie who stood with first lips and her hands clasped together at her chest.
"They're only children..." Maggie's eyes with the dark circles soften and it was with obvious maternal instinct that the dropped to her knees and leaned over the children.
"That's my child," Lucy's mother said, weakly. Was this other woman, thin and so tired looking, really the one that Cricket had brought to cure her child? She thought the woman looked too ragged, too worn to help anyone other than herself.
"Oh?" Maggie smiled at the mother and exhaled so much it was like her rib cage crumpled in on itself, "I had three, you know." It was the last thing Maggie said. She leaned over and placed her hand by Lucy's face. Perhaps she was going to stroke her face or move a lock of dirty blond hair aside. She didn't live long enough to do either. The moment was that instantaneous. She fell, instantly on her face and the two children loudly gasped like they were coming up from air after being at the bottom of a lake. Their skin color even appeared to brighten.
Lucy's mom drew her up in her arms before she could even cry out for her. Jamie's parents had stayed at the entrance of the tent and when he started coughing they ran over to him. The parents were too overcome, they started crying. Lily shot over to Lucy, the leader of the children's gang, and hugged her as tightly as a little sister could. Amid all the elation A was not distracted. His hand reached to the ground where a quiet, inconspicuous bracelet was. It looked... benign, boring now. Maybe even something you'd throw away in the trash.
Sometimes you could hear Lyall scribbling. Little mental notes, little this and that. He stopped when A looked at him and blinked. Oh, it wasn't for him. It was for Cricket. He got to his feet and stepped out of the tents, brushing off the front of his chest and weaving his way out of the crowd. He knew the elation would die down into questions about Maggie and he intended to be gone before that happened. The man was always in a hurry, it seemed. He was standing near the face of the inn and reached into his pocket to feel for the other two items he had brought along. They were still there. He didn't want to appear relieved but it did soften the corners of his lips. Lyall went out to catch up with him.
"So that's it, then?" He pushed his glasses back up his nose and put his book away. His eyebrows lowered and he said, perhaps with the first shred of forward bravery in his life, "Nothing's that easy with you."
"You're right," he said, his thin lips drawing into a tight smile under his long, curved nose, "but it's not over, yet."
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 13:28:09 GMT -5
Cricket neither knew the dark Irishman that watched from his room window, nor sensed it for any reason... it was expected there had been many eyes on this tent. What was putting ice in her belly, was the fact that the tent looked so worn, and again she wondered how much time had passed. The thought of it made her feel sick. This did not show on the outside, as she gently released Lily's hand, and left her there near the mother, her cowl pulled up over her head, to shadow her features as more and more took notice that something was happening around the tent.
She cared very little what rumors, accusations or theories flew from mouth to mouth. It was but one odd thing among a million others, that would fade in people's memories with time. Granted, she might not be able to return to this little village when it was all over..but there were others. Many others.
Her eyes cut to Mr. A, who seemed tight about the jaw and shoulder as he lost no time in leading Maggie into the tent. She followed, and stood beside Lyall as Maggie spoke in that eerie fashion to the mother. As she looked at the children..their thin arms and faces struck a nerve again. How much time?
Maggies last words would be ones that would not leave Cricket for a long, long time. I had three, you know. Cricket watched as the maternal touch ended Maggie's life like a match light in the wind. The great huge gasps of air that the children came to life on were a huge relief to Cricket. It had worked. Maggies horror was over..or at least one could hope, and the children breathed again. Crickets eyes did not leave Maggies fallen body..though from the edge of her vision, she saw quite well Mr. A's retrieval of the Ouroboros.
As the cries and tears of relieved parents filled the tent, Cricket stood silent. She stood so even as Lyall snuck his way out, and Mr. A briskly exited.
Eventually, she took a step toward the fallen Maggie, and knelt down, gently turning Maggie upon her back. Two fingers were used to search for any pulse under the edge of Maggie's jaw, but she was growing cold already. Maggie's eyes were still partly open, and Cricket looked into them, before she stood, and snatched a blanket that had been used to cover the children, and laid it gently over Maggie's body and face. She had a hand in the woman's death, and she would have her part in burying her. By the God's she thought, so should A.
Perhaps she should have been more concerned with the deal she had bartered... keeping her end of the bargain, but she wasn't the one that was looking to duck out through the crowd either.
It could wait, until this woman was buried...and until she could devise a way to contact someone she wasn't even sure would help her.
Whether by design or a fortuitous series of events Bainbridge had come to observe a moment that brought with it vital intelligence as well as nearly palpable curiosity. The vantage point had been utilized a great deal, due in large to the fact that while much was visible surrounding the streets, and in particular, the tents housing the two children's corpse-like bodies, the observer, Bain, was not so easily discerned from the rest of the inne's room.
Curtains and dressings were not ornate, or too flashy to create inconsistencies between the truly drab surroundings and to all outward appearances an average, perhaps boring, man. He struck no match nor lit a candle, burned nothing that might shine around him, and he stood, or sat, quite still while he studied what lay before him. Mr. Martin was of a rare breed, content with his duties so long as he was afforded adequate time to catalog details within the ever growing library that comprised his mind, and it was details he committed to memory as he viewed several figures moving purposefully through the throng of mediocrity now surrounding the tents.
At first there were two figures that drew attention, and though the number of foreigners lingering in the city grew, none seemed as direct or intent on making their way in to the tents, and moreover, even regionally traveling folk looked quite similar to the village locals. Then there were three. The almost nervous and oddly fellow that trailed along like an overzealous female student behind a handsome and appealing professor, he created more affliction between what could be called the normal environ of the tents and the remaining crowd. The man was familiar in a way that Bain could not quite grasp.
The fourth member of the troupe was marked, however, it was not uncommon for classes above to tote with them the servants belonging to classes below, and altogether not even curious that she did not exit with the other three, except to say, that at least two members of that particular party seemed quite concerned with a hasty departure. Tunnel vision precluded Bainbridge from further study of the man and woman whom had entered together minutes before. It was the mousy little chap with his academic look that stole the show. Bain produced that tin object of habit, bumped a snort of snuff, and started for the ground level of the inne, soon enough to tread over porch's boards.
While crossing out of the rented room and in to hallway, down stairs and across a small but warm lobby, and in to the chill air of the village's hub, the Irishman mentally sorted through a number of missives and correspondence, of conversations that never occurred, of business contracts and orders. He could still not place the identity of the bookwormish man. From the porch he followed last known direction of travel and visually dissected the crowd until some seconds later Bain held dark sights on the scribbling fellow. He should have known the man on sight, but it had taken some time for his brain to process the details, eventually replaying in his mind's eye a prior transaction, an item's acquisition.
Bainbridge had not interacted with the delivery man directly, but he had, in essence, brokered an exchange on behalf of an employer some time ago, resulting in a position within close proximity to Lyall. The messenger was now passing before Bainbridge, though at some distance away, and while he did, a burning sensation welled up within Bain.
Lyall was involved in a previous transaction between a collector and his employer. Delivery of an item of particular interest was overdue to Bain's employer. The villagers present by the tents now spoke of mortality and miracles.
Bain spoke to himself, ever so quietly, in the way one does when witnessing a moment of clarity. "Do cheann nó mianach..."
Lyall was a curious pawn in the stories of many people. Something like a background character that kept getting caste in all the town plays. No one ever told him that he looked familiar, they just looked at him oddly. He wasn't aware that he had something in common with a man named Bain. Where Bain could be more lightweight and perhaps more keen of mind, Lyall's book to recollect was quite physical. It may have even impeded his ability to record properly since vital information could be occurring while eyes and hands were busy with the book. There were things in it which someone could think were trivial like places he enjoyed eating. For what was considered business, though, he had a sort of sloppy shorthand.
Somewhere in the pages was something about the Ouroboros. Before that were other notes, of other transactions.
Lyall was squinting through his glasses at A as the man reached into his pocket and withdrew another time eater. The man was impatient for Cricket, who lingered longer in the tent. He sighed and looked at Lyall, "Will you bring her, then?"
"Huh?" He scratched the scruffy side of his cheek, "Why? Are we in a hurry?"
"Yes... no..." He sighed when he realized that their departure wouldn't be as immediate as he hoped. He pocketed the Golden Traveler and looked back at the tent. It seemed he intended to stand their silently until Cricket appeared.
"If you were wanting to go now, who were you going to leave behind?"
The man looked most like a hawk from seeing the side of his profile as Lyall was now. The skin around his eyes looked like it was shriveling close when he narrowed his eyes at something he saw. His black hair was grey just at the temples. Lyall was waiting for him to answer but he just slowly turned his head, looked at him pointedly and then looked back to the tent. He spoke more to himself than Lyall, "We better rent a room. Separate rooms. It's late."
A went inside the inn but didn't need to ring the doorbell for service. The inn keeper and his daughter were there. She was going inside and outside, telling him the news of the tents. Of a mysterious woman who suddenly died and the children who just as suddenly became refreshed. She was just telling him about how much the children were eating when A came in. They looked at him, their conversation stopping suddenly and the inn keeper stumbling into his smile.
"Are any rooms available?" He glanced down at the ledger of those who had signed in and then looked back to the inn keeper.
"Why, no... not right now. But I know the tavern over the way had a couple empty rooms. They did this morning, anyway."
"Oh," He forced a pleasant smile the way he forced every smile he had and looked towards the door, "What's it called?"
"Olivier's Tavern. It's just after the market square. Shouldn't be but a quarter of a mile." The village wasn't that big. He tipped his head in a brief thanks to the man before stepping out. Lyall was there with his notebook. He had been scribbling some things and said when A arrived, "She's looking after Maggie?"
The man didn't slow down at Lyall's words. He kept walking towards the direction given and said only, "Why?"
"Uh," Lyall fixed his hat and kept at the heels of A.
"Look," He turned around to face Lyall. He seemed taller when he was annoyed. His eyes sharp and his lips peeling back from his teeth, "I want you to stay outside the tent and keep an eye on her. I wish to go to my chambers I will rent at the tavern and be left alone. I've been accompanied by you and the entire world the last several hours of my life and if you will, I need my privacy for just a while. Now, stay here and keep an eye on her. She still must fulfill her part of the deal and if she thinks she can just run off and make me a fool, she is mistaken. You owe me, Lyall. You owe me immeasurably and until that debt is repaid I wish for nothing more than for you to be doggishly loyal and to question me about nothing further. If I get so much as a wrinkle at your expense you're better to me dead. Now, stay here and keep an eye on her. If she leaves this village without you I will skin you. "
Lyall was left with a gaping mouth near the crowd at the tents as the long, rigid figure of the other man went away from the others. He sighed, adjusted his glasses and went about doing just as he was told.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 13:31:13 GMT -5
Cricket could imagine Mr. A's impatience, and on that sentiment she could have cared less. Let him wait. He had little choice now. She stayed knelt beside her for some long moments, until at last, she would plant her cane in the earth and push herself to standing.
The tent was empty, but the murmur of people could still be heard outside of it with the crowd around. That sick, coldness of not knowing how long she had been gone struck her again, and she pushed it away. One thing at a time. Her steps led her to exit the tent, her cowl shadowing her features but the sharp eyes beneath it scanning the crowd for Mr. A and his mule. The latter, she spotted almost immediately, and she could have sworn she caught the back of Mr. A as he cut a straight path away from the crowd. It was easy to assume, he was unwilling to wait under the eyes of so many.
Indeed there were a lot of eyes, many of them turning to her as she stepped out of the tent. Most mixed with uncertainty, some with gratitude, and others with pure out suspicion. It was never the eyes that looked straight at her that she worried about. The father of Lucy came up to her, grabbing her free hand and pumping it as his eyes wept and he offered her his thanks and Cricket winced a little at the enthusiastic shaking of her arm and hand, but endured it as she nodded her respects to him, her voice low, and not traveling past the few closest.
"Can thee see that the woman inside is taken care of with respect?"
The man had been joined by two others..brothers or neighbors she did not know, and they all shared solemn looks that held some nods. They might not have understood what had happened to the children or why the woman had died, but they could easily see that her life had been given for the children and they all owed that something despite the idea of the curse that hung over them like a ghost. When the men had agreed, and others had gathered closer and began to interject their opinions... not in the cemetery... she was cursed..they must build a pyre... by the river to carry her ashes away..
Cricket turned toward Lyall, satisfied that Maggie would be taken care of. Lyalls little book that he kept scribbling in and tucking back in his jacket was marked, as was the fact that he was hanging around. There was only one explanation for that, she was sure. The man would have been gone by now, if he were not still employed. She gave a grunt of disdain and turning a shoulder to Lyall's direction, she cut smoothly through the crowd.
She could think of very little reason not to leave this village right now and she had every reason to do so as soon as possible. Lyall was not a concern, nor was her ability to disappear from even Mr. A's eyes. No..the real concern, was if Lyall were Mr. A's only pair of eyes and if she were risking leading him back to her home.
She recalled Mr. A slipping two objects into his pockets that were not golden travelers..and that made her come to a complete stop in her path on the street, pulling up so abruptly that if Lyall were close behind her he would run right into her. Her steps continued a moment later. Decision made. It was too big of a risk..but Gods help her..so was this Mandlebrot business.
She knew only one person in the world that would have proof of such an item as that.
Her direction changed from its desire to head straight out of town, and turned instead to a small, seedy tavern near the main gates. The Goats Leg, where one could find drink and game and women, but no rooms for rent. She also happened to be on ...good terms, with the barkeep..or rather, on good terms with his wife. She knew little secrets about the tender of the Goats Leg, that he paid dearly to keep from his wifes ear. She had a table of her own in the back and drinks for any she might entertain. She never drank there herself.
"Where is he?"She spat to Lyall, as they crossed the muddy street.
Bainbridge Martin narrowed his dark eyes as he looked waywardly down the street at the tents from whence they had come. From the muddy-bottomed heavy cloth to the market-square went his attention, focusing sharply on answers just beyond his grasp. Footfalls were absorbed by the soft ground as pursuit led him away from the Inne and after another after another. The female involved in the events minutes before now seemed to part ways with the rather serious and concerned gentleman now seeking respite. And behind that female, the ball of wrecked nerves, Lyall.
Bain had familiarized himself, although briefly, with the village and its various establishments while waiting for that particular moment, the one where change occurred, for better or worse. This time it resulted in two children's lives restored at the expense of a mother three times over finding herself less than alive. The crowds were dissipating, like the rain had, eventually. They were packing their belongings, leaving the streets to celebrate, or drink as they would anyhow, but now with a reasonable purpose. Fewer and fewer about made Bain more and more visible, and to this he took no liking, causing his walk to begin to sway its course, though only in the way he moved from shadow to shadow, where available. Lyall seemed to be quite occupied with keeping pace behind the woman, though for what reason Bain did not know.
Once near The Goat's Leg the pace declined. She was determined, it appeared, the woman who led the way, and Lyall appeared to follow like a hungry dog. Where one went the other seemed sure to follow, but this left Bainbridge with a particular dilemma. Like the woman, he too was unsure how many were in the employ of the curious gentleman from tentside observation.
The Irishman would wait no longer. In to the breach, though after powder packed and wad of wax cloth added, Bain became the projectile that would soon find its mark.
Gloved fingertips procured his tin of tobacco, and in the moonlight the surface of the top was cast in silver wash. It was paused stag which shone, looking undecided as to whether it should lower fantastic rack or turn tail and leap away. Bain held the item at bay, fighting an urge to supplant his senses. No, he made way without mind-numbing refresher, instead, taking with him many years of polished experience.
He thought Cricket would never rise from the tent. When people died they didn't linger in this world beautifully. They started to get discolored and bloated and a smell set in after a few days. If he could never see a dead body again he'd be grateful. While he considered the last dead body he'd seen he saw her, mobbed by men and women alike with thanks. When he first met her he wouldn't have thought her at all the be a heroine. He always thought heroes were bubbly, magnanimous creatures. None of that properly described her. His father would have liked her, they had the same brevity when they spoke.
"Where are you going?" He said as he went after her. By now he was conditioned not to expect her to respond, but he couldn't keep himself from asking. That was how the relationship was forming. He talked, she punished. Again, his father would be proud.
When she stopped it caused him to almost tumble over her. It lacked that certain air of slow, deliberate chastising he had been accustomed to. When she changed direction it felt like the world jarred him. He righted himself and was after her in a heartbeat. He was about to pose the question again except this time she had one for him and it was he that stopped still abruptly, rather, for a moment.
He didn't know the answer to her question, but he knew how the answer could be found, "I'm not... sure? I just know he's going to stay in town and he doesn't want to lose track of you." Which meant it would be hard to lose track of him, except, of course, that his exact whereabouts had currently become unknown. Lyall was use to working with unknowns, at this point in time he readily accepted them. When they were handed to someone as often as they were to him it was either to become very accepting of change without substantial reason. Lyall thought he would add, gingerly, "I don't think he wants to be disturbed..." From what he had known of Cricket, she could care less what A wanted.
Olivier's Tavern did have empty rooms, one of which was being occupied by a man who signed in under the name Lyall British. He was in his room all night and didn't come downstairs for a drink with the locals. In fact, he hardly gave them notice.
In his room he wasn't sleeping. There was a small desk with two candles burning and that's where he was, perched over a book he read with a concerned expression. One of his hands was in his jacket pocket, toying with the items there as he thought the words over. The Mandlebrot. The Mandlebrot. The name repeated in his mind too often. He hadn't felt this same infatuation since he found the Golden Travelers. It wasn't long until he realized he needed to have the bowl, their home, to have them always come back to him. After he had them he thought he had found the last unusual item of worth. There had been unusual items always, throughout time, but finding one of actual value, one whose results were mostly uniform, that was a real achievement. The items though... Cricket was right to say that money just wasn't enough when considering their value.
He leaned back in his head, sighing heavily. When he withdrew his hand from his jacket pocket it was not with a Golden Traveler but something else. It was in a metal, rectangular case with a special clasp that took additional effort to open. He pressed the silver circle, twisted and then eased the small hinge up. It looked rather unremarkable, like a piece of old liver cut into the shape of a flattened ball. It was fleshy and damp. He regarded it with an unchanging face. It grew warmer, softer, slightly more peach-like in color. He shut the lid and slid it back into his pocket. These days he wasn't sleeping much, he couldn't. The book he had wasn't interesting initially, the person who had rented the room before him had left it behind accidentally. After all, a diary wasn't something someone just left behind.
The last entry was different that the entries before. It didn't seem to be in the same handwriting. The previous ones talked about the children, boys and local events. It had a casual tone. The last entry was written in with hurried, heavier ink. It didn't address the diary or any other fictional person. It just said... Lyall British was accidentally killed last night.
Could it be? He torn out the odd page and jammed it into the breast pocket of his overcoat and rose from the desk to step from his room, locking it behind him. His hands back in his pockets, one toying with the Golden Traveler. If he used it to hurry to Lyall then getting back home would be considerably more difficult. What if the time was now? His stride was made as long as he could take it. They were last at the tent, weren't they? He stopped at the pit where the tents use to be. He could tell because there was a displaced dry patch of ground. He turned around and felt the frustration cause his skin to heat. He reached back into his pocket, reopened the message and read it again. There was no greater meaning, no direction. He had told Lyall only not to let Cricket out of sight. Not to let her leave. Doubt was starting to corrode his memories. He stood there for a dragging moment and then looked back the way he came. Lyall wasn't here.
...Why was he?
A folded up the message and returned to his room. A bit more wary. A bit more reluctant to sleep. A bit more like a vulture instead of a hawk.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 21:01:23 GMT -5
Cricket took opportunity when it showed itself, and if the opportunity to slip a hand into Lyall's jacket when he nearly fell over her presented itself, she would certainly take advantage. She wanted that little book and was not likely to forget about it. She felt no obligation to answer Lyall's question about where she was going..for her destination would soon be known.
She wasn't all that surprised that Lyall didn't know where his employer was, and while she may have eluded to him being a fool while speaking with him to Mr. A, it had been for no more than to save his miserable life at that moment. It was difficult to believe that the man was really as foolish as he seemed, especially in the line of work he was in. She wasn't sure How he had managed to stay alive this long, but she was sure there was a reason and she was damned sure there was a reason that Mr. A used him. Bottom line... Lyall had a lot of information.
Hero, was not a word she would assign to herself and would have made a face of disgust had anyone else done it..and a hero she was not. On her own, she might never have gotten involved in all of this. It would have been easy to walk away, had those little eyes not looked so pleadingly up to her and begged her help. It was too late to go back now. She felt a sense of accomplishment when the two children sucked in their breath of life as they had done upon their birth, but she was none too sure that bargain she had made to accomplish that, was not going to put a more important life in danger. Her own.
She already knew Mr. A didn't want to lose track of her, and she would not make it difficult, a smirk crossing her lips beneath the shadow of her cowl at mention of his not wanting to be disturbed. She had no intentions of doing so. Dark eyes narrowed on Lyall as she studied him a moment. ... Lyall... that was his name.
The streets around them, were for the most part empty. One or two came out of the tavern as they approached..stared at Cricket and Lyall as though glad they had chosen then to leave and hurried on their way. If the title "hero" had been stuck to any of them, it was accompanied by a great deal of superstitious fear. The children had been cursed..these people had saved their lives, at the expense of another. It was fodder for years of rumors, stories and speculation on the villagers part.
Other than those leaving the tavern, the streets seemed eerily absent of any others. Most having had a day and a night of oddities... they were eager to return to their more normal cups and beds.
Noise spilled from the Goats Leg, common sounds of laughter and minstrels music and voices of both men and women. Still a few hundred feet from its doors, Cricket was frowning on Lyall at the front of a merchants closed shop..perhaps trying to figure him out..perhaps just wanting to remove his head from his shoulders..it was very difficult to tell.
"...I intend to go into this tavern, get off my feet for a time, and eventually find somewhere to catch a few hours of sleep." Gods..when Was the last time she had slept. She could not afford to let exhaustion take hold of her. Not now. "If thine Master wishes to find me, I shall be near to hand... but Lyall... if thee follow me around like a mangy dog, I will soon tire of it and slit thine throat myself."
She did not appear to be in a very good mood, and with a look on him that promised she would and could do exactly what she said, she set her cane in the mud, cut her eyes in a quick survey of their surroundings, and then narrowed them back on him in preparation to turn and head into the noisy tavern that still had an hour or two left to water its patrons.
Down the way the duo went, Lyall following the woman until at last words would force them to part ways, at least momentarily, providing what might be the moment Bain had been waiting for. Like the unflinching viper the man moved almost silently as he neared his prey, stopping when need be to become nothing more than a supportive branch on which the eye built a curious vision, a memory perhaps later realized as other than the truth, a dream that could haunt the soul. Once the female form had retired to the tavern's confines after aggressive words seemed to sear the intellectual's senses, Bainbridge Martin slithered his way ever closer.
The lights were few, and the moon, for now, appeared to provide the greatest source of reading light. From the vantage of the tall Irishman it appeared that Lyall would soon fall asleep reading, sitting where he had come to rest at barrel's top. More than likely Bain would have chosen the crate next to the barrel, if only for its greater stability and less likely possibility of teetering with a snoozing man atop it. Bain was looming, like a snake poised to strike, taking full advantage of Lyall's interest in pouring over his journal and the lack of sleep that seemed to intoxicate the him.
A metallic noise might snap one to his senses. For Bainbridge it was the snort of finely, granulated tobacco, that sent blood rushing in to the most minuscule and distant capillaries throughout his body. The first noise was inhuman, but the second was quite the opposite, and now a voice grew out of the man that stood sidelong to Lyall. It was the first time, in the moments before interrupting Lyall's reading, that Bain had witnessed the man's nerves calm in the least. To assuage what might be quite the surprise the Black extended the tin of snuff. "This'll keep you alert, lad." A slow and reassuring nod was issued forth.
Bain's right hand offered the almost open tin, with its ornate engraving, while the fingers of his left hand drew back the dark green hue of a short riding jacket. The trimmings were of silver, like the tobacco box, and almost as worn. Free thumb soon snared itself in one of two belts. The indication, certainly to a man as bright as Lyall, was of a weapon, one of the White Arms, a bladed tool of both defense and attack. The sword, on Bain's right hip, was still shielded by the angle of his body.
"Now, good messenger, explain to me why your delivery has not been made." Bain the Black's eyes narrowed, barely visible beneath his brow due to chin tucking near chest. His brogue must have come across as less than aristocratic. To the studied linguist it carried with it an air of dank streets and moss-covered brick, an undertone that screamed of fist-fights and days without proper nourishment. Bain sniffed, drawing in the scent of bound pages. "And let's not spin a tale unaccounted for."
The container of snuff was withdrawn, enough time offered having passed, and the item placed within a simple, but warm vest. Extended once more, the hand was empty now, as if expecting Lyall to fill it.
"But... what... where am I suppose to...?" It was all a string of pitiful words that followed Cricket's back as she went inside the Goat's Leg. He stood outside the establishment and looked like he might ask the door a few more questions. There was just the huff of frustration that came from him. Skinned if he's with her, skinned if he's not. Why was it always like that?
The compromise between both, it seemed, was to wait outside. The tavern was too noisy, too full of bodies and talk for him. He sat upon a barrel, it seemed like a place that he could roll to his feet quickly. When he withdrew his book he noticed it had been jarred from the place he usually kept it. Was he so tired that he was also getting sloppy? When was the last time he slept? He remembered waking up to seeing Cricket with his things and then it was going to see A himself and then to the village. He scribbled in his book, under the Golden Traveler that those who traveled seemed to live on a different time line. After all, days had seemed to pass since they returned to the village but it hadn't felt like days since he slept. He was tired, but not that grossly overwhelmed with lack of sleep. Did that even make sense? What about... and sometimes it seemed that...
Suddenly there was a voice in his ear, like it crawled right inside his brain it felt so close. He spun his head and realized he'd been sleeping. The book and pen dropped to the floor and he hurriedly snatched them up and put them away. He smiled shortly at the offer but shook his head no at accepting it. The jolt of surprise had sharpened him up for the next hour. He took his glasses off to the clean them and when he replaced them, looked for signs of Cricket. She was either still in the Goat's Leg, or long gone. His mind could not wander on those thoughts for long. The voice that walked the crevices of his brain was speaking again.
Like every other voice that addressed him, it wanted something. There was a grimace on his face when the words fell. So far he'd only had to deal with one side of the arrangement falling out. It had been unwelcomed enough. Now that the other was clearly inquiring, Lyall wondered just how many people could threaten his life before he actually died. He fortified himself with a breath of air before beginning.
"The item intended for your client," he assumed, "was accidentally intercepted by some children. Apparently the item isn't suppose to have skin-to-skin touch and a little girl and boy got ahold of it and fell under some kind of affliction. Honestly, I wasn't paid to deal with situations so I just bolted and figured I'd hear the consequences and maybe get some more money dealing with them. Well, the delivering party and I crossed paths, along with this woman who was helping the kids. I don't know her name but I think she's a rough one. There is, uhhh..." Lyall looked around to see if either A or Cricket were about. Then his eyes, a murky sort of blue behind the white shine of his glasses, focused on the man questioning, "I wouldn't get involved if I were you. People are dying and questions aren't getting answered and... I haven't gotten paid for doing anything, yet."
Lyall was afraid that if he mentioned the Mandlebrot that this new person, whoever he was, would stick to the situation with greater want and desire. After all, if his party was meant to be the victim or benefactor of the Silver Ouroboros, then the idea of some other worthwhile item would be appealing. Lyall figured that if it had been expected that it had also been wanted, especially if you were going to send a man like that after him. The man was fog, he could smell the tobacco on him but it was different than the time they went to A's... wait, no, it wasn't. The more he considered it, the more this man reminded him of the others that had worked for A. The brown clothes, the scent of tobacco and that part of them which could only be described as grit around the soul. Was he being tested?
"You know what, forget everything I said. I've been drinking, it's late, I'm tired, you know, you get kinda loopy in the head after a while." Lyall felt, intensely, it was time for him to relocate. He faked a broad stretch, tipped his head to Bain and started to take a few steps away.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 21:07:56 GMT -5
Cricket pushed through the old door to the Goat's Leg, the stench of sweat, smoke and grog hit her nose in a strong waft, but it was, at least, a familiar smell. The tender, who most fondly called "Thumper" (given to him for the old piece of hickory he kept behind the bar, and used with regularity to keep his drunk patrons in line), was a heavy set man of square frame, with a head full of graying hair, and a nose thick and heavy, showing years of the drink. His eyes, though small, were sharp, and his main goal in life seemed to be his tavern, his wife and his mistresses, all in that order.
Months earlier, Cricket had happened to overhear his wife in the market, spouting praise for how much her husbands tavern earned. A day later, she had just happened to catch Thumper with one of his mistresses behind the seamstress shop, his hand down her pants. It had offered the perfect business relationship. Cricket kept her mouth shut, and said nothing to his wife about what she had seen, and he afforded her a table of her own near the back, and just about anything else she asked him for. She never pushed her advantage too far, or expected too much from Thumper, but she was sure, he would see that she got her table tonight. She would not be disappointed.
The tavern door opening or closing always got a turn of heads from the patrons, though rarely too much of a glance from the harried tender and barmaids. Her entrance however, seemed to push a little hush through the crowd as they saw who it was..and Thumper looked stormily up from the bar directly at her. She let the door shut behind her, hoping Lyall just stayed outside and she moved through the tangled group as the hush dissipated and all went back to their respective cups and ivories. The minstrels music was a mere few clear notes on the lute being plucked out, to a background of slow rhythmic drums. It suited the growing pulse in her temples as she wove her way through and took up residence at her table. The cowl was left to blanket her head and shadow her features, her cane let to rest against her thigh. She let her eyes scan across the room to those gathered... saw clearly those who pulled their gaze away as hers crossed it, but again, it was not those who looked directly at her that she concerned herself with.
She never drank here..and though there were a few seedy rooms for rent by the hour on the floor above them, she wouldn't have slept there for any reason. She preferred to nip from her own little silver flask, its dulled surface deeply engraved and blacked with patina around the celtic design. and this was removed from inside her cloak for that purpose, before being slipped right back in.
Her gloves were pulled from long fingered, olive toned hands, and these worked on their own as her eyes continued to keep a look on those gathered. A small, ivory pipe was drawn free, and her thumb used to pack a sweet leaf into it.
The fragrance rose as it was lit, and with a slow relishing inhale, she eased back a little..going over everything in her mind again from the moment she had seen the children in the street, to the moment they had breathed again. Maggies last words haunted her, but she did not let that take hold.
She recalled the note she had stolen from Lyall at his campsite, and this was drawn from her cloak to be read over again... and again, taking note of everything from the ink used, to the calligraphy, to the words.
Lyall, It is to my understanding that you have lost the artifact I had given you. When you collected it from me I had told you it was incomplete and that you must be careful with it. Since you took it from me, it is no longer my responsibility, nor in my capacity to help you. I can only advise you to find a man named Thalas, who works at a Library of Darklore. He may have some information for you. Goodluck, I suppose.
A
Well... it seemed Mr. A had a cohort? Curious she thought..the man was denying responsibility..even sending Lyall to someone else for help..but why? He certainly had changed his mind when she had mentioned the Mandlebrot. She doubted it was Thalas that Lyall was taking it to..so who was the target? For a moment, she debated on the wisdom of leaving Lyall outside.
She stuck the missive back into her cloak and reclaimed the pipe stem with her teeth, letting the smoke drift up and cling to her face and hair. Mr. A wanted information on the Mandlebrot. Her problem now..was how best to do that. She had only one choice..one Believable choice... and that choice in and of itself created a whole new set of problems.
Gods... would Liam even remember her? ...and if he did, would he help? She doubted it..in fact, she was almost sure he would be furious with her for dragging him into it even if he had never heard of the bloody thing... and if he Had heard of it? ...if he did indeed know of it? ...oh Liam was not going to be happy at all.
She pondered her options here. She could point Mr. A in the direction of the Stags..but she doubted he would be satisfied with that. It was not as if they were a common guild, easy to penetrate and deceive. No... if Mr. A knew anything at all about the Stags... he was going to expect more from her than just pointing him in the right direction.
Cricket watched the men play dice at the table nearest, watching the old worn cubes rattle and roll across the rough surface. Everything was a roll of the dice.
She needed to get home..or at least send a message. Time had seemed to fold with the use of the Golden Travelers..and though the time passed must have been days..she felt not the weariness that should accompany it. Neither was she hungry. Tired yes..her mind was tired..and it tended to drift back to Maggie's dead face.
Lyall..now there was another thing to boggle the mind. Seemingly inept and loose of tongue, she was quite amazed at his chosen field of work..yet something had kept him alive thus far. She did not believe that anyone worked for Mr.A for long and lived to tell about it. Unfortunate she had not gotten that book from him... and how odd to carry around such a piece of evidence as ones journal.
She grunted around the last of her pipe, and then tapped the ashes out on the table, the still warm pipe tucked back in her cloak. Perhaps it was time to get a few answers out of Lyall, while Mr. A rested and the town was quiet. This she would do, after she took care of one other little thing.
She did not know if Aloysius would come looking for her..but gone as long as she had been, she was sure the girls would want him to. Where else would he begin looking than here? It was where she had told the girls she was going, and it was the place she had run into him a few weeks ago.
Her hand once more disappeared into her cloak, and this time came free with a scrap of parchment and a small piece of coal. She wrote upon it a few words and then rolled it in a small tube. Return. 5 days. C
A small cylindrical object was taken from her cloak next..onyx without a symbol upon it, it was capped with a small, tin circlet. The little tube of parchment was slipped into it, and her thumb pushed the circlet back into place. Rising from her table, she took this object with her, and moved to the bar, garnering Thumpers attention. She handed him the small object. "If a man by the name of Aloysius St. Claire comes looking for me. Give him this. If I find thee have given it to any other, Ill stick thy balls in thine ears." Thumper looked none too happy with this, but he snatched the object out of her hand, and fit it into the leather purse at his belt, growling his agreement. Satisfied, Cricket turned and headed out of the Goats Leg..though not the same way she had come in.
Behind the bar, there was a small rear door, that led out to the narrow alley behind the tavern. The alley cut back up each side of the tavern itself, at the end of each were stacks of crates and barrels. Having seen the way Lyall liked to recline, she was sure he would be on one side or the other, tucked up on a crate or barrel and so the only real choice was which side of the tavern to sneak up along. She chose the North side of the tavern..and it was a good choice. With stealth born from many years, she slid up along the shadows behind the barrel that Lyall had chosen..his glasses glinting as he reset them on his nose..and he was speaking to someone. She dared not creep any closer, or risk being seen by whoever it was.
She could only just make out the last few words of Lyall... and he seemed to stretch and act as though he was preparing to leave. Her back pressed against the outside wall of the tavern, bathed in shadow cast from the moon..she held her breath... and waited.
"Scéalaí." The word was said so quickly after Lyall stopped speaking that it should have stung like the viper's bite. Though it came in the language of Bain's home land the tone behind it was unmistakable. The Irishman cut the chill air with the word, and it was as refreshing as his voice had been to the sleepy, nodding mind. No more time had passed than enough to draw the next breath and he repeated, more vehemently, in the much more common tongue. "Liar."
Few men withstood walking away from such an accusation. Bainbridge had spent years refreshing his mind with tobacco snuff, but over so much time he had not yet lost the ability to sift alcohol from the many scents that often surrounded it, and at that time there were very few competing smells to confuse the olfactory sense. The Black was close enough, and it did not bode well that Lyall had not only lied to Bain's face, but the man of constant sorrow had turned his back on a tried and true enforcer.
What sort of man would Bainbridge Martin be to venture forth at his employer's will that he might return with no more an explanation for failure than a tale of irritating children intercepting an expected item's delivery? Bain truly made exceptionally little trouble for himself, however, he was not employed to keep the peace, no, only to manage violence. Inherently, laying hands on another individual was dangerous work, to be taken seriously, and Bain did not underestimate the twitchy messenger.
It was not a hand that found Lyall following Bain's accusation, but another set of words that smacked of challenge. "Now you will kindly turn over your journal. One lie is not enough for your kind." For every step that Lyall took one was taken by Bain, plus a bit. He was tall, and closing the distance was not at all difficult, even at the slowest of pace. Were Lyall to tuck tail and run, he might only imagine what fate might befall him, however, of all the individuals that Lyall had encountered recently Bain the Black, known for his physical anonymity, had not threatened Lyall. He merely implied by way of linguistic suggestion that Lyall was not an honest chap, and that he was, more or less, a snake in the grass. By all means Bainbridge gave the man too much credit, prodded at what he had quickly assessed to be sore spots, and had done it in very few and precise words. One might gain the sense that Bain was only as patient as his employer afforded.
The hair at Bain's neck stood on end. For better or worse he suppressed the desire to seek out whatever supernatural, or quite natural source it was that caused him to consider the implications of traveling alone to this damned village. Perhaps more alarming than Bain's words unto Lyall was the fact that he stopped, breathing deeply beneath narrowed, perplexed, dark eyes. While he did not turn his head, his greater interest invested in Lyall, he discontinued a firm pursuit, as if he might alter his priorities to promote every man's most basic desire: self-preservation.
Whether in preparation to brain Lyall in to submission or combat whatever specter put senses at high ready the man drew back the right side of his riding jacket. There he exposed, to the moonlight, that member of the White Arms, the stout and sheathed blade of cousin Highlander's basket hilted claymore. The grip, exposed, was quite odd, composed of deer antler hollowed and run through by steel rod, an extension of the blade rather than a configuration involving multiple metal components of weaker integration. Metal capped the end of that rod after passing through the basket's terminal point beneath the weapon's grip. It showed the nasal end of an animal's skull, rounding upward and around the basket, and though not completely visible from every angle, the edges might have been determined to picture the far reaches of a mature odocoileus.
While hand had not claimed purchase upon grip, the weapon was ready to leap.
He had gotten only several paces before the man spoke again. Lyall turned to look at him and blinked at the words, scratching the back of his neck, "Liar? Well, yea, sort of, but I have morals. I'm not a massively lying person..." Why was he feeling like everyone he met he was convincing he had morals? It was beginning to make him wonder if he was the only one that believed it and if he was, wasn't that just an outstanding argument for the contrary? His eyes were nervous, they moved left and right to access the situation and take another step back.
His journal? Lyall didn't take a step back, just seemed to withdraw into himself at the demand. It wasn't everyday, nor hardly fair, to have someone you didn't know demanding the most personal thing of you, "What? You can't be serious...?" It wounded him, that demand. A was not the most generous of employers, but he had never asked a personal thing of him and had promised him safety. This was an unpleasant dream where he was sacrificing up one of the last things that he still felt belonged to him. However, he was awake and the man was asking.
When he indicated, Lyall's eyes followed. Wearing glasses made it a certainty he clearly saw what was at hand. He withdrew his journal, the diary of the last three years. He had started it half a year after he started working for A. It kept the world straight, made the details stick better than what his mind could do. It was the only writing he could convince himself to do after he gave up his previous employment. Releasing the book up was more than just information, it was bone-breakingly close to jeopardizing the memories he held.
Lyall had given up being a scribe for other people, it was all for himself these days. He despised how so much of him went into what he wrote only to have another person purchase it, or take it away, forever. He couldn't understand his employer's need to collect items, but it was the same species of desire that Lyall wanted to quit selling his work as a scribe and keep it for himself. It was when he held the book that he thought the man was asking to take away years of his life and Lyall, well, he couldn't just be the mangy dog he usually was about that.
There were, in fact, times that the man had a spine about him.
"I... I can't. I want to," which was something like a lie. Lyall wanted to live, so in that respect, yes, he did want to give it to the man, "But... it's me. It's mine." He thought, perhaps, there was an indention in his ribs from where the book rested in that inside pocket of his jacket. What would go there now? Was he being stupid, foolish? Couldn't he just start a new book, start over? But Lyall didn't have a love of his life or children. If some part of him was to ever be passed down in this world, it was in what he wrote there. To lose that was to lose his heir.
...There was another problem. Outside owning a beaten hand knife, he hadn't much of anything in terms of weaponry. He didn't train to fight, or battle. In his pockets were no handy items that would change where he was or how this situation was turning out. He never wanted to be involved with any of these sorts of things. He was only, perhaps, one of the most remarkable scribes in the world. His journal wouldn't have been his finest work, a lot of what was jotted was done in a hurry or in dangerous circumstance and could look childish and messy.
Lyall took one step back, then another. After that second, it was clear he was going to take his chances bolting. He didn't know the town perfectly, but he knew this stranger didn't, either. Maybe the man was more muscular and tougher than him in probably most every way possible, but Lyall had small advantages. He didn't have a sword weighing him down and he did know some of the town's geography. His goal was the market square, where there were empty counters and hollow store fronts he could duck into, dodge around, and hide until either the man gave up, struck a better compromise... or killed him.
A had told him one time that he didn't have to worry now that he was working for him. It was time to see just how deep those words reached.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 21:10:33 GMT -5
The heavy brogue that called Lyall a liar struck Crickets ear. It was the only thing that prevented her from stepping out when she realized that Lyall's journal... that little book she so wanted to get her hands on... was in jeopardy. She half expected Lyall to hand it over without a fight..and she was a little surprised when he stammered out his claim to it. It seemed Lyall had some balls after all.
Not a lot of brains, in her opinion, but some courage. Her back was pressed so tight to the rough wall of the tavern, she could feel the edges of the smooth stones..but a single step..even a heavy breath..she was risking being seen. As much as she wanted that journal of Lyall's, she knew now, she wasn't the only one. Was it worth risking her life for? ...bah ...everything was a risk... but that thought had not even completed itself when the moonlight, unhampered by cloud, shone upon the hip of the man threatening Lyall.
Her breath, held already, hammered at her temples with a stronger pulse. This was a stroke of luck..good or bad, she wasn't quite sure, but it was enough to pump her blood hard through her veins.
Suddenly, she knew what she was going to do about the Mandlebrot. The decision and her action came at the exact moment that Lyall backed up his second step and prepared to bolt. So many things were all in the timing and the timing of this was critical. There was only a split second between Lyall's sudden burst of escape and her opportunity to prevent him from being pursued. She stepped out into the moonlight, one quick step, and with it two words spoken.
Those words held within it the inflection of both derisiveness and some amusement..even some question. Gods she hoped it was enough..and more than that, she hoped it was right. Gaelic was not one of the languages she was comfortable with. She knew only a few common words to speak..fewer still in listening. Gods... Drow had been hard enough.
"Poc..n Gadai?"
There was probably a much better way to call a stag a thief..but the language was mostly a mystery to her and it was the best she could do. She wasn't even entirely sure the man Was a stag..but the glimpse she had gotten led her to lean heavily on that assumption.
Perhaps her words were not enough to stop him... perhaps sight of her stepping out of the shadows was not enough to stop him..but perhaps the two combined, along with the sight of a little throwing dagger held by its shining tip in her long fingers..was enough to make him hesitate. That little blade was made just for being thrown from a distance and Bain now had a choice. Chase after Lyall and risk a knife in the back or stand there and confront her... risking a knife in the eye.
As does the professional soldier and tactician Bainbridge constantly assessed possible threats and the intent of the man before him. Another step back answered by one forward. As the natural fight or flight response could be observed welling up within Lyall it was Bain's practiced muscles and mind working in tandem to prepare him for a proper engagement. While he did not appear to express the stress of someone approaching the same physical readiness that Lyall was exhibiting the man breathed more deeply, and vasodilators poured in to his bloodstream. Muscles warmed and prepared to experience a lactic burn once initial adrenaline burned off. Pupils went wider and Bain's brain was now able to absorb his environment more rapidly, process it as if time were standing still, and put thoughts to action in a terribly quick manner.
The muscles of Bain's feet gripped the soles of his boots, pushing to start forward. A ripple effect put his legs to work, and though he did not lunge immediately for Lyall the air was charged and surely the action was not far behind. Bain had not responded to Lyall's words, not in a meaningful manner that was evident in reply. This was no longer an exchange, a cobbled street where ideas mingled and profited from interaction. The walls were closing in, forcing foot traffic to flow one way, and the direction was soon to become a tidal break at Lyall's back.
Quiet, save for perhaps the thundering of his heartbeat within his throat, chest, and at his temples. The man was not Bainbridge Martin, but could only have been Lyall British. Whether the meek scribe of recent garish exclamation had made it to the market square or perhaps around the corner from the Irishman, he was no longer Bain's focus.
Stag? Thief?
One more step forward and a sharp turn was executed on the balls of his feet, stabilized quickly by rapid adjustments and foot placement. No longer did the man let hang at side the basket-hilted claymore. Left arm crossed his body, appearing to contort his figure, as gloved fingers wrapped around the bone-handled grip. Body angled to assist in a press through his palm to let fly steel. The hiss was unmistakable, and perhaps might draw attention from exiting patron, or alleyway sinners. Though Bain had given up pursuit of his target that target may have remained closer than one might think, however, the words cast at the Black were threatening and posed questions Bainbridge could not ignore.
Bain spoke not. The thick-bladed weapon rode high before low, basket-hilt before his chin and extended slightly, narrowed eyes peering past the vertically articulated edge. He did not advance, nor retreat, merely held the ground beneath him while the woman loomed with her broken Gaelic and the quick, little throwing knife. Whether completely insane or having long made peace with a finite length of life, Bainbridge Martin now faced a female figure that might have simply put that tiny blade to his back if she had not desired some form of information possessed by the man. It was not a particularly comforting thought. Many a man had undergone incredible lengths of torture when taken alive.
"Tá do chuid gaeilge cac."
And most said his sense of humor was dead.
There were hundreds and thousands of places he'd been more or less against his will. When he had traveled and progressed along his way there was only a handful of occasions that required him to have physical endurance. To that end, he had learned something. It wasn't that he wasn't meant to be an athlete, he'd know that by the time he was five. The epiphany came to him while his stride was long and his heart beating tight in his throat. It told him that he could do anything for ten seconds with the amount of adrenalin that came to him in these situations.
The further he went, the more he felt that he was a deer. Faster, maybe. That the trees were a blur and his stride could scale a fence without being touched. His ears, though, they were loud only with his heartbeat. He imagined the man's breath, laced with tobacco, hot at his ears. But sounds from the man rejected him. When he saw a large oak tree he grabbed the bark of it, swinging his body around it to crash along its other side suddenly. He thought he'd see the man close by and wondered if even checking for his approach was foolish. But there was no man at his heels or closer. There was...that woman, Cricket and the man with his tin of tobacco, squared off to one another.
To him it wasn't like opposing forces meeting. The woman shoved him around and thought he was as worthless and without integrity. She didn't like it when he talked and was always chiding him. The man named A was the same in some of those respects. Lyall knew that he had but one or two redeeming aspects and none of them were readily apparent. He was not like the woman named Cricket, who manipulated situations with people better than he. Nor was he like the other, facing her with a drawn sword. Both of them had a talent that was gold in this sort of world-- they were fighters. They had the marks, the flaws that happen when someone trains enough to be efficient. Was that woman saving his life, again? The hustle, the shoving... it had been much to withstand. There was a time when she had reached over, taken his arm and ensured that he stayed on this voyage for the Ouroboros and now the Mandlebrot. Exclusion in these sort of things with his employer didn't tend to bode well. Why did she include him? He knew why A did, but not why she did.
Did he dare intervene... with a small, bent hand knife? He pulled his overcoat closer, felt the edges of his journal dig into his chest and thought that he should have never written a word and let himself forget everything.
He turned his back to them and continued at a fast clip, just short of jogging. His ribs were already hurting, cramping from the burst of running and its abrupt stop. What happened next was that he came across a group of people, four or five of them, walking towards the Goat's Leg. He stopped in front of them in a messy cloud, his hands spread out to command them to stop. They were startled by him, some of them reached for their weapons but all were in a moment of awkward pause. Lyall, wanting their attention and them, wanting to know what the stranger wanted.
"Hey, you...people," Lyall began, wetting his lips and lowering his eyebrows, "There's some trouble up ahead. I think that there's a man with a big...big sword giving a woman with a cane a hard time. Yeaa..." his voice drifted as he looked back the walkway. From where they were the two of them were far off, but with a blade like that one did see it from a distance, especially when lamp light illuminated it.
It got the desired effect. The three men of the group wanted to be heroes and the women were indignant that someone was being bullied. They were all interpreting what he said differently. Of course, mentioning her cane gave the impression that a formidable man with a blade was bullying a disabled woman. Lyall thought... maybe the man was right, maybe he was a liar. It wasn't a readily visible flaw of talent, like being a fighter with scars. But it was something that worked better than a bent hand knife.
Maybe, just maybe, it was enough to help Cricket the way she had helped him.
The distance between him and the action grew. It expanded like a sigh until he was standing in an open, empty marketplace that stood like it was abandoned. Lyall looked behind him to see if it were true, if his solitude was maintained and if for the first time since he meant Cricket that he was... alone. It felt like it, for now. His steps were small, slow. He went to one of the wooden counters that looked like it was splintering under the invitation of rain. Everything was dusty, dirty, like it wanted to disintegrate in the moonlight. He crouched on the ground under the counter of a woman that sold bracelets on market day mornings. He could still smell the metal that she worked with. There was a discarded chicken bone in the corner from an old lunch she had. Knees were drawn up to his chest and his hat was pulled down over his eyes. Arms held his legs, held himself and the journal to his body. Held him tight until finally... he got to fall asleep where no one might find him.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 21:37:16 GMT -5
Lyall quickly disappeared, and with him all of his answers, but somehow she was sure she would see him again. This, at the moment, seemed much more important. It always was when the pointed end of a weapon was directed ones way. Her cowled head ****, showing feminine features, darkly toned, though hiding as much still with shadow and she seemed to give a moments thought to his thick brogue. She was almost sure he had said her Irish was ***.
She displayed a bit of faux indignation in her tone as she replied. "At least they were accurate." She grunted and held her poised dagger by the tip of its blade and it was flipped gently to land the hilt in her palm to be tucked away all in the double blink of an eye. Her free hand returned to the hilt of her cane, that was set directly in front of her and found a direct gaze on his face down the line of his weapon. "I can be much more helpful to thee alive and with thine cooperation... perhaps even answer a few questions thee may have had for that gentlem..." On the last words, she risked a glance from him, in the direction Lyall had run with a nod of her chin and that, too, stopped as abruptly as her words.
It seemed several people were making a beeline for them, weapons drawn and at a rather quick pace. What the hell now? Her words broke the brief pause as she went on, a single brow arched high. "..if thee have a place that is private. it would seem that now is a good time..."
Bainbridge was too experienced to simply stare at the woman, to let that sort of tunnel vision develop that oft led to gross bodily harm, and sometimes death. "Spoken as if you imagine your Gaelic is better after several gallons of porter," quipped the man.
She appeared to be of gypsy persuasion, which was one more reason in addition to the deft flip of dagger's point, landing grip in her hand before finding purchase within the confines of her person, that he should not trust her in the least. There might have been more prickly tones to follow, but at the suggestion that she might answer questions his attention focused more sharply, only brought to a grinding halt as voices grew louder and louder, approaching the Black from the rear. The weapon he bore was not sheathed, whether held firm the better to strike the femme or prepare to do battle with whatever small gathering intended to mob him.
"Just an Inne's room. And you?" As he contemplated the various avenues of retreat he was certain the first place to run would be around the backside of the Goat's Leg. More of his back was offered to the femme as he started to back peddle in the direction from whence she came, keeping the crowd to his front.
"'ey you! You!" One of the men of the group, Evan, said. He already had his blade drawn but it wasn't being brandished. It was defensively held and his eyebrows were low. Clueless, brutish looking would-be hero, "We heard you were pickin' a fight you ought not to be." He wasn't cursing, but the tone implied a nasty emotion slithering underneath. A fairly young man, eager to prove himself though he was already a beefy looking type. His friend, Daniel, was thinner and more boyish looking but was not aiming to be out done. He spat on the floor and said, "We don't like seeing someone gang up on another like that. It 'in't right." The others did not chime in, but their body language all seemed to speak the same story. Bain was the problem. Didn't know exactly how, just that he was.
Cricket was matching Bain's back step and half turn and she was even smiling with the notion that she could be back in the Goat's Leg and leave him to handle this all on his own, but that wouldn't have been very sporting of her, or wise considering she wanted him on her side. A hand hidden beneath the edge of her cloak as the crowd came nearer. There was quite audibly an amused chuckle for her as the men shouted out and it became clear that they believed her to be in trouble. She could have bent over her cane at that point, and made it all the more evidence against him, but she did neither, and simply continued backing up along with him down the narrow alley. "I suppose for a pint, I could tell them we are friends..." so amusing, and just a second or two left to make an escape if they were to have one.
"Awfully friendly for a cursed town. Guess with it lifted a sense of chivalry is renewed." It should have been evident to the oaf and the knave that when two people were nearly shoulder to shoulder and backing away from confrontation in such a manner that whatever qualms might exist between them a larger threat was to be faced together. Visually, the story of so many a nation's conquest played out with their small parts to be seen amidst an alleyway stage. Bain held his oddly decorated basket hilt claymore at a low, deceitful, ready. "Either get on with it or make a start around the corner." And with that his lips drew a wry smirk and he stayed his tongue.
It was, needless to say, very confusing for both of them. The story was not at all intended to run the path it was on now. Evan and Daniel were like children that had mixed two puzzles together and didn't know how to separate or make sense of them. Especially now that they were starting to fill the shoes of an unwanted intruder. They were given pause, not entirely dumb but dumbfounded. The brutish one that wanted the victory the most spoke in a way that was hurt and mouse-like, "Is everything all right, Miss?" He wasn't going to ask the man. Just wore his confusion on his sleeve. The others behind him looked detached and bored at the misinterpretation.
Cricket saw the puzzlement on the features of those approaching, and if they had turned and darted back now, it would perhaps have drawn more trouble. She chose the easiest one. Her back step halted, and she came forward a step, a hand to rise and push back her cowl enough that they could see her face, a smile upon her lips. "I am quite alright..and truly there is no need for violence." Her smile curled her lips and a hand gestured to Bain, "He was just showing me his sword." A grin flashed, at once dazzling and brilliant, and just as confusing and disarming to the men that stood now wholly undecided. Weapons lowered... and sullen looks went to Bain and back to Cricket, one of the men muttering out something that half sounded like an apology. It seemed the threat was over and the Goat's Leg was about to close because the front door was letting out a flood of stumbling people in short clusters... one or a few glancing over to what was going on near the alley.
He found his way to the village with little trouble remembering the route as Cricket had shown him when leaving the Goat's Leg and it was there he would start his search. But upon approaching the establishment, he heard the rabble of a lot of men and saw the same seemingly verbally accosting one of the two figures outside the tavern. One was a woman mistakenly thought to be in some distress from the other a man. But there was something about the woman that didn't suggest it was so. Slowing his gait, he merely observed the scene. Instinctively his hand went to the hilt of his sword beneath the cloak using the other to flip the cloak on his left side for an easy draw, should the time come. As he grew nearer still, he strained to hear the verbal exchanges.
Bain was no jester. It took some effort for him to put on much more comical airs, to include a quick up and down of his dark brow, while hand put to work that claymore. A hack, a slash, a fanciful but tactically meaningless flick of the wrist, it was a gamble that they would find a flourish here or there to be mildly impressive, and that they were entirely too manly to inquire anything of his training or further demonstration. Cards were played with the hand dealt him. And now, the man dipped his chin in as close to a bow he would offer the dolts before them, for despite their insignificance to Bain, their injury or death might draw attention that was certainly not desired. As if to punctuate the words spoken by the roguess, Bain the Black sheathed his sword, choosing to offer an arm up to the gypsy. "Pint it is."
The low browed man that was the most reluctant to put away his weapon and when he finally did so, and it seemed that wooing a woman was at least one thing they could understand. One or two grinned as he offered up her arm and were wandering back off the way they had come... one woman taking the arm of the reluctant one and drawing him away with her.
Cricket laughed, the sound rich and clear, a long fingered hand hooking itself in the offered crook of Bain's arm. "I am certain it won't hurt my Irish," and still chuckling, their first steps taken back out onto the street, it was easy to see that they wouldn't be getting it at the Goats Leg, for Thumper was throwing the last of the drunks out the door. Cricket turned her head to smile and give a nod to her would-be rescuers "Thine chivalry is appreciated, gentlemen," and though there was no sign of it on her face, she was sure she caught out of the corner of her eye a familiar figure half shrouded by shadow. If it were Aloysius, and she was none too sure, she hoped he would get the note from Thumper in the morning. If it was not Aloysius, it may have very well been a pair of eyes from Mr. A.
As they simply added themselves to the dwindling numbers coming out of the Goats Leg, Cricket let Bain decide their direction. He was the one with the room after all.
Seeing that the squabble had been resolved, he took his hand from the hilt.. He watched as Thumper threw the last patrons, some drunk, out of the tavern. if he quickened his pace... It was obvious he would need to return in the morning to speak with the man. He started to veer his direction when familiar laughter.
It was unmistakeably Cricket's laugh and pausing in his change of direction, blue eyed gazed scanned the area. "Cricket...?" The name wasn't far above a whisper and when no response came, he assumed he might have been mistaken in his assumption.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin , Aloysius StClaire and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 21:44:31 GMT -5
The field at night was unusual in that all the blades of grass were slices of paper with neat handwriting from a series of different texts. They swayed with the wind in a deliberate, serene manner. The grass of ink and paper was high, to his waist and continuing on past the curvature of the planet. When his hands touched the blades they responded like a cat arching its back into his hand. One of his hands pinched a blade's and he pulled at it until it jerked loose. It was moist like grass, the impression of his fingertips darkened what would have been the paper of its flesh.
He flattened the blade, spreading it taunt like a wide, horizontal string pinched between his index and middle fingers. It was a snippet of words, written with an alert hand. The way something ought to be written. Though it was night the words weren't arduous to read, they had a golden shine when the light of the moon came into focus on them.
The woman named Cricket laughed, the sound rich and clear, a long fingered hand hooking itself in the offered crook of Bain's arm. "I am certain it won't hurt..."
The rest of the words he couldn't read, they dived into nothing at the end of the blade of grass. He hurriedly turned it over adjusting his posture in the hopes that the moon would brighten the scripture.
The man named A shook his head at the tavern's owner, "I need to know who rented the room before me." The man sighed and threw his bar rag on the counter, "I told you before, we don't keep a log of people that pay for a room up front."
It was all he could make out. He reached for another blade of text, but all the words had been reduced to a single one that repeated. It appeared in different sizes, sometimes the ink looked bolder. But the manner it appeared for all the blades was urgent. It was... his name. Just his name. Lyall...LYALL...Lyall...
He woke up. The sun was just starting to take the black off of the evening and he saw a man standing over him. His outline was a crisp contrast that caused Lyall to jerk, hitting the top of his head on the counter top above him. He wet his lips, but before he could speak the voice came.
"Lyall, what are you doing here?"
"A... is that you?"
"Yes." He leaned down, his face close to Lyall's. He thought he saw every pour in the skin. He saw the slope of the man's nose, the hard curve of his cheekbones as he examined him. A distracted thought in the back of his mind wondered if the man ever slept. His skin had a shine to it and Lyall wondered if he was sweating underneath the simply designed clothes he wore. The man named A clasped his shoulder and looked away from him to the ghost town of counters in a long, methodical way. When his face turned back to Lyall his eyes looked large, the vein at his temple straining against the skin, "Where is she?"
"There's somebody new, now." Like a dog by the collar, he was pulled out from under the counter to his feet.
He tightened his hand on Lyall's shoulder. It was more like a warning vice than helping steady him on his feet, "Who?"
"You don't know him?" He had seemed like the man's other men. The ones he didn't talk to that seemed content to look into the wind and run the end of their tobacco pipe slowly across their teeth until they ate blood.
"What? No. What's going on?"
It was then that Lyall told his employer everything he knew about Bain the Black, the man with a sword for business and his encounter with Cricket. Needless to say, his employer did not take kindly to Lyall leaving her with a new, potential danger. Someone who was after the Ouroboros and thus, him. Someone that knew about and wanted Lyall's journal. All of it was giving him the distinct impression that control and security were slipping from his hand and that the unknown factors were multiplying into generations of problems. When he heard a small, hurt breath he realized he was still grasping Lyall by the shoulder.
"Lyall... I need you to go to the tavern. I've rented a room in your name," he didn't know how long they were staying so he hadn't paid for it, yet. The key to the room was thrust into the palm of Lyall's hand. He didn't know how much money Lyall had on him so he immediately went to feed the protest, "I'll pay for it when you check out. But you need to go there, it isn't safe for you here." If a man with a sword like Lyall described was about, sleeping practically unarmed under a counter wasn't an ideal situation. He brought Lyall in closer and said through his teeth, "You shouldn't have let her out of your sight..." his hand released him and he stepped away from Lyall. The pause was heavy and he looked only partly over his shoulder when he spoke to him, "But it was a good idea for you not to get involved. A man like that kills people and you're just a dog. It was a good decision, I am... glad you're still with us. Now quickly, go ahead, make a left at the store front, go about ten yards and the tavern will be there. You should hurry, before it closes."
He reached into his pocket and let his fingertips trail over the perfectly smooth, cool surface of the Golden Traveler. A sharp turn on his heels and he went to the direction of what would be like a messenger service. It was time he sent word. He'd wait outside, under a tree, until the office opened in the morning.
The laugh, Cricket's laugh, haunted him throughout the night, causing him to play and replay what he had briefly witnessed. But as Last Call had been sounded and the tender had been physically removing people from the tavern, he was forced to wait until morning to begin his search.
During the wee hours of the morning, he sat outside the establishment, wrapped in his cloak and eating one of the packed sandwiches as he mulled over what exactly he had seen. He was certain it had been Cricket he had seen depart on the arm of a man. though visual confirmation could have been faulty. The laugh, however, had been unmistakable. The question then became who was the man? It wasn't uncommon for Cricket to endeavor in questionable dealings, especially when a profit was involved And perhaps since she hadn't been in any danger, such was the case. But the sooner he found her, the sooner questions could be answered.
When he heard the bolt on the tavern door being thrown.He got to his feet and gathered up the satchel slinging it onto his left shoulder. He had long given up his drinking days and now found it hard to fathom the appeal of drinking first thing in the morning. He followed behind a small knot of people intent on doing just that. Entering the tavern, he glanced around in idle curiosity before approaching the bar to speak to the tender. When the burly man came over, he launched into his query. "I was in here the other night and I left with a woman I believe you know. I'm looking for that same woman now, and I would like to ask you if she has been here since that night."
Thumper ran a work hardened hand over his gruff face and took a deep breath before opening the Goat's Leg in the morning. The place had been packed last night, what with everyone looking to imbibe a few extra in celebration of the broken curse. Every morning brought the few regulars, who would perch on a rough stool at the bar until the evening rolled around. Quiet most of them, but Thumper suspected that today and tonight would be much busier than usual. They were supposed to have the funeral pyre down by the river tonight for the woman that had died. Maybe, Thumper thought, he would take a keg or two on down there to the river this afternoon. People got mighty thirsty at a funeral.
His hand slid the bolt and opened the door of the Goats Leg, expecting the regulars, he grunted his good morning, and turning back to the bar, bellowed out as a tired looking barmaid, her hair in messy curls and yawning was coming down the stairs. "Wake yer arse up, Carla, yer late gettin' up."
She shot him a hateful look and a smirk, taking her time in sashaying down the steps and winking at one of the patrons as they came in. "dont be yellin' at me first thing in the mawnin' Thumper" her arm hooking in to the old geezer that was hobbling in the door, escorting him to the bar, though the poor old guy didn't look like he cared one way or the other.
This was how the day began at the Goat's Leg, and Thumper was busy tapping his kegs and wiping down the bar, still thinking about how much extra he could make off the funeral, when he glanced up and saw Aloysius. Thumper was a heavy drinker, he liked his women and his wife. He was grouchy and gruff and apt to put a knot on your head if angered, but he was a good businessman and he remembered faces. He remembered this one. Bushy brows frowned under his tangled crop of graying hair as he listened.
"You aint heard, have ya"
Thumper asked with a smirk, and then because Thumper liked to gossip as much as any woman, and because it was a tale he would tell many times over the next few years.
"She was in the thick of it, she was...all this curse mess in town. Did ya know that two children nearly lost their lives cause o' a curse? Nobody knew what ta do with em the last week. They's just as lifeless an' pale, like they was nearly dead. She went ta get some kinda help and come back. She brung an odd sort here...two men..some other woman too. They all went inta the tent with them kids..an' it was a miracle Ill tell ya that..them two kids come outta that tent..just as alive as you n me! Tha only one that didnt come out was that other woman..she looked perty sick when she went in, but she was dead when they all come out. They's burning her body down at the river tonight. That'll clear out that curse, it will. I dunno what it was...an' I dont wanna know! It was bad business that. "
Here Thumper lowered his voice, because as much as he liked to gossip, he wasn't willing to say much at all about Cricket. He leaned in to Aloysius, those bushy brows growing every which way and dropped his voice low.
"...You got a name?"
Thumper was not a fool. He needed a name before he was going to hand over the missive. He was pretty darn sure this man was Aloysius St. Claire..but he was taking no chances.
The tender leaned almost too close for his ease but nonetheless he listened as the man spun the tale to its completion. Even without the details it made sense of the small crowd of people he had seen dispersing on his entering the town. And to hear Cricket had a part in it raised more questions that the tender didn't want to answer even if he could. Hearing of the one woman's death and the circumstances surrounding it only suggested that some form of magic - or perhaps murder - was involved. He had never honestly believed in 'curses'. Attending the funeral could prove useful to his purpose. He might find someone who could possibly tell him where to find Cricket, or on the off chance Cricket herself might be found in attendance though it was more unlikely then not. All in all, he found the tale intriguing. But the questions it raised were as mysterious as they were suggestive. It was like opening the fabled box.
The tender's query garnered his attention and barely raised a brow as he found it slightly odd that a tender should need to know a name. He assumed, of course, that when patrons became regulars that eventually tender and patron would speak on a familiar basis. It wasn't uncommon in many taverns ,but to ask for a name to tell a tale? He nodded first as he drew himself more upright, adjusting the satchel strap on his shoulder, to answer the man.
"Aye, that I have." He gave the tender a suspicious look across the counter "My name is Aloysius, Aloysius St Claire. Of what importance is it to thee, if I may query?"
Bain the Black was, in some regards, a thug. Others might have considered him to be hired muscle. And still yet, one or two might classify Bainbridge as something of a handyman, fixing problems here and there. All of those descriptions were of men that worked with their hands, were routinely dirty with the grit and grime of their work hanging on to the flesh around their fingernails, with the heavy scents of their labors looming about their clothes and body. None of those men, when most thought of them, registered as gentlemen or romantics. Bain was not without some token of a heart, or at the very least, the ability to portray himself, when times required, as such.
From tavern-side alley to the Inne where he maintained a room, Bain's presented personification was that of a decent and warm-hearted fellow. He walked with a step that was confident and secure, providing for the woman at his side a strong character to lean on. He walked on the inside of the street, in the manner of city dwellers where waste and garbage was thrown to the street where it would land, if it landed on a pair, to the one closest to the building fronts. The way he guided and insisted their travel take this or that direction must have informed his counterpart that he at least remembered well the way he had followed Lyall and Cricket. He also made it known by direction, as they grew closer to the Inne, that he had taken time to consider the environment surrounding his sleeping quarters.
There were little options for entering the Inne, and in this case, the most secretive one was not the most logical one, not at that hour. At the front Bain put on particular airs. He must have seemed like a young man that had met the most agreeable woman to fulfill his immediate needs. He might have appeared a little intoxicated, but only enough to have been an average participant in the night's celebration of the lifted curse, but then again, he was traveling with that woman. Or was he? The hour was late, or early, and the citizens abroad the village were few. Even the Inne-keeper's nightman seemed to be absent.
To the rented room, paid for in exchanged coin, and without tenant's signature, retired Bain and his soon to be conquered companion. Quiet footfall before a twist and click, metal on metal announcing arrival, and then, a small measure of safety. Bain had not so much as let the woman out of his immediate sights. And now, he stared at the gypsy, weighing so many options but only verbalizing one.
A time-old tactic of interrogation led the conversation to follow.
"About the bookworm, you were saying..."
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin , Aloysius StClaire and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 21:59:29 GMT -5
Lyall went to Heaven. It consisted of four sturdy walls, hot water and a hard bar of unscented soap. There was a blade to trim what was wanting to be a beard and saved the face he liked to show. When was the last time he'd gotten a shower? His fingernails could dig the layers of oil that had been produced, dried, reapplied and left. When he toweled himself off he went back to the room where his clothes were hanging to dry. The moment was quiet. He withdrew his journal and, in a private moment without impending doom or relocation, he began writing. His towel was around his hips, his stomach on the bed and elbows propping him up to where his shoulder blades rose to try to meet each other. He was leaned over his journal, examining everything inked there closely. The letters were long, more ornate and beautiful than the jotted notes before. There was no clear moment to him when he was falling asleep, but his head eventually dropped off to the side and his quill dragged a line of ink across the pages, the sheets, and then dried. He slept and became more human with every dream he had.
He also slept with the door unlocked.
Outside the messenger house A waited. His mind calculated things of no consequence. First, how many stones made up the pathway to the door and then whether he should have one of the boys in town polish his shoes. As the light grew more dominant in the sky he noticed a greater motion in town than the previous day. Initially this struck him as something to be wary of, but he recalled that Maggie's funeral was today. Maggie. The corner of his lips twitched at the thought. She had worked for him for five years, he remembered her being pregnant. She had never said very much to him, the most was on the day she came to him with desperation and he had offered a solution. She hadn't much to offer him... just that one thing.
The man asking about Lyall. This was difficult. This was a problem that either had to be bribed or destroyed. He considered the chess board. How well did anyone understand the Silver Ouroboros? Was there no way to remove the insidious nature of it so that his intent could be innocent, or at the very least, unclear? If only he could go back, if only he could muddy the waters. Something... was humming.
It was humming in his pocket. He reached into the velvet mouth hole and withdrew the Golden Traveler. It hummed, the way it always hummed just as he forced the halves apart and spoke what was necessary. However, it had only been resting in his pocket. The longer he held it, the more it was humming until it started to vibrate in the bones of his hand. No. It couldn't be. Was it? Was the small item made of metal and other interesting oddities telling him to do something? He couldn't go back in his own time line, it was dangerous and the only time it gave the desired result it was at an outstanding cost to some other life event. What and when did it intend to take him? Should he encourage it? All he'd have to do is get close enough to a passerby, perhaps say hello, and then he could use it to go where it hummed he should be. It had no guarantee, no promise. Once more, the way back home would be become a staggering challenge and possibly, depending on the outcome, impossible. It hummed more aggressively. This had never happened before.
The man named A stepped away from the messenger house and toward an individual carrying a keg. He touched him on the shoulder and smiled as pleasantly as he was able, "Excuse me, could you tell me when the service is?"
The man cracked not a smile, just an open mouth in thought and said, "About two, three hours. Everythin' is getting set up now. You should go, she was a right decent woman, we figure. The children picked a bunch of wildflowers to decorate her pyre with." Maggie was still a mysterious, warily accepted do-gooder.
"Thank you." His hand dropped away, down to the other holding the golden sphere. He pushed only slightly and it slid open readily and he whispered into its turning, inner gears. The air moved the way it does when heat comes off a fire, except that a vibration made his bones tremble softly, then he was gone. Somewhere, the man named A had a blinking arrival.
Thumper was nodding his graying head, his sharp but rheumy eyes narrowing on Aloysius as his name was spoken. He pushed up off of the bar from his lean in, and cast a look back at the bar. Just the regulars were here..only a half dozen of them, and Carla was seeing to keeping their morning cups filled. He looked back to Aloysius.
"Stay right there, mate" and turning with a heft of his belt over his huge mid section, he moved to snag a tankard off its hook and slap it under the tap on a keg, filling it up ..not quite full, Thumper was good at skimming profit off the top. He set this before Aloysius on the bar, and alongside it dropped that little tin cylinder that Cricket had given him. Anyone else in the tavern would likely only see the tankard and not the little object beside it.
"She said to give ye this," Thumper grunted out, and only when he was sure Aloysius had seen the tiny object, did he turn and leave Aloysius to his cup and his note as he set his sights on poor Carla. "Woman..I told ye that tap leaked..now look a' tha floor! Have ye no sense!"
To which Carla responded by flinging a wet towel at him and setting her hands to very ample hips. "I was tha one tha' told ye the bloody thin' was leakin' last week, an' ye wont do anathin' about it!"
They sounded more like a married couple than tender and wench, but such was the soap opera the morning regulars always witnessed, a few toothless cackles from old mouths as they listened with bored interest to the exchange. It seemed the Goat's Leg was at least free of spying eyes or ears this morning, though that was sure to change by the eve.
Outside, the village itself would be coming to life..stalls displayed their wares, carts came and went, livestock were being fed, children were up and around and the sky promised a chilly but sunny day. Feelings were oddly mixed..still joy and some celebration over the lives of the children saved..but some suspicion and worry over the woman that had died. Only now, were the rumors that she had been with child started to spread, slowed only in its progression by the fact that most of the wagging tongue women were out scouring the country side for flowers.
When the tender turned away, he raised his right hand to the counter, feigning reaching for the tankard but instead claiming the cylindrical object. Fingers toyed with it as his eyes inspected it's surface. A glance was briefly thrown over his shoulder as if he expected someone to be watching him. The tavern had taken in a few more in search of their morning mugs and tankards but in all respects it was just another day in the life. The argument between tender and wench was the focus of most and the thrown towel prompted a few chuckles from some.
He turned his attention back to the object he held and finding the means to open it, withdrew the rolled scrap of parchment. The charcoal lettering was as clear as the simply worded message scribed. "Five days?" he whispered to himself, feeling the fabled box that had been opened with the tender's tale, had become bottomless. "Five days..." He rolled the parchment and placed it back in the cylindrical case.
Even though Cricket wasn't in any present danger, he felt there was now an unprecedented threat to her life. This thought alone made it more imperative to find her. But how and where were the immediate questions. The object was tucked into a shirt pocket and the tankard was raised as his mind churned over the recent events. A burst of laughter from behind had him nearly spinning around. Three men sitting at a table had their mugs raised as if in toast, the very act causing them to erupt with laughter. The merriment enjoyed was short lived as he thought more of the missive's importance.
It was evident by deduction Cricket was involved in something and needed at least five days to complete whatever. He could certainly follow her instructions but could he, dare he return to the girls and tell them? For that matter, what could he tell them? He could only reassure them Cricket, at the moment was still, alive. The corner of his eye caught sight of movement to his left.
A rather buxom wench had seated herself next to him. She gave him a knowing smile when he turned his attention to her. "Ya look as if ya could use a some com'ny, love." He simply said nothing as he shook his head in response. A flirty but pouty frown replaced the woman's smile, and then vanished just as quickly. "Well, if ya change yer moind, jus' ask fer Annie, eh?" With that, she gave his thigh a pat or two before slipping away from the bar.
Left alone with his thoughts, he considered what next to do. He deduced that the man he had seen in Cricket's company was also involved and perhaps the very cause for Cricket's absence. Which brought him back to the original question of why had Cricket been gone for so long? Find Cricket and find the answer. But something nagged at him, and it was the tender's tale. There was something or someone connecting Cricket, the man seen with her, and the woman that had died whose name he learned was' Maggie'. He felt there was more to this than seen on the surface. He was absolutely certain. But what?
In Bain's room, Cricket and he would have their conversation an hour or so before the town stirred into life that morning..and so what the sun would rise upon there was yet to be seen.
Cricket had hooked her arm into Bain's, allowing him to lead them through the streets an d to his chosen inne. The fact that it was in direct proximity to where the children and the tent had been, did not escape her attention. She played the part of the accompanied female the entire way, her light laughter heard not only by Aloysius but by anyone else that might have seen their walk through the streets.
Her cowled hood was left pushed off of her dark head, wild ebon tresses left to fall where they may only enhanced the illusion of the feminine counterpart being so chivalrously escorted. Her smile played at her full mouth, she flirted shamelessly, and complimented his attire and strong arm and this act continued until the door of his room shut.
Her smile was immediately gone and so was any semblance of attraction to Bain. She took in his small chamber, and moved to the window to glance out of the panes, taking notice that he had had a birds-eye view of everything that had gone on at the tent. She wondered more than once..what he was doing here.
His question hung for a moment unanswered, until she turned from the window, and moved away from its eye, facing him with a look of consideration as she set her cane to the carpet between her feet, both hands resting upon its silver hilt.
She was taking a huge risk here, and his question was left without an answer.
"There is much more happening here than what meets the eye. If thee focus upon the messenger..thee are likely to be blind to the much larger threat."
Cricket let this sink in to him as black eyes regarded him with that depth that could make so many feel like she was under their skin.
"I am curious..as to thine interest in it all. Obviously thee believe the messenger holds some information... Either thee wish to retrieve something..or thee wish to know where it is... perhaps why it was not delivered? Certainly thee have the answer to that now..."
she seemed to be musing out loud..regarding him with that disconcerting visual probe as she went over the possibilities in her own head and lifting a long fingered and olive toned hand to gesture to the window, where his view looked down on where the tent had been pitched over the children.
"..There are many, many questions..as to each of our involvement..and yet this has no precedence on my desire to speak with thee."
Here her eyes shifted from his face, to the hilt of his sword and back to lock into his sight.
"The Ouroboros is a rare object. ..one of many that are in this world. ...would it surprise thee if I confessed that it is well known in some circles, that the Stags are in possession of a great many of these rare items? ..to conserve and protect...or perhaps just to covet, I do not know. ..what I do know..is that the Stags prefer the idea that such things do not exist at all..and would silence anyone that put that in jeopardy. "
This was stated as fact..and it was fact and what made this such a huge risk for her. If she expected his trust..or even his cooperation..she would have to give him more she knew.
"I am asking for thine help, Culley..for I wish to be no enemy of the Stags."
Here she took a slow, deeper breath and exhaled it from her nose, the delicate nostrils flaring briefly beneath the hard black eyes.
"I am called Cricket. ..The Shebali, to some. I know not what reputation this carries any longer..nor do I care..but I am calling upon past business with thine brother to support my claim."
She had gone too far now to turn back, the risk full blown.
"He who possesses the Ouroboros now...wishes to possess other things. The renewal of two childrens' lives were not the act of a benefactor. They were the act of a greedy man who wishes to have something else for his collection. ...I had to offer him something he did not have and unfortunately..it is something that I do not have either. I can only offer him proof of its existence and my belief as to who holds it now. ...This..is information I do not want to hand over, for the item that is in question is not the Ouroboros...but the Mandlebrot."
The last word seemed to hang heavy in the air and she left it that way for a pregnant moment.
"...We both know who has it... don't we?"
again a long , painful pause, in which she wondered if she would live to see tomorrow.
While the dark haired woman inspected the meager room with no trappings save for its corner view, Bain watched. He listened, almost silently, utilizing what came naturally to him after so many hours of training and reflection. It would seem several lifetimes, to some, the time spent simply inhaling and exhaling to make maximum use of drawn breath before letting air escape diaphragm on its way to rejoin the environment surrounding. He was a master of his body, with very little movement ever made these days that could be considered extraneous in the eyes of his mind, or any other's, that had worn out the soles of so many boots walking the same path of existence. Had the woman known him she would not in the least have been surprised by his resolve.
"Tá béal níos mó ná go bhfuil droch-asal maiden."
The words were spoken in what was a matter of fact tone, not at all washed in the least pleasantof demeanors. While the language was the same of his home it was a much more local dialect of a region in particular, one of the street urchins and alleycats. Hard, dark eyes cut to the bone. The next spoken word followed only after a brief pause from the first set, as if he were translating for her.
"My business is with the messenger." After a breath he continued. "And that business if none of yours, curious as you may be." The palm of his right hand came to rest at the lower most region of his claymore's basket, fingers draping to curve around the image of the male deer. A push and release, as if the motion were the habit of thinking. And those words had come, her interpretation of a people, of an organization, of a way of life. Bain did not angle his head, or rock back on his heels. He looked at the woman, arching his brows, as if to question her sanity.
Possession. Protect. Silence.
"What claim have you on the offices of men such as that?" The question was posed, but it sounded more like a statement of reflection, as if Bain had asked the question countless number of times before snuffing the life from an inquiring, or offending, mind. "Unwise to extend in one hand an olive branch while holding at your back a weapon of destruction." He could have snorted, but did not. "What dreams may come to those that promise what they do not have?"
Bainbridge Martin stared at the woman, seemingly indifferent to her plight.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin , Aloysius StClaire and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 22:03:40 GMT -5
When he awoke it was as though many days had passed. The stillness of the room was as though nothing living were in it. He slowly lifted his head off the bed and looked down, frowning at the long, accidental line of ink raked across the journal pages. The damage was done so he collected the mess of pages, inkwell and pen with a morning's slowness. He had slept awkwardly with the towel and some of him had not yet dried. He reached up to his clothes hanging from the line and realized that he had slept long enough for them to harden and dry. He didn't waste time getting dressed, returning to his clothes was the closest he felt to going home.
Looking in the mirror across his room, he saw only a displaced man. Someone who had gotten out of order with everyone else like a rogue puzzle piece in someone else's box. It wasn't as though the job had done it, the situation had been with him since he was a young adult. Working for A had improved his feelings of belonging but only because what he dealt with was so very awkward and different. Looking in the mirror he saw it and wondered when and how he was going to die.
The door burst open. Lyall was the only one alarmed and the other man looked at him with wide, expecting eyes, like he had thought that Lyall knew he was coming. The smell of tobacco and layered brown clothes told Lyall who the man was. It made him recall Bain, briefly, and how he had thought that man as well worked for his employer.
"You're Lyall British?"
He fidgeted at the question, reaching over to the bed to take his hat off the worn post of it and set it on his head, "Who are you?"
The man withdrew a missive from inside his brown clothes and held it out to Lyall. His eyes were squinting at the bright morning light coming in from his window, "Just a messenger." He then withdrew a small box, wrapped in burlap and tied up with twine and extended it to Lyall to take.
The man exchanged no names or pleasantries further. He simply nodded and turned away from Lyall, going out the door and elsewhere, leaving in his wake the smell of crushed leaves, cloth and tobacco. Lyall stood with the missive in his hand and the door open. His sigh came in a long draw and he stepped forward to shut the door. The circle of work and life was continuing, he thought, like nothing ever happened at all. When people carried on like that he thought it was as though they were erasing the past to feel more comfortable. His right hand broke the seal and he unfolded the letter.
Lyall,
You must bury your journal and then open this package as soon as possible.
A
He stared at the missive a long time, surprised to find that now his employer had become part of the ploy to take his personal possession. However, it wasn't being taken, only buried. Kept safe, it seemed to him. Lyall knew why his employer cared, just not why the care for it came on so suddenly. Years had passed with not a word or concern of it and now, for what was perhaps the third time, his journal had become an item of interest. Could he obey the missive? It didn't specify where he should bury it, the only one that would know and could keep it safe would be him, right? He could follow the order easily enough.
Lyall didn't intend on burying the book. Instead he went to the library and there he climbed through the shelves, reorganized some dusty books the way they should have been. No one would notice in a small town with a somewhat used library an additional beaten spine in the shelves. The journal looked most like the local government's land records, which was ideal because no one had seemed to move the books since he was born. He took in a small breath. It was hard to leave it behind, there was always some risk involved. Only he knew it was here, only him. He repeated the words to himself over and over until he rose and stepped out of the library with the package under one arm.
Outside the wind blew with a hint of chill to indicate the coming change of weather. As he walked he pulled at the string of the box until it became undone and fell on the ground. He didn't watch where he was going, just meandered as he unwrapped it carefully.
It was his journal. No, it was something remarkably like his journal. He stared at the cover of it, familiar and odd, and cracked it open. It was his handwriting on so many of the pages, but not quiet. It felt like the work of an impressive imitator who hadn't told the story right. What about his notes on the Golden Travelers and the Ouroboros? And of the woman who had saved him twice and the man that had threatened him once? There were not just details askew, but others which were unashamed at how false they were. Lyall was beginning to wonder if there had been an entirely different man just like him almost living the same life with all the important mile stones skewed.
A piece of paper floated from out of the pages and onto the ground. It was another note from his employer.
Lyall,
You will have another delivery, soon. In the mean time, stay in this town and stay out of trouble.
A
He didn't like to think of himself as pessimistic, he preferred to think that pessimism was realism with a moldy, growing quality on the soul. He thought that if he was going to die here, he might as well enjoy himself as much as a single person can. Perhaps he should have a drink, but as he walked the streets he noticed a growing group of people near the end of town, by the river at a clearing of trees. It was grief and celebration wrapped awkwardly around each other and everyone engaging. Lyall thought he understood that duality and walked down the hill to where the pyre had been set up. Maggie was already looking green, he could see it behind the cheese cloth they laid over her body. There were kegs and music and food, but also the parents of the children sometimes looking strict and melancholy because the pyre could have very well been their own child's. Not many recognized him, their looks were fleeting and unsure, it had been Cricket who was branded more clearly in their minds.
He watched as the heat began to grow at the mound of sticks and people said to Maggie whatever it was they had wanted to tell her before she was gone from this world. A housewife with kids... and Lyall's heart said her pyre would be greater than his whenever he died. When he died he thought... people will just want to rummage through my belongings to find answers.
He wondered if that woman was going to come to the pyre as well. She had stayed with Maggie so long in the tent and he wondered, after she had said for them to take her back to town to save the kids, if some guilt was layered upon her shoulders.
Would guilt keep her away or draw her in?
Cricket let the insult wash over her in the way of a patient mother..and oh yes she was sure it was an insult, his tone if not a few half understood words made that clear.
He had heard her out, and she gave him the same courtesy despite the barb. Her stance never changing and her overall demeanor calm but businesslike. Even as his hand came to rest and that casual release brought no shift, nor any change in the direct gaze that met his own deep cutting eyes, cooly reflecting it back to him. There was a subtle tilt of her head as he made his intentions clear, but again, she moved not from her place, and did not interrupt him until he was through. No semblance of a smile was upon her features.
"The dream, was to save the lives of two children and my own *** and that, so far, has come true. I hope it to remain so, unless thee feel the need to rid everyone of my presence before the sun is all the way up."
Her voice was low and calm and rich with her own odd accent, and though something had just occurred to her, something about the little necklace of collateral in her cloak pocket , there was no sign of it in her voice or eyes.
"If I have claim, it is business and fairly done. Liam O'Maoileion will speak for me. I dare say he knows far more disgusting things about me than I should like. Send a missive if thee wish."
This last was said with dry chagrin at the fact, and rather hoped Liam was too far away to be contacted in sufficient time. She had no idea if he would speak for her or not...or if it would be good. Much more likely, he would have her run through on the spot. It was a risk she had to take. Her pause was brief before she went on in the same, low voice, her head slowly straightening with a glint of the rising morning glittering briefly in the black depths.
"Condemn me not, Cully. I am not thine enemy. I am doing my best to work with thee, and I can be an invaluable help. I may not hold all the answers about the silver Ouroboros, but I hold a good many..all of which I am willing to share."
She smiled, though it was not that dazzling, brilliant wicked grin. It was soft and a little tired, simply standing there as she waited for him to decide whether or not to just kill her. She wasn't quite sure that she would not have in his place.
Outside, the sun rose, running off the clouds in the sky and drawing a misty fog from the nearby waters. The town was coming alive..and so were the surrounding dells as the women combed out for funeral flowers. It was a very active morning, and the town was still host to more than its normal share for all the latest events. The streets were full of carts and merchants, animals and children by a very early hour. A small crowd had already gathered at the place by the river where the funeral pyre would be built, and by noon half the town would be there or have wandered through, Thumper of course would be there with his kegs and saying how sorry he was for the poor woman.
Soon after he had given Aloysius the message (and after he fixed the damned tap), Thumper would leave the tavern, to load up his kegs in the mule cart, leaving its operation to the two wenches who knew it would be a slow day, what with the funeral and all.
After Thumper, a couple of the regulars creaked their way off their stools, waved a hand goodbye to the girls, and went off to their labors for the day, which left just a few straggling regulars, and Aloysius. Not long afterward, the door to the tavern would open again, welcoming a towering figure with heavy work boots. This illicited a squeal from Carla, who hurried her way around the bar to greet him with an exuberant
"Hagar!" and a jump to throw her arms around his neck. She was greeted with his hands taking her arms away and shaking his head.
"No, Carla, don' 'ave time for ye this mornin'. Get me some o' them good biscuits now..then I gotta be off t' 'elp build the pyre."
and Carla, spurned and pouting, flounced back behind the bar and muttering.
"Why's everybody makin' such a big deal o'er 'er? Weren't she not cursed anaway? Least them kids is alive," she said over her shoulder to Hagar as she wrapped a few biscuits in a linen cloth for him. Hagar responded, easing his big frame onto a stool, fingers scratching at the long beard that hung from his chin and catching every ear in the place.
"Aye... but Digger says she was wi' child 'erself..an cursed, they dun wanna bury her in the cem'tary. Words gettin' around... an' people are sayin' somebody should be 'eld responsibile for it."
Carla handed him the wrapped biscuits and Hagar took one out to eat before stuffing the rest in his shirt pocket, going on.
"Some's sayin' should be tha' lad in the glasses..always scribblin in some book..the one tha' brung it here. Seem like everybody's split..some say him..some say that woman the kids asked ta help..some say that man that brung the woman here"
Hargar shrugged, just wishing it was all over as he sighed and got off the stool, tossing a coin on the bar for Carla. "Least it aint rainin'"
Hagar moped and headed on back out to his work on the funeral pyre, leaving Carla to shake her head and toss the coin in the till and turn to Aloysius with a bored look.
"You wanna refill?"
"You retain some value."
Bainbridge alluded to their being no need for him to relieve the gypsy of her life. Some men might have called him foolish to have considered the idea, however, it was of Bain's nature to contemplate his own self-preservation, which would include, as time and environment permitted, for him to conceive of how he might dispatch of any individual that came in to contact, direct or indirect, with his person.
"...though I'm rapidly tiring of your operational suggestions."
Cricket had now, on more than one occasion, treated the Irishman as if there was not good reason that his experience and abilities had assisted in him traveling this far. Finally, he did let loose a light snort, like a tired old dog at his master's porch, one that observed time after time a man approach in hopes of converting the master's focused attentions to meandering thoughts, in turn opening the way to distraction and deceit. Before any reply might be made the tall and strong fellow continued to speak, and did with much authority.
"I speak not for the Lord William O'Maoileoin, nor does he speak for any other man...or woman. If he were to vouch for your worth then surely it would be at your solicitation." There had been no time between Bain and Cricket's meeting to that very moment that would allow for such an inquiry to the Lord, and Bain was sure that she would not have asked for a message to be sent if she knew of his whereabouts.
"You're too well known here. Perhaps you should consider where you might find refuge from those to whom you sell empty promises." The man had moved to the frame of the door where he parted from it the wooden plane that separated them from the common hallway. For a fraction of a second the back of his head was exposed to her, the moment vanishing as eyes turned back, settled over the voice that followed. "Or stay put. Relatively safe here, for now, I would say." Brows arched a bit.
"I have a bit of business to attend."
Bainbridge Martin closed the door, leaving as many questions as answers, for all parties involved.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 22:06:53 GMT -5
The pyre went on just two hours or so. Once it started it consumed the dried wood and Maggie with an acceleration's haste. No one seemed to notice the unusual smell of the bonfire, perhaps out of courtesy to Maggie. Lyall had gotten himself something to drink and sat on one of the sections of tree laid out like seats for whomever to take. It wasn't like any funeral he had ever been to and he thought that it was because no one actually knew the woman so instead of morning, there was a confused and distant pity that nobody spoke of. He kept his hat pulled down low and didn't say much and for the most part, no one really paid him any attention.
Actually, two people did.
He saw their feet. They didn't pass him as the other shoes did but paused and stared him down with the laces eying him. Slowly his eyes traced up to see none other than Lucy and Jamie. They couldn't have been more than nine and it bothered him that they could stare at him without the twitch of a smile.
"It's you." Lucy spoke and her eyebrows knit like she wanted to say something more.
Lyall smiled painfully and nodded to them. The wordless hold of the air seared him with guilt, "I'm glad you and your little friend are all right."
"...All right?" When she spoke it sounded like the breath someone exhales when a knife is in their gut. She reached over for Jamie's hand to hold it without taking her eyes off Lyall, "You don't know what it felt like."
"It wasn't on purpose."
"Did you do anything to help us? Anything?" The sound of anger, the wake of a temper, wasn't hiding well behind her voice. Jamie squeezed her hand until she looked at him. His lips moved as though they were smiling, but it wasn't a smile at all and calmed her. They looked back to Lyall for unblinking answers.
"I'm sorry." Lyall found himself whimpering under their accusations the way he did with Cricket and his employer. He took his hat off to look at them and let out a long sigh. A realization came to him in the quiet moment between them and he looked at the children with a gentle, despondent smile, "What was it like?"
After everything that had happened, no one had asked either one of them that question. Everyone was so elated that they weren't dead that they didn't inquire about the days which had passed. But they hadn't passed like a coma or sleep for Lucy and Jamie. It was still an adjustment, smiling and laughing, enjoying the world around them as people do. They looked back and forth from each other, Lucy and Jamie, and however badly they wanted to explain what that life on a threshold was like, there simply weren't words. Instead Lucy went to Lyall and wrapped her arms around his neck and spoke into his ear.
"No one deserves what that was like."
She released him and stepped away. Her hand didn't have to grope in the air long to find Jamie's, she knew its pendulum well. Their eyes were fixed on Lyall, wide and blank before tearing themselves away from the man that changed their lives and going back to what their life had been and trying to reconcile the two. Lyall watched them, his mouth agape. It occurred to him his knuckles were hurting from holding onto the brim of his hat tightly. He put his hat back on, abandoned his drink and all the pyre celebrations to wander with an empty ribcage up the hill and back into town. His arms were crossed and brought into him like he were keeping himself warm and felt the journal press into him in a way that was slightly different than the familiar one.
What was he suppose to do? Wait? Where was Cricket? No one in town was talking about anyone being dead, so he assumed that whatever happened between her and the man with the blade hadn't resulted in death.
He hadn't a horse or the money to buy one. Anyway, he'd been told to stay put for some indeterminate amount of time. Maybe he should get a different job. Wait, could he get a different job? He hadn't considered what quitting his current employer might mean to his lifespan.
Lyall thought all of it over and over and had found that he had unintentionally brought himself to where Lucy and Jamie had been afflicted for those days. The inn stood in front of him with the door held open by a brick and the inn keeper behind the counter, talking to his daughter in the desperate way he tended to on the final day of her visit. The ground dipped slightly where the children had been under the tents. How long had they been gone, anyway? Sometimes that happened, working with A and the Golden Travelers. He had quit trying to make sense of his own age and how it aligned with the world because it was so tangled, so arbitrary, that the headache of considering it was hardly worth the knowledge. Time for them had been so fast and Lucy and Jamie wore the face of serious time. What was it like, to be a victim of the Ouroboros? He withdrew his new journal to jot his thoughts, lips pressed together and pushed to one side in contemplation.
"You know," he spoke aloud to the journal, the pen halted in its ink thrusting "People just don't tell you their name anymore like they use to." In the journal he scrawled the best description possible of Cricket with a Cane, Bain the Black and the man named A.
Carla refilled Aloysius tankard and set it back before him, awaiting her coin, looking a little put out as she got questons instead, but like any bar wench she liked to talk. She tried not to look too curious as Aloysius brought up the woman, but her nod was a little hesitant.
"Aye..it was her, one in the same. The kids got her tae help, sayin' she knew 'bout outside thin's," and then Carla frowned, glancing back over her shoulder and then at Aloysius. "I can't say n' more 'bout her...Thumper don' like it." She would say no more about Cricket except to shrug.
"I ain't seen her since last night, an' she weren't here long." As to the questions he asked about Maggie, she was more than happy to share the gossip, but she was also still expecting her coin and held her hand out for it, fully expecting a decent tip for the gossip.
"Oh, they thought she were cursed cause when she showed up she looked terr'ble, they said. Great dark rings un'er her eyes, an' they said when she spoke, it was like she were empty inside. Tol' em she had three kids she did, but did't say nuthin' 'bout bein' wi' child. Undertaker found that out after'n. They's havin' her funeral right now..should be lightin' the pyre afore noon." Once Carla had her coins, she would leave him to his tankard, and to decide if he were attending the funeral or not.
He gave the bar wench coins for the tankard and extra coins for the little information she gave him in answering his questions. Attending the funeral might give him more clues as to Cricket's whereabouts. Then afterwards he would go back to the tower where he would wait out the remainder of the five days. He had an obligation and though he couldn't tell all of the results of his search, he could keep the other interested parties apprised of his attempts. This became his plan on what to do next.
"Thank thee for thine trouble." He raised a hand in farewell wave before turning round to exit the tavern. Stepping outside, he could see small knots of people making their way to the river where he had been told the funeral pyre would be lit. He fell into a step with one such group and walked with them down to the river. There he mingled into the larger crowd.
Soon after the pyre was lit after one person delivered a eulogy of sorts. Quiet and under his breath, he murmured a prayer for mother and unborn asking for their souls be accepted on high. As he solemnly watched the fire consume the body, he thought about what Carla had said about "Maggie' and how she looked and sounded. He personally did not believe in curses and wondered if there was more of a connection between her and the children. He also wondered what had been meant by 'outside things' though the statement didn't really surprise him, spoken in context about Cricket.
As the bonfire died some, the crowd began to disperse and head back their separate ways into town. He was one of the last to leave, watching the fire a few moments longer. A woman passed him by muttering. "A tragic life tragically ended.' He nodded as she passed him by and then turning on his heel, he headed himself out of town and followed his steps in retreat of the way he had arrived.
Meanwhile, Cricket was arching a brow at Bain, knowing as soon as he spoke that he didn't intend to kill her. She only smiled on the inside. On the outside, there was only the arch of a single brow at his first cutting remark as to her suggestions. Upon his mention of Liam, a slow smile crept into her lips, and those black eyes glittered. At least his farce on not being a stag was over. To know Liam, he had to be and her mention of his name had been only to insure this was no impostor.
Upon Bains continuing, her second brow arched to meet the first..but she was robbed of any chance to retort to his own irritating suggestions. He turned around and left.
For a moment, Cricket stood as she was, and then her cane thumped once on the rug in irritation. "Gods damned cranky stag"
She sighed, and then turned to look out of the window. She wondered if he would come out the front, or sneak his way out the back. It was, an extremely good vantage point.
As she looked out of the window and waited to see what would be seen, she let her mind tick over things. The funeral was this morning..most of the town was already out at the river or seemed to be headed that way. Her eyes were trained out the window, her mind on a hundred things, and her ears tuned to the hallway outside. She could hear the faint sounds as someone in the room next door shut it and she could hear the rustling and muted voices of man and woman as they most likely took up bags and made their way down. A few moments later, she could see below as the innekeeper said goodbye to a young woman, her carriage waiting. It had been long and longer since she had slept, and although she knew it would be hard to rest, she had to do so at some point. It seemed the innekeeper's daughter or relative was leaving... and had been next door. Perhaps she would rent that room, unwilling to risk the theft of it, for there were many visitors in town lately.
She wondered where Mr. A was..and why he was not seeking her out. Had he lost interest in the Mandlebrot? She doubted it. Lyall had been eyes...but she would bet Lyall did not know where she was now. ...She also considered that others might be wondering where she was as well...like Aloysius. She hoped he had just gone back to the tower while he had the chance..before Mr. A learned he knew her. She also tossed about the consideration of the town itself, and how long it was going to be before they sought out someone to blame for the woman Maggie's death. She didn't want it to be her.
Who knew what Bain was out doing..probably out looking for Lyall and that journal, or contacting Liam, which she still thought was highly unlikely. As she watched out the window, she idly felt in her cloak pocket and removed a pair of thin leather gloves, slipping them on and tightening them nicely before a hand disappeared into her cloak again. From it, she removed the necklace. Her "collateral". Slowly, she set it on the small round table nearby. Highly possible this little trinket could be nothing of what he said..and much much more. Her eyes pulled from sight of the street below, to the necklace and slowly back again. Cricket spied a familiar figure far down the street. Lyall... wandering along looking a little lost. If Bain still wanted him...this was his chance. Cricket thought that this was a very, Very good time to leave, and perhaps the only opportunity she would get to do so with so few eyes to see.
Yet something was preventing her from doing so..and she realized it was the fear that being followed could put her own children in danger. She could not take that risk. She was some concerned that Aloysius might be too big of a risk here. Gods she hoped he had just gone back to the tower already.
She thought again about the necklace. Perhaps she should make sure it wound up in Lyalls pocket. ..if she got the chance. The bespeckled and very odd man was walking toward the inn. The questions still remained..where was Bain, and where was Mr. A?
Cricket would remain there..watching..until she learned the fate of Lyall or he was no longer in her sights. She would not be attending the funeral..and it made her uneasy wondering where the blame would fall. She knew there would be some. She knew there might not be another opportunity to rest either, and she had to take it where she could.
As the carriage drew away from the inne, she watched as the innekeeper left to head toward the funeral at the river. She intended to rent herself the room next door.
As he made his way from his rented room and down the hall Bain could smell the distinct scent of burning flesh. Accompanied by the offensive odor were both a number of other scents along with the raucous voices of the town's public as they both mourned and cheered a life made only less ordinary by its involvement with the silver spectacle that had so entrapped the woman's soul for a lengthy time period. Any other number of vices might have controlled and limited one's ability to experience life at the fullest...alcohol, tobacco, a desire to possess. Bain knew the pungent odor of burnt flesh too well, and had it never come to pass through his nostrils he would have thanked the powers that be, but such a paradox existed not for the enforcer.
Once past the front stead of recently made daily transactions of travelers he paused at the porch of the inn. That tin container was proffered from within its warm home against cloth and two halves separated long enough to pinch between fingertips the still moist but drying grounds. An inhalation and suddenly he was more about his wits. Blood pumped more quickly and senses heightened at the increased exchange of oxygen and various gases. Eyes slid over the scene before him, where indentations were made and tent poles had retired from recent service.
From that location he observed the carriage, its passenger, and levied not so much as a nod when he was glanced. Before he might come in to contact with the curious little scribe Bainbridge has rounded the corner for both a more secretive and direct route to his next destination. Spur-bearing boots, silent with their balled termination points and quieted trappings led the way, winding him through those that returning early from their venture down to the funeral pyre. He was attentive, noting mentally as much as he might, as much as the trained eye and mind could, an easy enough feat with a fairly clear mind despite recently acquired knowledge and much to consider when it came to the matters at hand.
Mud and dirt were tread, until finally he came to the door of the local apothecary. It was here that none were left to attend to his needs, surely the shop's keep gone to observe the procession of the dead. With a roadblock before him a choice was made, and it was on to the general store that he made his way, where there was to be found assistance, though it was not the storekeep. In exchange for coin Bainbridge Martin procured several items. Charcoal, simple salt, chalk, and some dried meat. Once the transaction was finished and his items rolled in to a package they were carried back out in to the world, with Bain, who eventually came back to the inne.
Up stairs and to that room he went, where he was, admittedly, interested in whether he would find the gypsy still present in the corner room. With his goods set to the outside of the door frame he glanced left and right. Weak side hand felt out a hunting dagger along his left side, between outer vestments and himself, while strong side digits unlocked and swung open the wooden plane.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin , Aloysius StClaire and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 22:09:20 GMT -5
When he heard her voice, he wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, mulling the world over. He hadn't even noticed the carriage take the innkeepers daughter away. It came just at his ear and he wondered how long and how close she had been to him.
"Lyall."
"Huh?" He blinked and looked at her, his glasses dropping to the end of his nose, "I've been looking for you. I thought you left town."
"No, I haven't." Cricket adjusted her cowl and tilted her head to the side, indicating with a point of her fingers, "What's that you're carrying?"
Lyall felt the question was odd, especially since he'd been carrying the journal with him on their whole journey. However, he hadn't formally shown it to her so perhaps she hadn't cared enough to know more about it at the time. He opened it up to her and displayed one of the pages, "It's my record keeper, sort of. My journal, really." He hated calling it a journal or diary, it made him feel juvenile.
Her smile could be seen just under the turn of her hood. He thought it was perhaps the first time she had ever smiled for him and he could not help but to return the gesture. She leaned forward to examine the page and then, his face, "It's beautiful."
"Eh, sort of." He pulled the journal away and shut it, jamming it into the inner pocket of his jacket. She didn't seem to waver at him withdrawing. It was fine that she was unusually kind to him, he thought with the issue of Maggie being settled and Lucy and Jamie pleased that Cricket was in a happier place with him. However, there were smaller differences about her, more than just her demeanor. He was trying to figure it out but every time she spoke his attention got distracted on what she was saying.
"Lyall, I want you to write about something."
"I don't do commissions anymore. I hardly do anything for myself these days." He withdrew from her and pulled at the brim of his hat, muddy blue eyes going away from her and towards the heart of town in thought, "Besides, I'm waiting."
"Look," She laid her arm across his shoulders and leaned in to run her first two fingertips across his brow, pushing back a dirty blond wayward lock with a smile, "I need to know something."
She smelled like Cricket, he knew that much. The kindness to him felt explained away by the fact that she wanted something from him, the way everyone wanted something from him. His sighed like she was pushing on his ribs. He forced a smile so he didn't appear as dour as he felt, "What is it? Maybe I can help." But he didn't want to help, he wanted to be helped.
"I need to know," She leaned in and he could feel her breath on his face, pouring warm into his ear as a whisper, "... where you put the other journal. I know you buried it, I just haven't found where."
"What?" Lyall blinked at her and tried to pull away, but the arm she had around him was all encompassing, "I never told you that."
"Word has a way of getting around. Now," Her fingertips brushed him in a familiar way and he found that their attempt to caress was more discerning than pleasurable, "tell me. I need to know. I know I didn't treat you well enough before, give you enough attention or respect, but all that can be different, now."
"It can?"
"Yes!" She smiled and drew back the cowl. Her face was warmer than he thought it would be, more promising, "Anything we want to be different can be. Now you and I both know that you're one of a kind. I didn't see it at first and I'm sorry, I really am. If I had only known I would have been much... much sweeter to you." She leaned in and he found himself blushing and unarmed.
"You want my journal?"
"Yes," but her hand dived low to indicate to him that he should keep whispering, "I want to know you, Lyall. Know what man you are, what goes on inside your head. I want to be close to you because I feel like someone who has done as much as you deserves recognition. I want more than you just telling me, I want to read about it, who you've been over that time frame and how you've changed and what you think. I want to know all the things men put in diaries and never tell their wives."
Her voice felt like it crawled in his brain, the way Bain's had the first time he heard the man speak. He'd never known Cricket to say so much to him or anyone. Perhaps it was because there was some sincere emotion there, one he hadn't recognized before. Wherever she had gone that time without him had given her epiphanies. It had been years, he thought, since he felt affection rain on him and it made his skin hot. She grew closer with every promise and he was beginning to wonder if a journal could be worth as much as it would give him if he only gave it to her. Cricket had been so harsh with him before, he wanted desperately to believe that the kindness was genuine and he could maintain it, if only he gave her what she wanted, "Yes, yes, I'll tell you. I just need one thing."
She smiled and drew her cowl back on her head to shadow her features, looped her arm around his and smiled towards the town blindly, "What's that?"
"What's your name?"
Cricket stood watch at the window, willing away the urge to close her eyes and watching Bain exit the inne... pause long enough to take a pinch of snuff and then continue. She watched until he disappeared and she wondered what business he was attending. This was an idle thought, intermixed as it was with those of the necklace that sat on the table next to her, mocking her in silence.
She watched as Lyall came down the street to loiter outside the inne, paying little attention to the carriage that drove away, or the innekeeper's leaving. He never looked up, and so she did not think he was here looking for her. She wondered why he was not at the funeral, and she sensed something dejected in his countenance. She was contemplating why he might not be at the funeral and why he was here when she caught a glimpse of black cloak. She shifted her stance at the window, eying to see further down, and there, near Lyall, was a cloaked figure.
Much it seemed like her own cloak... the cowl hiding much of the features. Lyall still carried his journal and she saw the cloaked figure point to it. There was something distinctly feminine about the figure..and the fine hairs at the back of Crickets neck stood up.
She could not hear the words exchanged, the window painted shut, but she was a scholar at reading peoples body language. She watched the arm slide around Lyall, the touch of his brow, the whisper and intimate way the cloaked one conversed..and yet as much as her hackles rose, she was still jolted when the cloaked figure slipped off her hood, and wild black hair all too similar could be seen from her vantage point.
All sleepiness was gone in an instant, and Cricket wheeled, snatching the necklace from the table and shoving it in her cloak as it flared behind her in her rapid stride across the room. The door was flung open and she flew out of the room like a black wraith, sparks in her eyes. By the Gods, whoever was masquerading had better say their damned prayers.
Bain, was on his way back with his purchases, with all the intent of returning to his room...but there was about to be a confrontation at the front of the inne that just might change his plans.
The stairs were behind her, and the front door of the inne was jerked open. A very angry Cricket was about to unleash on whoever it was that found it necessary to impersonate her.
He was nearly at the town's entrance to the world beyond with its pathway leading into the wood, when a tug on his cloak beckoned him to pause.
A young boy, of about twelve years, held a drooping stack of hand written papers over one arm. "Begging your indulgence, sir, two pence for this paper will tell you of recent events. The money will help the old town crier. Please sir?"
Two pence was easily handed to the boy in exchange for one of the papers. The handwriting was suggestive of someone much older then he and the contents were of no particular import, yet the paper was folded and placed inside his shirt.
He was about to depart the town when nearby townsfolk out and about were muttering amongst themselves.. "Looks like a row about to happen,wonder what it's about?"
Two men were even wagering between themselves. "Five coppers says whoever starts it, wins."
"Done!" Curious, he turned and saw three cloaked figures gathering in front of the Inne.
He couldn't tell who two of them were but there was something about the way the third carried their self that was somehow familiar. The third had exited the Inne rather forcefully in much the way Cricket would. Stormy and angry with rage. One of the other two he thought he had seen at the funeral but couldn't be certain. The ensuing development held his steps and he watched the trio with interest. If it were indeed Cricket, he would still go back to the tower. He had instructions to return in five days and he would do just that.
He imagined it.
Bain pictured the view as he finally wound his way back to the Inne with his package in tow, and then made up the stairway before sliding down the hall. Senses hightened and he prepared himself for whatever encounter awaited him behind the door to the room he had occupied for several days now. Eyes scanned for signs of forcible entry. Hands wrapped themselves around both weapon and the item that would gain him access to rented room. A breath drawn and then a turn before the wooden door was parted from frame and vision would quickly sweep for both the gypsy and possible combatants, not ruling the former out of the latter group.
It was a constant practice. While Bainbridge Martin was altogether just barely proficient at a number of mathematical computations his mind was an endless possibility and probability engine.
He imagined it.
Bain found his attention redirected as he rounded the corner of one building to look down the way toward another one...the inne. The carriage had parted and the street seemed less full. There before him stood several figures, however, and though they filled not the street's expanse the tension between them all suffocated the town. Package of purchased dry goods found carry in his right hand as he began to approach with caution, breaking not the direct and purposeful stride although he shifted his walk to line more closely to the various buildings' edifices. He was quiet, and ears perked to filter from the exchange before them what they might.
Lyall looked, by all accounts, to be cautiously optimistic, perhaps his outward demeanor affected by the fact that not one, but two versions of the gypsy, were present, and surely one of them had to be the real deal. Bain had not made up his mind as to which was the impostor but he scoured their presentations most adeptly as he neared ever closer. Hand did not fall to the weapon at hip, but the action was never far, and those that had witnessed his draw and lived knew well that it was of an expedient and accurate nature.
Eventually he would no longer blend in to the sidelines in the least, having parted the store fronts, that he might make something of a small spectacle of himself. His voice rose, and it was not caution thrown to the wind, but a wager placed on the number of possibilities that existed, made with knowledge knowing full well that not every end result could be considered given the nature of that oh so irritating presence that nearly reeked...the arcane.
"Cad é a dúirt tú go raibh mé? Tá droch gabhar?"
The inquiry posed two overt questions, but the one that was unspoken was the one of more importance. The questions, asked in his home language, were given in the much more common of veins, lending ease to the ear less practiced in that ancient tongue, however, it would require particular understanding and reply in order to accurately answer. His head remained level, and the short crop of hair on his head leaned forward in the manner of a man that cared little for aesthetics. Feet continued to carry him forward, and would in short order force some sort of physical response to accompany any verbal reply.
His right hand with long and strong fingers wrapped about a corner of the small package held the items firmly, but lowered to his side, as if he were prepared to either drop or let fly the dry goods wrapped in inexpensive paper, like a butcher's careful concealment of meat. His progress on foot was not stayed, now but several lengths of a man away. His intentions were certainly unclear, whether he might engage one or more of the gypsies, or snatch Lyall up by his collar and attempt to haul him off to let the duo of women sort out their various similarities and differences.
Dark eyes divided a sharp and unforgiving look between the contingent present. Hand was ready to accept bladed weapon. A door to the future stood paused for opening. Sights were assessing and ready to further assess ill intentions. A breath was drawn to fill lungs in preparation to fuel muscles' action.
The scene was not altogether too different than what he imagined on return to his room, however, an important difference existed in the fact that he knew well the situation was both simplified and complicated by the presence of multiple individuals.
Bain imagined a number of possibilities.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin , Aloysius StClaire and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 22:11:13 GMT -5
"My name?" She smiled at him, her arm still around his shoulders, her other hand reaching inside his jacket for the book and he could feel her fingertips on the spine of it as though she were checking for something.
It was creeping on his visage, a wounded look that came with realizing that all things too good to be true were and this was always and especially so for him. The few minutes had been fun to pretend but he could not ignore the differences that composed the truth. First, that the Cricket so near to him could easily put her arm around his shoulders because she was somehow taller. Secondly, the body may have been an identical puppet, but the person moving the strings here moved them differently. The distinctions between the real Cricket and this one were so subtle that he found his mind arguing back and forth about why it was so.
"Isn't a name the most basic part?" Lyall said, looking at the ground and speaking almost as though to muse to himself.
"A name doesn't tell you much, Lyall," it seemed the charade lifted and that she spoke with personal experience, "it just makes missing or mourning someone a little more real."
The feeling that Cricket had been false or strange was violently verified when the inn door opened and she was standing there. The other Cricket pulled Lyall's side in tighter to her own. He could feel the pressure, the hand inside his jacket withdraw and she spoke in his ear, "Lyall, you need to tell me, now."
His eyes went back and forth between them. One was in the doorway of the inn, the other beside him. It was the one beside him, with her arm around him, who he could feel squeezing his shoulder, "Lyall, where is it buried?"
He turned and looked at her and spoke the way a boy does when he is confessing, "...I didn't bury it."
This was all heavily distracting. Normally he would have been an alert squirrel who could have spotted and dodged away from Bain. Last time it had been one Cricket that saved him. What would two do? Get him killed instantly or perhaps serve as an increased distraction? Lyall was certain of only a few things, first and foremost that no one involved was interested in money. If it could have only been about money! It all had something to do with his employer, the items and the deliveries. Lyall wished he had asked more questions, but then he wouldn't have gotten the job. Amid some distracted thoughts and the imposing feel of the Cricket beside him, a man's voice that crawls inside the brain came back to him.
At first, Lyall thought he forgot the English language. That he was panicking too much to make sense of what was being said.
The Cricket beside him looked at Bain and smiled briefly, but said nothing to reply. Her eyes going from the Cricket who came from the inn to him. Her fingertips were digging into Lyall's shoulder now, enough that he was about to yelp. She finally addressed Bain with a voice that could cut the air.
"She said she was going to kill Lyall," the other Cricket said to him, "I'd just gotten him away from her and whatever it is she was going to do to him. I don't know who she is or why she is impersonating me, but she threatens both our interests by trying to kill him."
The other Cricket hadn't a single idea what Bain had said. It was possible that she accidentally addressed his questions, passed the test of being the real Cricket or, it was that whatever she had to say was persuasive enough. After all, it was the other Cricket, in the doorway, who stood with a violent rage. The Cricket beside him had her arm around him like an indication of friendship, though the cloth at his shoulder may have been tight from where she clamped down on his shoulder. Lyall's eyes were on the Cricket at the doorway, the one beside him and then Bain. Quietly, he considered how the best way to not die would be.
Cricket caught Bain at the edge of her vision, and pulled up abruptly on the wooden boards in front of the inne. A murderous glare fixed upon the imposter, and it took a great deal of self control to abruptly halt right there and not move on this masquerading fool like a wolf. What she exerted in holding herself back had no reflection in the black eyes. Those were full of ire and locked upon the owner of the arm that locked around Lyall and held him close.
For a long moment there was no response..just a heavy, pregnant pause in which it seemed they all held their breath and her eyes never left her mark. Her voice was sharp, clear and heavy with her own unique accent, clipped and business like... and obviously addressed to Bain with some impatience.
"Bah, sin nò n muich. Nil moran Gaeilge agam!"
That should answer the question quite nicely..and alleviate any doubt as to whom the real roguess here was. Her head ****, the cowl hanging free at her back, and those cutting black eyes studied her imposter. The silver banded canes tip set to the board beside her and bore her weight for the first step forward, a slow one..and only one. Her voice was again sharp, but with patience, as if to a child. Still, it was not directed to her opponent, but to Lyall.
"Don't be a fool again, Lyall. Shut thine big mouth and be silent."
Just as she had always spoken to him.
Silence again... at least one could hope... if Lyall had any brains at all..and after that long moment of three or four breaths did she speak again..this time, her voice as smooth as honey and as dangerous as an asp..and spoken directly to the one that would dare this trickery. Like Bain, she sensed the arcane in this..and she also suspected highly of Mr. A.
The promise of death never left her direct and hard gaze.
"Much is in a name, my dear..especially when there is doubt of ones identity. Please do answer Lyalls question..and tell us All thine name, hmm?"
She nodded briefly toward Bain.
"He knows it. I told him myself. ...so perhaps thee should do the same."
Her smile was soft, but there was nothing pleasant about it, a slow step forward that would be followed by another, and the distance between them closing.
Watching the exchange from his distance, he could only hear parts of the words but Cricket's tone, even diminished could still be heard. He was relieved to see her still alive as some of his musings had painted questionable outcomes. One step forward was taken while studying the little group. He now placed a name to one of the gentlemen, L'yall, if he had understood Cricket clearly enough. The other remained nameless but was clearly involved in whatever involved Cricket. The other figure, with an arm around Lyall's shoulder, was most definitely of intense interest to Cricket.
Witnessing proved to fill the fabled figurative box with a few more questions. It was becoming figuratively heavy to bear. Hearing the wagerers nearby, he couldn't help but interject his opinion. "I could give you an unfair advantage by telling you the one with the removed cowl will most assuredly win the brawl..if there is one."
Even he thought Cricket wouldn't' start something unless she were being physically threatened. Both men gave him a glance before muttering to themselves and walking away, mildly disgruntled. He thought about approaching but refrained for two reasons. One, he knew Cricket could handle herself quite well, for she had proved that to him. And two, it didn't appear his interjection was necessary. To the contrary, he might dangerously complicate things. Not to mention, get himself hurt. Discretion was always the better part of valor. He remained where he stood and simply observed for the moment.
Boots had not stopped moving. Bain utilized a tactic called triangulation, and he had determined most swiftly who he would base his movements. As the seething and furious Cricket, with her reply in the same tongue of his homeland, continued to moved forward it was Bain that complimented her steps taken, though he did not match each one of hers with exactly one of his. The movement was smooth, and the careful observant would notice that for every bit closer that his chosen Cricket made way that The Black narrowed the opportunities for the suspected impostor to retreat.
As Bainbridge Martin cut down the distance between he and the trio comprised two-thirds of the same person he must have decided as to what degree a spectacle he believed was affordable. Whatever his decision, he imagined there were others out there that might disapprove, but to his point, wagers were being made at a scene of unrest in a town looking to place blame despite the recent restoration of life at the charity of another.
Bain, now close enough, sacrificed his purchases for a chance at an item deemed for more valuable at the moment. The paper-wrapped goods were given to flight, tossed with just enough speed to be deemed a problematic missile, not too quick to appear light and without consideration due. The package traveled toward Lyall and the lookalike. At least one of the entangled duo would have to respond, if not both of them, and if they refused, the situation would grant the same opportunity that Bain sought.
"Ach tá sé do ghrásta, coigilt."
Bain began to dive in to the thick of things, and if clover were to bring him luck it would be Lyall in his arms, drawn away from two cats about to sink tooth, nail, and steel in to one another.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin , Aloysius StClaire and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 22:13:14 GMT -5
"My name...?" She balked at the second inquiry, but her eyes weren't sure where to rest. They were moving back and forth between her and Bain, which was decidedly dangerous to do. Steps were taken back to try to consolidate the two front war into one so that she and Lyall would comprise one front and Cricket and Bain another. It was, however, a decision made too late. While her steps drew them back and her eyes were distracted, Bain had launched himself at an opportune time.
Like a lion, he landed the kill.
Lyall hadn't known just how much larger, and more heavy, Bain was until he was tackled by him. It was an unfriendly way to be acquainted with a football player. He thought, flattened on the ground as he was, that the wind and soul must have been knocked out of him. The corner of the journal felt like it had slipped between his ribs. Lyall had to come to a decision about life and in the moment where Bain had seized him from the other Cricket, a multitude of thoughts went before his mind.
The most dominant thought reminded him that the only one who had saved his life, instead of consistently threatening it, was Cricket. She had threatened it the least, anyway. He had seen her and Bain interact before and it felt the same as it did right now, she had to be the real one. Then again, Bain wasn't killing him, just threatening him. As far as social interactions went, a little threatening and intimidation constituted most of his social interactions. He wondered if he threw the book to Cricket if the man with the blade would kill him.
No one was drawing a blade except the other Cricket, who held a dagger. She was going to land it in Bain, he could tell by the intention of her eyes. While Bain had threatened him he hadn't actually struck. Well, with a sword like that, one hardly lives to recount the experience. Bain only wanted to take something from him, maybe rough him up a bit before he left, but in that course of events, no one had to die. He didn't want anyone to have to die, but the other Cricket was intending on it. Lyall squirmed under blade and wrestled out his dingy blade, small as it was, and managed to stab it through the foot of the other Cricket. She howled and withdrew, dropping her weapon and hoping back to fall to the ground. One hand cradled her foot while the other grasped the handle of the knife.
"You imbecile!"
Lyall couldn't move much more than his arms, but he tried. His blue eyes went over to Cricket, the real Cricket, and looked to her for guidance. Perhaps, at least briefly, they could be something of a united front. He had to be honest with himself, at this point she was the only hope he had.
Slow and even steps closed the distance between Cricket and the defensive imposter. Her eyes knew exactly where to rest. Bain's actions she could anticipate easily enough, and at the moment, she was willing to give up Lyall and his book to Bain without regret. Had Lyall not managed to defend himself with his little dagger..there was never any hope that the imposters blade might find Bain. Not only was Bain quite capable of handling himself, but there was not going to be any opportunity for the false Cricket to act. As Lyall managed to stab the imposter in the foot and she fell, it only made Crickets job easier. Lyall's pleading look was ignored. She had one target here.
The silver banded cane she was almost always seen with whicked through the air, and it would come down with an expert and brutal impact on the hand weilding the dagger. It was certainly hard enough to break fingers, but whether or not the imposter managed to hang on to it mattered not. The cane cut its way through the air a second time, its target the nose. A third time, the elbow..a fourth the knee, each delivered with that cane that came swiftly slicing through the air again and again to land its blows. If the beaten one crawled back, she would follow, if the beaten one came at her, she would merely back up and turn and deliver one upon the lower back, and again and again she would deliver these blows with that cane, as if she were beating to death a rabid dog.
The sound of cracking bone or the splatter of blood would not stop her. Plea's would not stop her. Screams would not stop her. Unless this fool on the ground was able to get to their feet before she knocked them out from under them, there were few options for the one being beaten. Not a word did she utter, not a sound did she make. Her vision went red, and she released her outrage on this fool that presumed to steal her identity. Whack.
Her anger was doubled because this was all keeping her from her own children, tripled because she believed this impostor the handy work of Mr. A, and quadrupled because she was just bloody tired. All of this combined to make her vicious. One should not make the mistake of assuming that her rage got the better of her however. She was no fool. She had no intentions of killing someone in the street and jeopardizing her already precarious position in this village, but one could beg for death for a long time before it actually came. She never hit at the head aside from the strike that would have most definitely broken the nose if it landed.....and the beating could go on and on and on. It was not a crime to beat a thief caught in the act, and because there were others that had watched this entire encounter, the criminal was obvious. Whack.
He caught quick glimpses of the other Cricket between the cane blows and stood transfixed watching the scene, three men passing by saw the same, one stating the obvious.
"Look! A brawl!"
As all three started to change their direction, he held a hand out to stop them. 'The lady needs nea help and just may turn on you to prove her point."
The men abruptly halted, glancing at him before he continued. 'Aye,I know the woman... and her capabilities."
The group was unsure whether to nod or to question and chose instead to merely observe., unlike the gamblers of earlier, who would have worked the gathering crowd, making book with questionable odds. He watched a moment longer before reminding himself of his intentions. Turning, again he started out of town, when a voice called after him. "Are you nae going tae help the lady, sir?"
He paused only long enough to answer over his shoulder. "Nae, I shall not. She would sooner turn her cane on me then accept mine help."
With that, he exited the town into the wood. The figurative box was figuratively heavy with questions, and the scene just witnessed added more to the number. He knew that if the others couldn't help solve the mystery with what he could relate to them, he was certain the answers would be provided when he returned and all was said and done. Entering the wood,he thought about who would be anxiously awaiting his return and that lifted his wearily worn spirits. So much so, he began whistling.
As Bain came crashing down on Lyall he took a breath in, filling his lungs that they might fuel his muscles to further action, and further action he did take. Bain was in the midst of arms and legs, a torso of a thin and ghostly shell of a man, but the imposter was so near. While he could not control Lyall's reach and stab of the woman's foot he could control his one hand, which reached and drew from within a knife along his midsection. The other hand, strong with adrenaline, took Lyall in to his firm grasp and pried him away from the fray. The bookworm was worth much more alive than dead, and a sure maiming would not assist Bainbridge in ascertaining exactly what he desired.
Next motion was to a low crouch, the edged weapon stretched out in defense before him while he dragged the note-taker away. Lyall was taken by the collar, Bain nearly gruffing him by the neck as well, a tactic used to withdraw fellow soldiers from danger. Back and away, they made, putting the impostor between them and the true Shebali. It would take only a moment, all happening within the seeming blink of the eye as hormone raging bodies slowed time in that curious way that the body did when under such duress. Pulled up, Lyall must have found himself on his feet, Mr. Martin leading the way.
Bain the Black was not about to lose the little fellow, however, and kept him near as he sheathed the smaller of two weapons in favor of the larger. With left hand full of cold steel and right hand twisted about Lyall's garments he readied himself for a direct assault, however, it would appear to him that the gypsy was making swift work of bashing the false Cricket in to submission, at the minimum, and Bain feared she might damn well kill the fake.
"Better alive than dead," he called out, sure that at least he might garner some information from the assailant. Even with such a scene caused much could be salvaged of the situation. "I'll trade you."
His offer, in short, was made, and he indicated with a sure nod the intention of holing up at the Inn. He was aware of at least one room that might provide a brief but well-earned solace. As the imposter was subdued he took with him Lyall to draw closer, shoving him out and past the fake at more than an arm's reach. Bain then pushed forward, himself, with a leap led by his knee, one of which would shove all the breath from the fake Cricket and take the two of them to hard ground. It would be little work to bind what should be a ragdoll by now, utilizing the belt that cinched his trousers. The alacrity and speed at which he moved was none short of dangerous, and Bain was not shy of using violence to his advantage, crushing hips and upper back as hands worked to secure hostage.
Soon the liar would be taken up as Lyall has been, pushed and moved toward the entrance to the Inn.
"And don't forget my package."
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin , Aloysius StClaire and Lyall British))
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Post by Lyall British on Jan 1, 2011 22:15:04 GMT -5
The other Cricket cursed when the blade sank into her foot. She bent down to it, her hand wrapped around the hilt and with a hard outtake of breath drew it out of the bones and flesh. There was little time for her to recover, however, before Cricket was upon her. The assault was expected, but the unrelenting drum of her cane was staggering. She started to crumple underneath it and her voice grew hoarse and stricken. With every blow there was a small alteration, nearly impossible to discern in the chaos of the attack. When the other Cricket was driven down to kneeling, it was clear that she no longer reassembled Cricket at all.
She was, in fact, a man. The hands were now elongated, the fingertips hard. The cheekbones were high and the face an awkward mash of features that were both masculine and feminine. It was as though something were slipping off his face that was not a mask, but a dough of flesh that had distorted his features into that of Cricket's. It drew into itself into a mass at his throat before falling to the ground at his knees. It was something fleshy, oval and now, dirty and somehow offended by the ground. Desperately he scooped it up into a metal case and jammed it into his pocket. His hook like nose had taken a fierce blow, blood was down his lips and his eyes watered. The problem wasn't that he was bruised, it was that his eyes held a fierce dissection of Cricket's body in them.
"Lyall... that man is going to kill you," Mr. A spat, coughing as his hands were drawn back behind him. It was all he could get out before they were shoved into the inn. Mr. A had thought he would die, but the prediction was far from this situation.
Who was worth more, Mr. A or Lyall?
The inn keeper looked up, startled at the outburst of motion. Maybe he was hoping his daughter had forgotten something and came back. He had seen Lyall all about town, vaguely recognized him the day he had just signed in but left before paying. The inn keeper smiled nervously, not sure if he should protest to what was happening or mind his own business. The past few weeks had called for many peculiar events and he was beginning to wonder if it wasn't the fault of the woman with the cowl. The inn keeper got to his feet and cleared his throat. Bain made him nervous, but he had to make his stance clear.
"We don't want any trouble around here. If you're gonna be causing problems then maybe you don't need to be renting a room here." He stuck his chin up and out to look brave, to look like he'd follow through with what he said.
This normally peaceful little village had, in the last couple of weeks, seen more than its fair share of dramatic events. Beginning with the two felled children who's lives were miraculously saved at the loss of another, now there was new gossip to be shared from mouth to mouth. Only a few had witnessed this encounter between the two cowled women, the man in black and the bespeckled bookworm. Only a few witnesses were all it took for rumors to spread like wildfire, and it would spread, as more and more came wandering back in from the funeral pyre at the river.
Crickets cane was stilled only by the intervention of Bain, but her arm itched to deliver more blows to what was now, clearly, Mr. A. The true identity did not surprise her in the least, and in fact, infuriated her even more. How dare anyone, try to steal her persona. At the moment, Mr. A's worth was very thin in her eyes.
Begrudgingly, her cane was stilled, and hard black eyes watched without mercy as Bain knee'd him to the ground and bound his hands. As Mr. A spat out a final few words to Lyall, she would have kicked his teeth out had Bain not chosen the same moment to jerk him up and shove him into the inne.
Cricket was too furious to speak, and she took one slow breath after the other to calm herself. Her arm throbbed from the beating delivered and her jaw was clenched tight, but her free hand had landed with a possessive fury on Lyalls shoulder, and at Bains demand, she forced Lyall downward until he would pick up Bains discarded package. When he had it, she would jerk him back up to his feet, and shove him forward into the inne to follow Bain and Mr. A.
She genuinely had no anger toward Lyall, but at the moment, she was still seeing blood red and there was no gentleness or kindness about her.
As she stepped into the inne behind Lyall, and the innekeeper stood up to throw in his opinion, she had had enough. Her reputation in this village was taking a turn for the worst and she really didn't give a damn. Her cane slammed in a loud crack on top of one of the innekeepers fine tables, loud enough to make the unwary jump. The tip of that silver banded cane, one of those shining silver bands dotted with crimson, pointed directly at the innekeeper.
"I would suggest if thee do not wish any trouble, thee carry thine fat ass into the kitchen and do not say another word."
Her voice was low, and she did not yell, but there was something deadly about it none the less and her dark and cutting gaze promised she would ram that cane up where the sun didn't shine if he didn't heed her advice. To insure he was going to listen, and not make some fool, blustering attempt to follow through on his empty threat, she advanced several steps toward the red faced innekeeper and would continue until he turned himself around and left their company. She was fully prepared to slit his throat if need be.
Leaving was not what had wished to do, especially having witnessed the start of a brawl in which Cricket had been involved. But he knew damned well the woman could take care of herself. She had unquestionably proven that to him in their spar Yet with more players added to the growing mystery, his curiosity grew in appetite. It was difficult to fight the urge to turn round and return, if for no other reason then to see what had been the outcome of the brawl. He had certainly recognized Cricket, and was now certain he also recognized the bespeckled man with her from the funeral. But the other man and the other cowled figure, of whom fleeting glimpses had been caught, he had no recognition.
As he entered the lane to take him to his destination, the small brawling knot of people were being coerced into the Inne, while those townsfolk that had gathered to watch dispersed. Abruptly e stopped and turned about as a thought presented itself with ambiguous insistence. Had there been two Crickets....?
Bainbridge Martin heard every word, as few as the total might have been, exchanged between the true Cricket and the Inne's keep. He would have snickered if he were alone, watching the scene unfold as some sort of insect creeping along the wall, but he gave no such pleasure to the recently captured in way of exposing some seemingly innocuous detail. But he did, anyways, in the form of his grip twisting ever so slightly to alter the amount of pressure applied to bound wrists.
The touch was gentle on his part, the way the strands of muscle stretched while bone catered to the grip, one associated with regular practice in manipulating small objects while under duress, to coax forward the more fine motor skills that separate warriors from lesser soldiers. Gross skills would fail the man only long after the finer abilities succumbed to injury or age. The touch was gentle. It caused the leather belt to twist and its edges bit down in to flesh. No cloth was there to ease the leather's ratcheting effect. Bain had been sure of that detail, quick as the work was. Darkly stained animal hide bowed to the man's strength, though little was used. The touch was gentle, and it began as a mere rain drop that joined a tumultuous downpour, pummeling and bringing to defeat the packed soil that might underestimate the clouds. The touch, ever so gentle, would cause arms to lock, wrists elevated the tiniest bit, shoulders forced to roll and put massive pressure on their sockets.
Bain was driving a forced march up the stairs and toward the room he had rented. He accepted nothing short of compliance when it came to moving the man, and if need be, would wrench his arms over the back of his head and fully extricate ball joints from socket, eventually dragging his prey up the stairs, but Bain did not find that need thus far.
With binding band in hand and key in the other he processed the lock to open his room. Bain, based on verbalized expression, was confident Cricket was handling any situation that immediately rose while dealing with the keep and his staff. Wooden doorway swung open to reveal a rather Spartan existence, were one to judge the occupant without interview or observation. He believed Cricket would be along shortly, if not directly behind him, thus evidenced by the door left open.
Bain appeared to have been marching the man to some sort of resting place, a point where truth and consequences could be weighed to determine better the course of action that might forever shape the lives those involved. Cricket and Lyall should have been near. The impostor, the collector, now in the hands of the man who gathered not items and history, but intelligence and truths, was in the center of the room, near no chair or bed's surface. It was a gentle touch, the one that lingered until the last second as it halted the man by way of his earthly shackles.
And it was a quick, sharp, exact, and brutal grip that would find placement along neckline, over shoulder and under cheek, driving fiercely to first burst forth pain, and then cripple with a suppression of blood flow. Bain the Black had questions, but answers would have to wait. He through and through processed the situation in a manner most logical to strategists.
Bain was prepared to wrestle with the false Cricket. Equally prepared, however, was he to lower a temporarily unconscious body to the ground, by way of a gentle touch.
(( Rp exchange between Rogue Cricket, Liam OMaoileoin , Aloysius StClaire and Lyall British))
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